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no6secretsanta · 4 years ago

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No.6 - Children of the Sea

Happy Holidays and an awesome New Year, @aoicanvas! I really hope you enjoy this fic! It’s me, @glorifiedscapegoat, and I’m really excited to share this with you. The concept I had kept giving me ideas, so I found myself just writing and writing for a while, and before I knew it the word count was as high as it was. I hope that’s all right!

⁂

“The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever.” — Jacques Cousteau

“Here’s your turbo,” Safu declared, sitting down opposite Shion at the booth. They were at their favorite café on the other side of Kronos, perched at one of the large window-seats overlooking the bay.

It was one of Shion’s favorite places, simply for its amazing view of the ocean. The sapphire blue waves lapped against the edge of the pier, the shush-shush sound of the ocean sending comforting prickles down his spine. During the early morning hours, the sunlight glistened across the smooth surface, the pale blue sky streaked with pale pinks and vibrant oranges.

“Oh,” Shion said in surprise as Safu slid the green foam cup across the table toward him. “Thank you. I ordered a decaf, though.”

“I canceled it. You looked like you could use the caffeine.”

Shion exhaled through his nose, knowing it wouldn’t do him any good to argue. He thanked Safu, popped back the heat-saver from the plastic cover, then took a hesitant sip of the coffee. Safu had doused it with enough creamer and granulated sugar to keep the bitter bite of the espresso from stinging his tongue, but Shion could still feel the caffeine buzzing through him.

“Speaking of caffeine,” Safu said, taking a sip of her own coffee. Having been friends for as long as they had, Shion knew that Safu took her coffee as black as the night sky in the middle of the city, devoid of stars due to the constant streaks of artificial lighting. Shion’s nose wrinkled just thinking about it. He’d never been able to get past the bitterness of the coffee beans. “You might want to bring one to go once you finish that one. Don’t you have the new wave of summer interns starting today?”

Shion exhaled, all traces of his previous good mood fluttering out the door. “Don’t remind me.”

Summers were a difficult time for the West Block Aquarium and, more importantly, its staff. Kronos was a buzzing tourist town, and the summer months brought about college students, wealthy benefactors, and worst of all, summer interns.

“Poor thing,” Safu remarked, taking another sip of her coffee. “Well, maybe it won’t be so bad. Who knows? The interns this year could be… delightful.”

They both shuddered in unison. Shion and Safu had been friends since they were little—Grade 1, to be exact, after Safu got in trouble for punching two boys in the face who called Shion “girly” for his pretty white hair—and both had gone on to pursue careers where interns came and went through a constant revolving door.

Though Shion had obtained full-time employment as a pseudo marine biologist at the West Block Aquarium, Safu had went on to pursue a medical degree working alongside children. Her talent rested with biology (of the mammalian variety, not the aquatic), but despite the clear differences in their professions, Shion and Safu shared one similar headache: summer interns.

“So, how’s your mom doing?” Safu asked.

“She’s all right,” Shion replied. “Just getting ready for the summer rush. Tourists and all that.”

“She’s a saint.” Safu lifted her coffee cup with a solemn expression. “I don’t know how I would have gotten through my undergraduate without the croissants she sent in her care packages.”

Shion huffed out a laugh and took another sip of his coffee. He could already feel the caffeine working its way through his veins.

He allowed a bit of silence to fall around him, the only reprieve he’d get today. As soon as he left for work in an hour, his day would be consumed with learning the group dynamic in this summer’s early wave of interns, squeezing work in between answering questions for the flood of customers arriving for the first day of the summer season, and banging his head against the glass walls of the tanks he was in charge of maintaining.

Shion felt something soft rest on top of his head. He glanced up to see Safu tapping her fingers against his temple, softly going, “pomf” to herself.

He leaned back out of reach, fighting back a smile. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to figure out where I can purchase a brush strong enough to tame that mop of yours.” Safu took her hand back, flashing a smile. “It’s such a pretty color, and it’s a shame it just sticks up all over the place.”

“Well, it’s not my fault. I spend most of the time in the water. It’s hard to find a shampoo that can handle all that water damage.”

“Damage?” Safu reached out again and patted Shion on the top of the head. “This isn’t damage. You are the only person alive who can spend seventy-five percent of their life in water and come out with hair this soft.”

“Stop it,” Shion said, but it was light-hearted. His hair had always been a point of conflict in his life. Since the moment he was born—sporting snowy hair and bright ruby eyes—Shion had always fought off rude stares and invasive questions. His mother had helped him construct several convincing lies to help discourage people from continuing to pester him. These lies had ranged from childhood illness in Grades 1 through 4, and then expensive dye jobs during his time as a teenager. Shion had never liked the thought of dyeing his hair, but lying to folks that his bizarre hair and eye color were the results of a bottle of Manic Panic and colored contacts kept them from prying and discovering the truth.

Though, even if Shion did break down and tell people the truth—that his father was a merperson who’d seduced his human mother years ago before splitting without a trace, leaving her with a hybrid son whose hair and eyes and ability to breathe underwater were his only connection to his heritage—he doubted anyone would ever believe him.

Except for Safu.

When Shion finally broke down and told Safu the truth, she’d taken the information with a smile. Coming to terms that there were other creatures dwelling in her world came simply. Safu remarked that new species were being discovered all the time. Of course it made sense that there could be merpeople. The ocean hadn’t been completely explored, after all.

Sometimes Shion wondered why a relationship with Safu had never occurred to him. She was a beautiful girl, and always had been; petite with straight brown hair that fell to her shoulders (she’d let it grow out in recent years), dark eyes that saw everything, and a friendly smile that invited people to let their guard down. More than that, Safu was amazingly kind… to the people she liked. She never judged anyone unless they gave her a reason to assume they were judging her, and she was fiercely protective of her friends.

When they were teenagers, Safu had expressed feelings for Shion that he hadn’t been able to reciprocate. Maybe it was because Safu was accustomed to rejection, or maybe it was because she was just a wonderful, loving person, but Shion’s gentle apology in his inability to return her feelings hadn’t stopped her from remaining his best friend.

And when Shion came staggering home one night and called her, squealing with excitement that he’d found someone like him—someone from the sea—Safu had squealed and gushed with him.

Shion shook the thought away before he could dwell on it. Remembering the summers he spent between the ages of sixteen and nineteen were painful for him. He’d formed a romance with a boy from the sea, a boy Shion could picture himself spending the rest of his life with, and then, without explanation or reason, he’d simply vanished into thin air. Zip. Poof. Gone. As if he’d never been there in the first place.

"Hey, Shion. Earth to Shion.”

He looked up. “Huh?”

Safu took one look at his face, and instantly, she knew. “Thinking about Nezumi again?”

Hearing his name sent a knife through Shion’s heart. “No,” he said, but the lie was pointless. He’d never been any good at telling lies to Safu.

Safu clicked her tongue. When Nezumi stopped showing up at the beach, Safu had been furious. She ranted and raved for months about him, furious that he could break Shion’s heart like that. When the next summer came and he still didn’t show up, Safu’s anger cooled into concern. When another year passed, she and Shion mutually agreed that something awful must have happened to Nezumi and tried to mourn.

“Do you want to talk about it,” she said gently, “or change the subject?”

“Change the subject, please.”

“Of course.” Safu took a deep breath, composing her thoughts, and then she said, somewhat loudly, “Well, it won’t be so bad, right? How long do summer internships last at the aquarium, again?”

“Three months,” Shion said, grateful for the change in topic. He took all the pent-up feelings he still had toward Nezumi, even now, and shoved them to the side. If they festered there and turned into a cancerous tumor, he’d deal with it when that time came.

“Ugh, lucky. Our internships last six months.”

“Aren’t all of your interns medical students, though?” Shion stole a brief glance out the window. He wondered if he would catch a familiar flash of black and silver, and then promptly scolded himself for daring to hope.

“Yes, and most of them are lovely. But then you have those ones.” Safu rolled her eyes, and Shion instantly knew which ones she meant.

The children of wealthy parents whose only major contribution to the field was that they spent a lot of money and therefore expected that their children could sail through the program without any effort. Shion had dealt with plenty of those types, too, working at the aquarium. Wealthy donors often assumed a nice dosage of cash would land their children a high-paying, low-effort job once they finished their degree program. Shion lost count of the number of arguments he and other coworkers had had with interns whose ultimate defense was the phrase: “Do you have any idea who my parents are?”

"Maybe this year will be different,” Shion said, not at all confident. He’d been working full-time at the West Block Aquarium for two years, since he turned twenty-two, and not once had a summer internship term been “different”.

“It could be,” Safu replied solemnly. She and Shion shared a mutual nod, and then smiled.

⁂

With traffic, it was a forty-minute drive across downtown Kronos, and another three minutes to find a halfway decent parking space in front of the West Block Aquarium that didn’t result in Shion needing to sprint across the parking lot like a lunatic in order to clock in on time.

Shion smoothed his hands through his hair, pressing the tangled locks down against his skull. They bounced back up as he dropped his hands to his sides, and he gave up trying to look presentable.

His white hair, no matter how smooth or messy it was, always attracted attention from the college interns the aquarium employed. Most of them thankfully assumed it was just a dye job—an expensive, extremely thorough dye job, but a dye job nonetheless—but it elicited more than a few stares every year.

Shion scanned his ID badge at the employee entrance and ducked inside. He let the heavy metal door bang shut behind him, sighing as he stepped into the foyer of the employee lounge, cooled by the strong air conditioning unit Rikiga had installed. He tossed his empty coffee cup into the trash can, briefly considering using the Keurig to make himself another cup.

"Hey, Shion.”

Shion turned and spotted his coworker, Yamase, sitting at one of the little brown tables. He clutched a travel mug of tea—Yamase never liked drinking coffee, remarking that no matter how much creamer and sugar he doused it with, he could still taste the “disgusting bean water”—and he looked utterly exhausted.

Shion’s stomach plummeted. “Interns?”

“Interns,” Yamase agreed bitterly.

Shion huffed out a breath and went to the Keurig. “Please tell me there’s at least a few halfway decent ones.”

He prided himself on being an optimist—it was one of his best qualities, according to his mom, Safu, and everyone else he’d ever talked to, and Shion was pretty certain it was the primary reason Rikiga had given him the job in the first place—but something about summer interns made even someone with Shion’s extensive threshold for patience eager for the workday to end.

“Rikiga’s already deep into his cup,” Yamase explained, rolling his eyes. “Big surprise. Anyway, I’ve only met the first few, and supposedly, we’ve got two others starting tomorrow.”

“So, what exactly are we dealing with?” Shion popped a K-cup into the machine and hit brew. He shoved a paper cup beneath the dispenser and listened to the whir of the machine as the water heated up.

Yamase took a deep sip of his tea. “Well, there’s a girl who’s just started her second year at the community college who thinks she wants to go into marine biology. Kudos and all that, but she’s already expecting that we’ll hire her once she graduates since she’s interning with us.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yeah,” Yamase groaned. “You know how that’s gonna go. I wonder if we’ll have the parents down here again. You remember that?”

Shion shuddered. “How could I forget?” He could still hear the shrill sound of the woman’s voice as she shrieked at Rikiga in the lobby about why he’d rejected her daughter’s application for full-time employment after she’d “slaved away all summer at this dirty, stinking place, and for what?” Never mind that Shion had found her in the employee lounge multiple times during her shift, sneaking alcohol and trying to steal merchandise from the gift shop when she thought no one was looking.

“Maybe she’ll be a good fit,” Shion said, a little too hopefully.

“She bounces when she talks,” Yamase said drily.

"Excuse me?”

“Like full on hops on her heels.” Yamase gave a small demonstration, bouncing twice in his chair before widening his eyes and giving Shion a blank, dead stare. “She also talks like this.” He raised his voice up at the end, almost as if he were asking a question. “With an upward inflection at the end of it. As if she has no idea what she’s doing here.”

“That is so creepy,” Shion shuddered. “Please stop.”

“You think that’s creepy. Try listening to her do it.” Yamase sighed and took a deep gulp from his travel mug. “The lights are definitely on, but no one’s been home for years.”

Shion pinched the bridge of his nose. Wonderful. Just what the aquarium needed. He plucked his cup from the Keurig and dumped a healthy heaping of sugar and creamer packets into the cup.

“The new hire for the gift shop’s hot, though,” Yamase said.

Shion raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Don’t worry—he’s our age,” Yamase assured. “I checked. Not in college, as far as I can tell. Just looking for some extra cash at a part-time job or something. And you know I’m not really into guys, but dang, something about this guy just… I don’t know. Just wait until you see him.” Yamase exhaled. “It’s his eyes, man.”

Shion huffed out a laugh and took a sip of his coffee. After the turbo Safu had ordered for him, it felt watered down and weak, but Shion savored the buzz of caffeine.

“He must be something, then,” Shion said, “if you’ve noticed him.”

“You have no idea. You’re single, right? Maybe you have a shot.”

Shion clicked his tongue. “You sound like Safu.”

"Well, maybe you should start listening to us!” Yamase tipped his head back and finished off the last of his tea. “Maybe we should strong-arm your mother into it. I’m sure that’d make you start looking.”

Shion couldn’t help but smile. He’d tried dating during his undergraduate, and it hadn’t worked. All the men he went out with made snide comments about his hair— “Do the carpets match the drapes? Ha ha, just kidding. Unless��?”—or thought his fascination with sea life bordered on obsessive. Shion wouldn’t have felt comfortable letting them know the truth: that his “obsession” with sea life stemmed from the fact that he came from the same place.

And besides, none of them had made him feel the way Nezumi had.

Not only did Nezumi come from the ocean—Shion could picture the black and blue scales on his long, elegant tail perfectly, like obsidian and sapphires, and his beautiful silver eyes, like the edge of a blade in the sunlight—he never thought Shion’s ramblings were bizarre. He laughed at him, sure, but it was good-natured and beautiful, like the chiming of bells. He could swim faster and deeper than Shion, and he brought him pretty shells and oysters containing pearls from the bottom of the sea where Shion couldn’t swim without raising more than a few eyebrows.

During their summer interactions as teenagers, Shion had never been able to convince Nezumi to come onto the shore. He knew it was possible—his own father had done it years ago—but whenever he asked, Nezumi quickly changed the subject.

Shion’s heart ached, his eyes stinging. The last time he saw Nezumi, they had been eighteen years old. He could still feel the brush of Nezumi’s lips against his own, tasting of saltwater. Shion could have kissed him forever.

Shion quickly shook the thoughts away. He couldn’t afford to get caught up on thoughts of Nezumi anymore. He needed to focus on the new interns and aquarium employees.

Yamase rose and rinsed his travel mug in the sink. The dark blue of his janitor’s uniform stood out against the stark gray walls of the employee lounge. “Well, count yourself lucky you don’t have to deal with most of the interns. You spend most of your time in Number Six. I’m the one who’s gotta spend the whole day trapped in the gift shop.”

Shion cracked a smile. Number Six was the main tank in the direct center of the aquarium, the first major exhibit available as soon as customers walked through the door. Shion’s primary job was to jump into the tank every couple of hours, toss smelt and other dead things at the bigger fish, ensure that the pH levels were safe, and make sure the sand tigers didn’t bully the nurse sharks. Shion never would have pegged sharks to have some weird social hierarchy, but it was there. He’d lost count of the times he’d had to chase away the sand tiger with the blunt snout (who he’d affectionally nicknamed Snubby) from the large nurse shark (Nurse Anne) with the chunk bitten out of her dorsal fin.

Number Six was also known to Yamase and the other janitors as the BFT: the Big Fucking Tank. Shion didn’t like calling it that, but he supposed when the janitors spent most of their shift spraying Windex on the glass and wiping away fingerprints and saliva—seriously, did little kids lick everything?—it made sense they would come to hate it.

The majority of the interns and summer hires started out as cashiers in the gift shop. During his dips in Number Six, Shion could spot the little alcove through the glass, watching as the interns in their bright green tee-shirts displaying the West Block Aquarium logo fumbled through each transaction.

“I wonder if the wannabee marine biologist will try to jump in the tank with you,” Yamase said, eyeing Shion in his periphery. “She doesn’t seem thrilled about the idea of starting as a cashier.”

“They all start out as cashiers,” Shion replied, taking another sip of his coffee. It had already begun to go cold. “She shouldn’t expect special treatment. Retail work can be humbling.”

"Is it twisted that I love watching the rich kids get screamed at by entitled jerks?” Yamase’s dark eyes flashed as he turned to face Shion. “Like, I know retail’s rough and all, but some of these kids are so fucking bratty, and seeing the looks on their faces when they realize that no one cares about how much money they have just warms my heart.”

Shion shook his head. “You’re awful,” he said, but he couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face.

“Yup, and you’re equally as awful. I know you enjoy it, too.” Yamase put his travel mug back into the cupboard where the rest of the employees kept their spare mugs. “Well, I need to get out there and make sure the place is ready for opening. Finish up your coffee. You’re gonna need it. You know they’re probably gonna ask about the hair.”

“And the eyes,” Shion sighed. “They always do.”

“You could dye it.”

“Safu would literally kill me.”

Yamase rolled his eyes. “She might, but wouldn’t it be better than dealing with another wave of ‘wait, they let marine biologists dye their hair? Can you wear contacts underwater? Duuuuude.’”

Shion fought back a shudder. Too many times he’d had to deflect questions surrounding his odd hair color and the piercing shade of his irises. Albinism was a rare trait in humans, and Shion’s skin wasn’t nearly pale enough to pass for it. The odd red marking on his skin—scaled, if people looked close enough, which Shion never let anyone do—definitely shattered the illusion. Shion had hoped people would have a bit of common decency and not ask such invasive questions, but he was often disappointed. Almost every summer, someone cornered him in the break room and demanded to know why his hair was so white, what made his eyes red, how many bleaches did it take to achieve that color, did people think he was less professional because he looked like he was cosplaying all the time?

Sometimes Shion wondered if he should joke that he was a merman. Well, half a merman, anyway.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he could hear Nezumi’s voice snap, “Child of the Sea! Not merman. That’s a human word.” His mood instantly darkened, and Shion shook his head.

“Child of the Sea” was the preferred term in the underwater community, or so Shion had been told. Only human beings used words like “mermaid” and “merman”. Despite the wave of sorrow that Shion felt whenever the thought of Nezumi came rushing back, he couldn’t help the small flicker of warmth that kindled itself in his heart.

“Well,” Yamase sighed. “I’m heading back. Rip the Band-Aid off.”

“All right.”

“See you in a few,” Yamase replied with a wave, ducking out into the hallway. “Good luck!”

Shion exhaled and took another sip of his cool coffee. Summer interns. At least he had a reprieve from them when he dove into the tank. He took a few moments to sip his coffee, reveling in the silence he knew would soon be broken. Ah, well. It was only eight-thirty in the morning. Seven o’clock would come soon enough.

⁂

Shion finished his coffee, pulled on his white lab coat, and trotted out to the main foyer. The West Block Aquarium opened at ten o’clock on the dot—despite his active drinking and usual forgetfulness, Rikiga was oddly punctual—and the first hour would be spent preparing for the shift and greeting the interns and summer help.

Shion plastered a big smile on his face and tried to be positive. Summer interns were frustrating, but he had to remember that he was once in their shoes, too. Several years ago, he’d been a bright-eyed intern working at this same aquarium. Ignoring his obvious one-up over the other interns—primarily the fact that he could breathe underwater (secretly, of course) and understood ocean life in a way that astounded his professors and quickly moved him through his undergraduate degree with flying colors—he’d enjoyed working alongside other interns.

As he hurried toward the main foyer, stationed direction in front of Number Six, he couldn’t help but marvel at the decorations welcoming the new wave of summer customers. Bright plastic statues of sea lions and talking starfish lined the floors, gesturing toward the hallways and announcing exhibits. Neat signs with fun facts and information about the exhibit inhabitants sat in front of glass cages, and the sound of rushing water sounded like music to Shion’s ears.

Shion trotted almost everywhere. His colleagues joked that he was always in a hurry. Shion didn’t know if it was because he moved faster in the water than on land, even without the function of a tail, but he couldn’t help it. He jogged everywhere he went: meetings, feedings, the break room. Sometimes he worried he looked ridiculous—a young man in a white lab coat with obviously dyed hair (ha) jogging like a toddler through the aquarium—but if he did, no one commented one way or the other about it.

The four-story tank, illuminated with bright LED lights at the base and on each conjoining floor, wrapping upward in a slanted ramp like a makeshift spiral staircase, rose into view as Shion stepped out into the main exhibit. The brightly-colored tropical fish swam lazily through the teal water, their dark eyes staring blankly out at Shion as he approached the two individuals standing near the door, awaiting his arrival.

Shion swallowed the wave of frustration that surged inside him, caging it behind his clenched teeth as he kept the smile plastered on his face His colleagues had left him to deal with the new interns on his own.

Ha ha, funny.

As he approached the two interns—a young woman with vibrant pink hair (clearly a dye job, and a rather inexpensive one, at that, if the blond roots at the top were any indication) and a young man with dark hair yanked back into a ponytail, both dressed in the bright green West Block Aquarium staff shirt—the girl broke away from the tank and came sprinting up toward Shion.

“Oh, hi!” she shrieked, her voice piercing through the vacant walls of the aquarium. It carried, so sharp and sudden that Shion felt as if a knife had been drilled into his ear.

He flinched—the other intern did, too—and jerked to a halt.

“You must be Shion, right? Mr. Rikiga mentioned you’d be stopping by!” The girl clapped her hands, as if the idea of meeting Shion was too exciting to be contained inside her little body. “I’m so excited to be working with you! My name’s Miyamoto Emi, but my friends call me Emi-chan. Oh, darn, can I call you Shion, or is that too informal? Gosh, this is so exciting!”

Shion gawked down at the girl, unsure of what to say. She looked about twenty years old, short in a way that was noticeable even to someone like Shion. He wasn’t very tall, himself—he rose to a respectable five-feet-seven-inches—and this girl rose to the middle of his chest. She tipped her head back to look into his face, her dark brown eyes wide with excitement, and yep, there was the bouncing Yamase had mentioned. With each syllable that left her mouth, she rose an inch off the ground and then came down hard on her heels. She wore a pair of black flip-flops (definitely not regulation, according to the employee handbook, which Rikiga definitely didn’t enforce), and the rubber soles thumped rhythmically on the solid tile floor.

“Mr. Rikiga said you were a marine biologist,” Emi went on. “That must be so exciting. I’ve wanted to be a marine biologist since I was a little girl. I’ve always loved turtles, and I just wanna be able to work with them. Oh, wow!” Her eyes widened further—how was that possible?—and she stared at Shion’s white hair.

His stomach plummeted.

“Your hair—” she said, a shriek building in her throat. Shion could see it. Her shoulders quaked beneath the force of it, her whole body unable to contain the sheer joy that came from seeing Shion’s pristine white hair coupled with his lab coat. “Where do you get your hair done? Do you do it yourself? My friend Mariko did my hair”—she grabbed a lock of her own pink hair and shoved it toward Shion—“but it doesn’t look nearly as good as yours does!”

“Um, thank you.” Shion gave her a wobbly smile. This was a new development. Sometimes the interns were cold and stand-offish, and sometimes they were uninterested in the position.

This, however? This was new.

Shion felt his head spinning as he tried to focus on the girl bouncing in front of him. He glanced over her shoulder, seeking out the second intern. The young man was staring at Emi as if she’d just exploded and scattered across the foyer in an array of glitter. His hair framed his face, long and pulled into a high ponytail. He had a narrow, pale face, and Shion wondered briefly if this was the young man Yamase had mentioned back in the break room. He squinted over Emi’s head—where did she get the energy to keep bouncing like this?—examining the young man’s face to see what about him Yamase had been so taken by.

The young man was tall and thin, his hair a dark shade of black that Shion suspected would look blue in certain lighting. Even with the fluorescent bulbs in the aquarium itself, he could pick out the few pale gray strands and blue bits that made the young man’s hair beautiful rather than plain. His skin was far too pale for the lime-green of the staff shirt, and it made him look sickly and washed out.

He lifted his head to give Shion a look that clearly read ‘Poor you’, and Shion managed to get a good look at his eyes.

It’s his eyes, man.

Two bright silver coins stared back at Shion, narrowed in a way that Shion recognized as someone trying to figure out where they recognized someone from. His stomach twisted. Flecks of blue and white danced behind a pale of solid silver glass, shifting depending on his mood. When he was happy, they were vibrant and luminous. When he was aggravated, they darkened like the sky over a stormy sea. Shion had seen them in almost every variant, and he stood there, dumbstruck, as the young man stared into his face, too—taking in his bright red irises, the red marking wrapped around his throat, and his vibrant white hair—and finally, finally recognized him.

His jaw dropped. It was an almost comical look, but he managed to make it look beautiful. He unfolded his arms from across his chest, letting them fall limply at his sides.

“Shion?” he said.

His voice. His voice. Shion could still hear it in his memories. The peals of laughter, the shouts whenever they argued, the gentle songs he sang. All of it came flooding back in a crushing wave that made Shion feel as if he were drowning. His lungs were designed to pull oxygen both on land and beneath the surface. Shion would never know how it felt to drown in earnest—but standing across from Nezumi, the boy he’d fallen in love with in his youth, the boy who’d claimed his first kiss, the boy who’d left one day and never come back, Shion wondered if this was how it felt to have all the air knocked out of him once and for all.

Emi’s bright smile never left her face, but her eyes widened. “Oh, my gosh. Do you know two each other?” She looked over her shoulder at the young man—at Nezumi—and clapped her hands. “That’s so exciting!”

“Um,” Shion said, taking a trembling step backward. The room around him crushed inward, the air tight and thick. He swallowed once, finding it difficult to breathe. “Yes, um…”

Nezumi’s shocked expression shifted into concern, and Shion felt himself edging toward a full-on breakdown. Shards of glass punched through his stomach, heat and pain radiating through each pulse point in his body until it was all he could feel. He couldn’t sense the solid tiles beneath his feet or the air conditioner churning above his head. His vision tunneled, blocking out everything except the young man standing in front of him—standing! On legs!—in his ridiculous staff tee shirt and his khaki pants, looking every bit like the beautiful, otherworldly creature he was once he stepped into the ocean.

“Ah, w-well,” Shion managed, the words heavy as stones on his tongue. “W-welcome to the West Block Aquarium. So nice to be working with you both. Um, I have to, ah, feed the fish in the BFT now. Ah, I mean, in Number Six. The big tank behind you. Yup, that’s Number Six. I’m sure Mr. Rikiga will tell you all about it as part of the tour.”

“Shion,” Nezumi said, and his voice was equally as wobbly. He took a step forward, and panic surged through Shion’s body like an injection of ice water.

”Goodbye!” Shion spun on his heel and fled back toward the break room. There was an elevator in the far back, reserved for employee usage and available for disabled customers, and if Shion input the code into the panel, it would go to the floor linking to the observatory room for Number Six. It wasn’t available to the public, reserved for marine biologists like Shion to record the pH balances of the tank and the weights of each animal.

His shoes smacked against the tile as he hurried toward the hallway leading to the elevator. The twisting halls that stretched past the rooms dedicated to shells and the horseshoe crab touch tank—popular with the children and high school customers—and Shion rounded them quickly, searching desperately for the signs leading to the elevator.

“Shion, wait!”

Shion whirled and saw Nezumi hurrying up the ramp toward him. He stumbled a bit as he ran, as if he’d been sitting down for a long time and his legs hadn’t quite adjusted to movement. The fluorescent lights caught against the strands of his hair, and the lime green of the staff shirt clashed horribly with his khaki pants and pale skin.

He looked ridiculous. He looked amazing. He looked—

Alive.

“You’re alive,” Shion said, his voice sounding stupid in his ears.

Nezumi stumbled to a stop a few steps in front of him. He was wearing heavy black combat boots (completely against regulation, since the soles weren’t non-marking), and one pant leg of his cargo pants was tucked in while the other hung frustratingly loose around his ankle. “Yeah,” he said, sounding equally as stupid and just as wonderful as Shion remembered. “Yeah, I’m alive.”

“But—” Shion fumbled for something, anything, and came up short. “You—you vanished! You stopped coming to the beach.”

Nezumi winced. “I know.”

The prickles of cold were replaced with agitation that dug like thorns in his body. “I waited for you,” he said, low and harsh. “Every day for months. Years. And you—you never came back.”

Nezumi flinched back as if Shion had ripped one of the decorative plywood sea turtles off the wall and chucked it at him. “I know,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Shion barked out a laugh. “Five years of no contact—nothing—and now you show up here, at my work, to tell me you’re sorry?”

“I didn’t know you worked here,” Nezumi said.

“Then why are you here? You sure as hell can’t be a university student!”

Nezumi’s silver eyes flashed in the vibrant LED lights. “I’ve never heard you swear before,” he murmured wondrously, as if it was the most amazing thing in the world.

“Don’t change the subject!” Shion growled. “Where the hell do you get off just—”

“I wanted to come back,” Nezumi interjected. He didn’t raise his voice (which only aggravated Shion further), and he kept his hands at his side. Shion couldn’t help staring at each of his long, elegant fingers, remembering how they felt running over his cheek or brushing through his hair while they swam.

“Then why didn’t you?” Shion’s heart pounded in his chest, blood rushing through his ears. “You kissed me, said goodnight, and then you just vanished. For five years, Nezumi.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Nezumi said, raising his voice just a little. Shion could hear it in his voice that he was struggling not to yell, that he didn’t really have the right to yell. “Something happened, and as much as you meant to me, I couldn’t just—”

Those words stabbed through Shion’s chest like arrows. It’d taken Nezumi three years—three long, painful years—to finally say the words I love you. Shion hadn’t held it against him. Nezumi didn’t express his feelings through words. He translated them in his actions. Shion felt his love in the way he found ways to maintain physical contact when they were together. He felt Nezumi’s love each time Nezumi brought him pretty shells from the deeper parts of the ocean floor.

Shion knew how much he meant to Nezumi. And as angry as he was at Nezumi’s unexpected disappearance, the fact that he was here now must have meant something.

Shion opened his mouth to speak—to say what, he didn’t know—and Emi came trotting down the hallway, huffing and puffing as if it’d taken all her energy to catch up with them.

“There—,” she gasped dramatically, doubling over and pressing her hand against her chest. “There you two are! Why did you run away?”

Nezumi glanced over at her, and Shion took the opportunity to escape. “It’s nothing. Nezumi’s an old friend” —he didn’t miss the way Nezumi flinched— “and things were… well, it’s complicated. But this isn’t the place for it.”

Emi’s dark brown eyes widened. “Ooh?” She looked at Shion, then at Nezumi, and then back. She clapped her hands together. “What’s this? A secret romance?”

“The hell?” Nezumi muttered, despite everything.

“Emi,” Shion said firmly, “now is neither the time nor the place. Now,” he added, looking at the clock suspended from the wall. “I believe you two are due for orientation. Mr. Rikiga will be expecting you.”

“Ooh, you’re right! We don’t wanna be late!” Emi spun on her heel and reached out for Nezumi’s wrist. “Come on, uh, Nezumi, was it? Weird. We’re gonna be late!”

Nezumi withdrew his wrist from Emi’s reach and turned to look at Shion. “I’m out at noon,” he said carefully. Shion’s shoulders shot to his ears, the words slicing through him like a bullet. “Can we talk then?”

“I’m not free until after the aquarium closes,” Shion replied. He didn’t know why he said it, but it wouldn’t do him any good to lie. Nezumi would probably figure out his schedule soon enough anyway.

“That’s fine. How about I meet you here after work?” Nezumi lowered his voice so that Emi, already skipping back toward the main foyer, wouldn’t overhear. “I get it if you tell me to fuck off, but… I’d like to explain myself.”

“All right,” Shion mumbled. “I’ll meet you outside the employee entrance at seven-thirty.”

“I’ll be here,” Nezumi said. There was so much strength and conviction in his voice that Shion couldn’t help but meet his eye. The fluorescent lights caught in his irises as he repeated, slower, “I will be here, Shion.”

“Sure,” Shion whispered, and he watched as Nezumi turned and headed back toward the foyer. He seemed to stumble a bit, but even that seemed inhumanly graceful. Shion’s heart ached as he watched him leave.

Eventually, his duties as a dedicated marine biologist convinced him to seek out the elevator, punch in the code to the Number Six observatory floor, and strip out of his lab coat, button-down, and slacks in favor of his West Block Aquarium scuba suit. Dark blue with lime green accents, it was Shion’s least favorite piece of work equipment, simply for its pointlessness. He was a Child of the Sea—at least fifty percent of him was—and scuba gear was wasted on someone who could breathe underwater.

But he couldn’t exactly drop into the forty-foot tank without his gear in front of tourists.

Shion struggled into his scuba suit, his heart hammering a thousand miles a minute. His hands shook as he zipped up his wetsuit, fumbling with the useless air tank (he could breathe underwater, damn it, but the tourists and the interns and his boss couldn’t know that) and all the tubes in their proper place to pump oxygen uselessly into his lungs.

Shion sat on the edge of the top level of Number Six, his vision blurring red and gray. His bright yellow swim fins felt ridiculous and artificial—even though Shion had never been able to grow a tail of his own, his legs more than strong enough to propel him through the water—and his whole body buzzed with anxiety. He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself in a way that proved to be completely ineffective, and then he tumbled backward into Number Six.

Sinking down into the depths, Shion let the cold water collapse around him and smother the heat of embarrassment and anger and relief that churned inside him. He sank downward through a small school of colorful fish and past Trudgealong (a withered sea turtle with a no-nonsense attitude), squeezing his eyes closed behind the useless face mask and trying to breathe.

Goddammit.

Nezumi’s shocked face flashed behind his closed eyelids. His voice echoed in Shion’s skull like a pissed off bee, and no matter how hard Shion fought it, he couldn’t help but remember how it had felt to sink beneath the waves with Nezumi guiding him by the wrist, propelling them both along the coral reefs much more quickly than Shion could move on his own.

Shion shook away the thoughts and focused on eying the occupants of Number Six and taking mental notes on their overall health.

For the most part, the fish and assorted sharks looked decent. Shion could sense the increased buzz of excitement radiating from them; he couldn’t “speak to fish”, and Nezumi had confirmed that no Child of the Sea could. He could, however, sense when they were comfortable or agitated.

The fish in Number Six enjoyed the summer rush far more than the staff at the West Block Aquarium did. Snubby, for example, seemed to enjoy preening in front of children who remarked on his crooked teeth and blunt nose with loud shouts to their parents and pointing fingers. These were Snubby’s point of pride, and he swam quickly around the tank to ensure everyone got a good look. If Snubby were a human or a Child of the Sea, Shion felt the two of them wouldn’t get along very well. Fortunately, for both of them, Snubby couldn’t talk.

Beneath the cool saltwater, the red marking wrapped around Shion’s body chilled. These were the only “scales” Shion had on his body, and something about being in the water gave them a more aquatic appearance. The otherwise smooth red marking bristled and slotted with patterns, and if Shion ran his bare finger over it, it would feel bumpy and slick. The vibrant color made him wonder if this would be the color his tale would be if he could grow one in water. Sometimes he disliked not being able to grow one the way Nezumi and other Children of the Sea could, but Nezumi had never made him feel bad for it. In fact, Nezumi claimed, based on the stories he’d been told, Shion was lucky. The tradeoff for most Children of the Sea was that while they could grow tails in water, their legs were weak on land. Some of the most graceful Children of the Sea turned into complete klutzes on the surface.

As a teenager, Shion had laughed himself sick at the prospect of beautiful, elegant Nezumi being reduced to a tripping mess on the land. He often wondered if that was why Nezumi would never come up on land. Nezumi was a proud creature, and Shion often wondered if his pride could survive face-planting on the sand.

But now Nezumi was on land.

Shion shook his head. Don’t think about it right now.

Shion bit down on the breathing apparatus stuffed in his mouth. Something deep inside him made him glance down to the foyer through the clear, teal water. Through the glass several floors down, Shion could see Emi and Nezumi standing in front of Rikiga. Shion watched his boss lazily drift his hand through the air, giving them both the same spiel he gave each intern at the beginning of their first shift. Emi continued to bounce on the balls of her feet, looking ready to explode into a thousand pieces. And Nezumi…

Nezumi looked up into the tank. His eyes met Shion’s, even several stories down, and he lifted his hand to wave at him.

Shion didn’t know what compelled him, but he lifted his gloved hand and waved back.

��

At fifteen past seven, when the aquarium had officially closed and the majority of the staff had clocked out and gone home, Shion stood outside the employee entrance, arms wrapped around himself in a desperate attempt to keep from falling apart.

Seven-thirty. Nezumi had promised to come back to the aquarium at seven-thirty and meet Shion at the employee entrance.

Shion eyed the cars zipping down the street on the opposite end of the empty parking lot. The West Block Aquarium emptied out pretty quick after the doors closed. None of the staff were eager to pull extra hours, and Rikiga didn’t offer overtime. Shion was an exception—the only one on Rikiga’s staff who was salary—and if Rikiga happened to spot his car still in the lot, it wouldn’t have raised any eyebrows.

He leaned back against the brick wall, the warm stones heating the fabric of his lab coat. He didn’t know why he bothered wearing it. Shion spent most of his time submerged in the tanks, but the lab coat made him feel normal. Human. He didn’t mind being a hybrid, not at all, but it was lonely not having someone like him to confide in.

Shion flexed his fingers. He still remembered the day he and Nezumi met. Shion had been walking down the beach—because what else was a gainfully unemployed sixteen-year-old to do on a sunny summer day in a bustling tourist town—and growing anxious amidst the screaming toddlers and indifferent mothers in their floppy sunhats, Shion had sought out a place where he could dive underwater and go missing for a bit.

Diving under the waves and vanishing, however, wouldn’t work with an audience. People stared at him because of his weird hair (even in a tourist town where teenagers dyeing their hair ridiculous colors was well within the norm), and if he went underwater and didn’t resurface, he’d have the Coast Guard called on him in no time.

Climbing the rocks clustered on the left side of the beach and walking another mile from the main beach, Shion sought out a strip of soft white beach where he could sprint in and vanish. The broken pier attached to the boardwalk (abandoned for months after a nasty embezzling scandal leaked to the press) rose into view, and Shion’s mood brightened.

He ducked beneath the pier, preparing to slip beneath the waves—and lo and behold, tangled in a net and cursing up a storm had been Nezumi.

A fisherman’s net had tangled around him as he skimmed the bottom of the water, and Nezumi had managed to break the net from the boat (rightfully confusing the fishermen in the process, who must have assumed they’d wrangled a shark), but the tight coils had knotted around his fins. Unwilling to be a sitting duck for a bigger predator (believe it or not, Children of the Sea were not the top of the food chain), Nezumi had desperately sought a strip of beach where he could safely work on pulling the net off his tail.

Immediately springing into action, Shion had deftly untangled the knots, whispering to Nezumi that he’d have him free in no time. His mind buzzed with excitement—someone like him was sitting right there—but it didn’t feel like an appropriate time to gush.

Nezumi, who’d growled at Shion when he first approached, went painfully still. His silver eyes, so beautiful and unlike anything Shion had ever seen before, watched each movement of his hands as he worked the net carefully off his fins. Shion fought his own urges to brush his fingers against the dark black and blue scales, jealous and enamored of something he should have had but didn’t, and after a few minutes of careful working, he tossed the vicious net aside and said, brightly, “There! You’re free.”

“Much obliged,” Nezumi muttered, and then, before Shion could blink, Nezumi’s hand wrapped around his wrist and yanked him into the water.

The shock of the cool ocean made Shion gasp; that had probably been Nezumi’s intention. With a few powerful flicks of his tail, Nezumi propelled them away from the shore, banking downward into the deeper ends of the shallows.

“You saved me, human,” Nezumi’s voice purred in his ear, sending goosebumps skittering down his bare arms. “So, I suppose it’s only fair to reward you.”

Drowning is a reward? Shion had thought. He’d opened his mouth to tell Nezumi that drowning wouldn’t work on him, that he wasn’t human—and Nezumi’s mouth closed over his own.

Shion’s eyes widened. Nezumi’s mouth was cool, but his soft lips sent waves of warmth through each nerve ending in Shion’s body. His eyes slid shut, the gentle shifts of the ocean waves rustling above his head. Tendrils of Nezumi’s long, dark hair brushed against his cheeks. Shion fought the urge to reach his hands out and brush his fingers through it, wondering at how soft it would feel.

An eternity later, Nezumi drew back, his arms still wrapped around Shion’s shoulders. Shion swallowed a mouthful of seawater and opened his eyes.

Nezumi’s silver eyes hovered a few inches in front of his own. He looked down at Shion—still alive, still staring at him in wonder—and a muscle in his jaw twitched. “You…” he said slowly. “You’re not drowning.”

“I am not.”

“You’re… like me?”

"Yeah. Well, half, anyway.”

“Oh,” Nezumi said, and that had been the beginning of it all.

From the moment Shion laid eyes on Nezumi, he’d known there was something different about him. Not just because he had a tail and looked like a god, but because he wasn’t like anyone else Shion had ever met in his life.

Nezumi had a vicious sense of humor. Nezumi was sarcastic and cold. He mocked Shion and poked fun at his wetsuit—black with bright red accents, because it made him feel at least somewhat attractive and it was comfortable—and he never understood how Shion could enjoy walking around on land when there was a whole ocean to explore.

But there was so much more to Nezumi than his sarcasm. He loved listening to stories. His laugh sounded like bells. He sang songs when he and Shion were alone, and he knocked Safu off her surfboard as a joke until she kicked him in the shoulder and tried to wrestle him underwater, both of them shrieking with laughter.

“Shion!”

He lifted his head, startled from his memories, and spotted Nezumi hurrying across the parking lot.

It was strange, seeing him with a pair of legs rather than a long black tail, but at least he’d changed out of the vibrant green tee-shirt Rikiga insisted his staff members wear to be more visible. Shion had never been more grateful than the day he’d been given permission to wear whatever he wanted as long as he wore a lab coat over it during work hours. As the son of Rikiga’s good friend (Crush, Safu insisted, and Shion gallantly ignored her), Shion received something akin to “special treatment” from Rikiga, though he never asked for it.

He was still wearing the cargo pants and black boots he’d been wearing earlier, but in place of the tee shirt was a black leather jacket that Shion had to admit looked stunning on him. It mixed well with his long, dark hair and piercing eyes; it was a wonder that he’d made it to the aquarium at all. How did he get through each day without a horde of people swarming around him?

Shion looked down at his cell phone. The screen flashed its white numbers, announcing seven-twenty-five. Shion’s heart skipped a bit, and he tried to compose himself as Nezumi trotted up beside him.

“You’re early,” he said softly.

“Didn’t want to risk being late,” Nezumi replied. “You don’t deserve that.”

Shion huffed through his nose. “Let’s go inside. We can talk there.”

“OK,” Nezumi mumbled.

Shion let them in the employee entrance. He shut the door behind them, then made a bee line for the elevator leading up to the observatory room near Number Six.

“Where are you going?” Nezumi called after him.

“Let’s go to Number Six,” Shion called back. “It’ll be easier to talk if we don’t worry about people walking in on us.”

“The aquarium’s closed, though.” Nezumi caught up to him rather quickly. He strode beside Shion, his long legs easily keeping pace with Shion’s brisk stride. “Who’d walk in?”

"Well, hopefully, no one. But you never know what employees have left things behind. So it’d be better not to be talking about… things where people could overhear.”

“Good point,” Nezumi murmured.

The elevator ride up to the observatory room was silent and awkward. Shion shifted from one foot to the other, and Nezumi lingered on the far end of the little room to give him space. Shion could feel those piercing silver eyes sliding toward him, then quickly darting away when Shion tried to look back. It sent prickles through his body, and he clenched his fists to focus on something else.

When the elevator dinged and signaled their arrival at the observatory, Nezumi stepped out of the room and half-jogged across the tile floor and toward the top of the tank. The lights had been dimmed, only a few bulbs bright and illuminating the dome. Nezumi quickly unzipped the black leather jacket and tossed it casually to the floor, revealing a long-sleeved yellow shirt beneath it.

“Nezumi?” Shion asked.

Nezumi didn’t answer. He shucked off his shirt, and beneath it he wore a black sleeveless shirt that Shion suspected was meant to keep him from being bare-chested in the water.

“Um,” Shion said, feeling his face heating up. “What exactly are you doing?”

"Proof,” Nezumi called over his shoulder. He swooped down to undo his black boots, kicking them off into the corner beside Number Six’s main pool.

“Proof of what?” Shion asked, but Nezumi didn’t answer. He unbuttoned his pants, and Shion quickly looked away. His face burned, and only when he heard the sound of water splashing did he turn back.

Nezumi popped back up, grabbing the side of the tank and folding his arms on top of it. He rested his chin on his wrists and looked up at Shion. His silver eyes (exactly as Shion remembered, even years later) glittered in the fluorescent lights. His hair was still in a ponytail, several strands falling down over where his ears would be.

“Just wanted to make sure you knew it was really me,” Nezumi said, and with a flick of his tail, he sent a few droplets of water raining down over Shion’s head.

His tail.

Shion’s heart stopped. When Shion met Nezumi, the first thing he’d noticed (after the eyes) had been his tail. Unlike the bright blues and greens of Disney and childhood picture books, Nezumi’s tale was dark black and flecked with deep blue. The fins were wider and longer at the base, almost lace-like and elegant. Beneath the surface of the water, Shion couldn’t seen what they looked like at the hips (he was still wearing the lime green West Block Aquarium staff tee shirt, which didn’t suit him at all), but from his memory, he knew that the scales melded into flesh around his navel.

Shion crouched beside the tank, his stomach tightening. “Why now?”

Nezumi’s tail sank back below the surface of the water. Shion could see it swaying idly back and forth, the way a human might churn their feet lazily to keep themselves afloat in calm seas.

Shion knew Nezumi’s tail would be cold if he touched it. So would his skin. Nezumi was always cold. Not his personality, but—all right, sometimes his personality, too, but mostly his skin and tail were cool whenever Shion touched them. Even years later, he could remember the way it felt to smooth his hand over Nezumi’s hip, counting the blue scales peppered throughout. Nezumi’s tail reminded him of obsidian, black at first glance, with flecks of gray and purple and blue when it moved and the light shifted across it.

Nezumi’s eyes lowered to the floor between them. A harsh silence fell around them, punctuated only by the buzzing of the lights overhead and the glug-glug of the industrial-sized water filter.

“I didn’t mean to disappear for so long,” Nezumi explained, and his voice held so much conviction that Shion didn’t doubt him.

“You said that.”

“When I went back, something… happened.”

Shion raised an eyebrow.

Nezumi’s fingers wove into his damp bangs, which were so long they fell over his left eye, and gave them a yank. Shion’s heart clenched; he recognized it as an old habit Nezumi had when they were teenagers, something he did when he was nervous or uncomfortable. His nails were still pale and long, neat despite the distinct lack of access to quality salon service beneath the ocean’s waves.

“A human found the town where I lived,” he said quietly. “Under the ocean. When I wasn’t visiting you at the beach.”

Shion felt something clamp around his heart.

He knew what it meant if humans discovered the existence of the Children of the Sea. Humans, as much as Shion might have liked to believe otherwise, couldn’t stand knowing that there were resources they hadn’t been able to exploit. And the existence of merpeople would be a scientific miracle—enough that some greedy bastard would utilize it to try and earn millions.

“What happened?” Shion whispered. He hadn’t recalled seeing any breaking news headlines about merpeople; he definitely would have seen something like that, unless the government came swooping in to silence it.

Nezumi’s tail twitched under the water, clearly agitated. “Instead of running to the news,” he said through his teeth, “this idiot decided to try and capture one of us and bring them to the shore as evidence. Needless to say, the rest of us didn’t take kindly to that.”

“I’d imagine not.”

“But what we didn’t count on,” Nezumi said, his voice lowering, “was the oil.” He rested his hand flat on the water’s surface, letting it bounce gently beneath the water and then lifting it back up. “He emptied a container of oil into the water—not sure where he got it—and lit a match. I didn’t know it was that flammable.”

Shion listened as Nezumi explained how the flames had burned the Children of the Sea, who were unaccustomed to the sensation due to their inexperience with burning things. The oil doused them and made them sink below, unable to swim and avoid the flames. The water didn’t seem to stop it, the sticky substance creating an odd shield that didn’t mix well with the water, keeping the two materials separate from each other.

His heart ached at the thought of all the Children of the Sea who had suffered—according to Nezumi’s whispered story, the whole town had gone down in flames. A decent chunk of them had managed to escape, Nezumi included, but the majority of them…

The majority of them had burned to death.

“I’m sorry,” Shion whispered as Nezumi lapsed into uncomfortable silence. “Oh, Nezumi, I’m so sorry.”

“I was so angry,” Nezumi replied. “When I woke up and realized what had happened, I was so angry I couldn’t think of anything else. I was hurt. I was scared. And I couldn’t think of anything except how much I hated humans.”

Shion frowned. Nezumi’s dislike for humans wasn’t new to him. And fortunately, Nezumi had never spat Shion’s half-human heritage in his face. If anything, he seemed as fascinated by Shion’s legs as Shion was about his tail. The only difference was that Nezumi could have had a pair of his own—he stubbornly chose not to—and Shion had never been able to pop a tail no matter how many (embarrassing) times he’d attempted.

“When I woke up, I didn’t know where I was,” Nezumi went on. “All I knew was that my back hurt and everyone else I knew was dead. For a while things were just… bad. I couldn’t move, and when I tried, it just made me realize that there was a chance I was going to die, too, and I hated it. After a while, I could move, and I just left.”

“Left?” Shion echoed.

“I couldn’t stand being there,” Nezumi said under his breath. “Everywhere I looked I could see all the people I knew, and then I remembered that because of one greedy fucking human, they were gone. We took him down with us—Sasori, I think, yanked him off the boat and drowned him—but it didn’t feel like enough. It didn’t matter that he was dead, too. It didn’t matter that, miraculously, I’d survived whatever the hell he did to us. It just didn’t matter.”

Shion swallowed the lump in his throat. His eyes stung.

“I wanted to come back,” Nezumi went on, his voice painfully soft. Shion had to strain to hear him. “I wanted to at least tell you why I was going. But every time I thought about going back to that place, something just made me leave. It’s not an excuse, and I know it’s not a good enough reason to make you think that I just abandoned you, but I couldn’t—couldn’t get past the anger. I hated everyone. I hated myself. I was so angry, and there was no coming back from it. And I didn’t…” He waved his hands, agitated, the words slipping away from him. He huffed and said, “I didn’t want to take it out on you. It’s so fucking stupid, but I didn’t want to shout at you and blame you, and I was so angry with humans that I knew I would. If I saw you then, I’d only see the human part of you and blame you for things you had nothing to do with. That’s not fair. I know it’s not. And I’m not asking you to forgive me. I wouldn’t forgive me, either.”

“Then why come back?” Shion whispered. He’d moved forward, almost like an instinct, and sat at the edge of the tank, a few inches from Nezumi’s face. “Why come back at all?”

“Because I missed you,” Nezumi whispered back, as strong and as sure as if he’d simply stated the color of the morning sky. “I missed you. When the anger cooled, you were all I could think about. I had no way of knowing if you were even still here, or if you’d even want to see me after I just left, but if there was a chance, I wanted to take it.”

Shion’s throat tightened. He swallowed around the lump that had lodged there and ordered himself not to cry. He was angry. He was supposed to be angry. And yet, beneath the anger was wave after wave of relief that Nezumi was alive.

“So… the aquarium?”

Nezumi shrugged. “It seemed like a good job for a Child of the Sea. I filled out the application and they called me back. I didn’t know you were working here. But once I got a job and… established myself here, I wanted to find you.”

“Established yourself?”

“I wanted a way to prove to you that I wanted to stay. If you told me to fuck off and never wanted to see me again, I would understand. But I wanted a way to prove to you that I intend to stay this time.”

Shion’s hands tightened around the lip of the tank. Emotions whirled inside him like a tsunami, and he felt as if he was caught in the middle of it, unable to surface. Stinging tears prickled at the backs of his eyes, and he forced back the urge to cry. Once he started, he knew he’d never stop. He scraped the back of his hand beneath his eyes, widening them just a bit to keep from crying.

He was still angry. Of course he was. But he couldn’t imagine how badly it hurt. He couldn’t imagine what he would have done if his mother’s bakery burnt down, with her and Safu and everyone else he knew trapped inside.

He took a deep breath, feeling it catching inside his chest around the ball of anger and sorrow and raw fucking hope that’d nestled within.

"Where are you staying?” Shion murmured.

Nezumi perked up, but kept his voice steady as he answered, “A motel down on Seventh Street. By the boardwalk. You remember.”

“I do.” Shion pressed his lips together. “It’s not too far from my house. What’s your schedule?”

"I’m off tomorrow, but I think I’m working open to close on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. The old man says hours will pick up some time, but he wasn’t specific.”

“Do you have a car?”

“Can’t drive,” Nezumi answered, much too quickly, and Shion couldn’t help the laugh that cracked out of his throat. “I can barely walk—don’t laugh at me. This is serious.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” Shion said, but his lips were tugging upward at the corners. He had to admit, despite everything that’d happened, it was pretty fucking funny. Nezumi—elegant, perfect, beautiful, wonderful Nezumi, whose every movement was the physical definition of grace—was clumsy on the land.

“Yes, you are,” Nezumi groused, but when Shion stole a glance up into his face, he was smiling, too.

God, his smile.

Even after all these years, he was still as beautiful as the day Shion met him.

“Well,” Shion said, and dammit, if his voice wobbled, Nezumi better not comment on it. “The boardwalk’s on my way to the aquarium, and if you’re working about the same schedule as me, I wouldn’t mind picking you up and bringing you home.”

Nezumi’s eyes widened.

“I’m not ready to forgive you just yet,” Shion explained. “You really hurt me. I understand why you left, but I wish you had just… I don’t know, said something to me so I didn’t think you were dead. I know that might be petty of me, given what happened, and I’m sorry for that.”

“It’s not petty,” Nezumi assured. “I was an asshole.”

“Yeah, but you almost died.” Shion exhaled through his nose. “And I missed you, too.”

Nezumi laughed; it crackled a bit at the edges, and Shion couldn’t help it. He leaned forward, his arms reaching out—and miraculously, Nezumi reached back. Shion slid his arms around Nezumi’s shoulders and rested his forehead against the crook of Nezumi’s neck. He smelled like sea salt and an odd floral scent Shion had never been able to identify but could always remember. Despite being half fish, Nezumi never smelled like anything Shion would have expected.

Nezumi’s arms tightened around his shoulders and squeezed back. “I really did miss you,” he murmured against the top of Shion’s head.

“I missed you, too,” Shion said, and it was true. As angry and hurt as he was with Nezumi’s sudden disappearance, nothing about that had changed. “I’m not ready to go back to the way things were, and I can’t promise that I will be…”

“That’s fine,” Nezumi assured, burying his face in Shion’s hair. “I’m just glad to be here, in whatever way you’ll have me.”

This was more emotion and honesty than Shion had ever gotten out of Nezumi about his feelings, and it felt as if a sudden, burning heat had cracked through the darkness in his heart. His memories of his summers spent as a teenager came flooding back to him, and all at once, he was back on the beach, stretched out on a scratchy beach blanket with Nezumi’s arms wrapped around him. His tail rested over Shion’s legs, comfortingly cool in the midsummer heat, and heavy in a way that reminded Shion of a weighted blanket.

Nothing about it was perfect. Shion knew this. The frustration and pain wouldn’t disappear overnight, and just because Nezumi apologized didn’t mean he was free and clear of blame. But for a few moments, wrapped in his arms, Shion understood that at least he was back and they could work through it together.

He sighed, pressed himself against Nezumi’s cool, solid body, and reveled in the realization that yes, he was back. He was back, and he wanted to be here. The shush-shush of the water in Number Six fell around them, creating a comfortable mimicry of the waves that’d collapsed over Shion’s head the day Nezumi hauled him into the ocean and tried to drown him. Shion closed his eyes, tightened his grip on Nezumi’s shoulders, and for the first time in years, could finally breathe.

#no6 #no 6 #no.6 #no. 6 #no6secretsanta #aoicanvas #glorifiedscapegoat #fanfiction #submission

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chimmy-joos · 6 years ago

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The Proposal part 5 |M|

Description: You’re tired of being alone for years without a boyfriend so you propose a deal to Jimin. Little did you know your little affair will unfold to be more than secret kisses at night.

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Word Count: 12.2K

Tags: angst, smut, fluff, swearing, slight sub!Jimin, masturbation, slight cum play, oral sex

Part 1 2 3 4

A/N: for starters, I apologize for the long wait. I had a hard time planning this chapter out and put myself in a rut because of it. Word of advice, don’t think about it too much. Just write. I know a lot of you have been asking about this update and I regret how long it took, but in any case, I hope you enjoy this chapter and im sorry please don’t kill me

Three Months. It had been three whole months since the last time Jimin had spoken to you.

To be more exact, it had been two months and twenty seven days, but Jimin didn’t count the days where you walked into class during the middle of a lecture because you didn't look at him—not even bothering to acknowledge his existence. To a degree, Jimin respected the way you exhibited pride. So much so that he might call himself a masochist for wishing you would glance at him just once, even if it was a glare. At least you still knew he existed. Other than that, there was absolutely no contact. He wondered if you blocked him, or worse, deleted his number. The last thing you had said to him was, 'let's end this' and to top it off, it wasn't even in person. Jimin reread his messages with you over and over again as his mind thought of millions of ways to once again say hello.

Jimin knew he was at fault, but he couldn't muster up the courage to apologize because… What would you say? You were too strong and independent of a woman to give into his apology so easily, but at the same time you were so sweet and merciful, it gave Jimin all the more hope to believe that you would forgive him.

It was a shameful thing for Jimin to admit that he spent the beginning of summer vacation moping around his apartment when he should be out enjoying the little window of freedom he had, but his motivation to do anything was at a new low. He didn't know how to feel, frankly. It was the first time Jimin had ever felt this way towards a girl, dealing with these foreign heart twinges and clammy hands like a middle schooler trying to whoo his crush.

It had only been three months, but there wasn't a day Jimin didn't think of you.

—

“Jimin, you have to stop this.” Taehyung snapped at Jimin as he stood wit his hands crossed over his chest. Taehyung was blocking Jimin’s view of late night re-runs of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and he wasn’t very appreciative of the new view in front of him: Taehyung’s light blue striped boxers. Well, in all fairness, Jimin had no right to complain when he too was wearing bright red Calvin Klein briefs. When three college boys live in a small apartment with no women coming in or out of here, there really isn’t a reason to dress to impress anyone.

“Get your dick out of my face.” Jimin glared menacingly at his best friend. Taehyung stood his ground and even had the audacity to stick his hips out.

“Not until you get off of this couch. If you sit here any longer, your ass will get flat and nobody will want to take you on a date.” Taehyung snickered. Jimin knew he was simply trying to get under his skin and he wasn’t going to allow it. He stood up and shoved Taehyung in the chest with his arm with enough force for him to lean back. Jimin glared him from the same eye-level now.

“Don’t spite me, Tae. I’m not in the mood.” He snarled. Taehyung, with a smile on his lips, gently lowered Jimin’s arm and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

“I don’t mean any harm, brother,” he said. Jimin scoffed and whipped around. He turned off the t.v. and retreated to his room, Taehyung trudging shortly behind, still casually shirtless with his hands shoved in his boxers. (At the sides, of course.) Jimin fell onto his desk chair and let it swirl him around while Taehyung jumped on his bed, messing up the blankets more than it already was. “You need to stop this, dude.”

“I literally haven’t done anything, what are you talking about?” Jimin threw his hands up in distress.

“That’s exactly it!” Taehyung straightened his back and clasped his hands together, as if he was about to drop some real shit. “You’ve been dragging your depressed ass around this apartment and it feels like someone died in here every time I come home! What you need to do is get out of this house—maybe go on a drive or go to the gym.”

“Which I do very often,” Jimin intervened, pointing to his car keys on top of his desk. Jimin stretched his arm out and gestured at his muscular bicep. “Just because I sit at home more often now doesn’t mean that I’m neglecting other shit. At least I’m still paying rent.”

“Jimin, as your roommate, I couldn’t care less about what you do as long as you’re contributing, but as your best friend, I can’t stand seeing you like this. You can’t forget who you are just because of some girl.”

Again, Jimin glared. “She’s not just some girl.”

“Oh really? Then why haven’t I seem her in last three months?” Taehyung raised a brow and that immediately shut Jimin up. "I've known you since high school and I know how you are with girls that you like. You always find a way to fuck shit up with them."

Jimin couldn't even begin to argue because if anyone could prove him wrong, it was Taehyung, the one man who actually knew Jimin. Feeling content with Jimin's silence, Taehyung continued.

"Remember what happened with Soo Rin?"

Jimin rolled his eyes and groaned; his neck rolled around. "Soo Rin was talking to like, 50 guys at once."

"True, but that's not my point. My point is how you stopped talking to her because your pathetic ass felt too insecure about her not liking you and what happened afterwards? You found out that she was waiting for you to ask her out."

"And then I found out that she was talking to 50 guys."

"Yeah, but would Y/N really do that?" Again, Jimin kept silent and Taehyung knew he was right. Then, he straightened up abruptly.

"Okay fine, lets say I make up with Y/N. Then what? Things won't be the same." Jimin shook his head, remembering his own faulty actions. Taehyung shrugged at him, lips stretched into a linear smile.

“You start over. Make things right with her, actually create a connection with her. You know, friends without benefits.” Taehyung suggested. Little did he know that that common ground had already been established by long phone calls that lasted throughout the night where you spilled more than what you should’ve. Jimin didn’t mind in the slightest. He was more or less thankful that you were such an open book. It saved him the effort and hardship of breaking down your trust walls.

Jimin tilted his head, looking at Taehyung with big, beady eyes. “Do you really think that’s going to work?” He asked with a sliver of hope in his voice.

Taehyung shrugged his broad shoulders. “It’s better than sitting on your ass all day blasting old school R&B slow jams, don’t you think?” He suggested and he crossed his legs. “Can I ask you a serious question?”

Jimin didn’t answer, but instead wrinkled his brows in a skeptical way, as if to say, what are you up to this time?

“Do you love her?” Taehyung asked. The word love sounded so childish and foreign to him, but then again it was Jimin who couldn’t comprehend the concept of love. He had never felt this way about anybody before and it threw him in for a loop. He sighed deeply, and rubbed his face with his hands and raked them through his hair.

“I don’t know anything about love, dude.” Jimin laughed at himself and shook his head in disbelief.

“No ones an expert. I say, take my advice because she’s a really great girl. Like—a thousand times better than any other girls you’ve dated.”

Jimin scoffed. “Yeah, I know.”

Of course he knew. He knew more than anyone about how you can completely change the room’s atmosphere with a single jingle of your laughter. He hasn’t met a single person—a single soul in the world much like yours. You see the world differently, but you’re so accepting of everything. You’re truly a saint and Jimin can’t help but feel his encounter with you was a trial to test his capabilities to cherish someone. And he even managed to fuck that up. Then again, these infatuated thoughts of you that muddled his brain were only affecting him. He knew neither Taehyung nor Jungkook—not a single person could possibly understand what he was going through and how much Jimin wanted to rip out his own heart and toss it into the trash, promptly setting it on fire so he would never have to go through this pain ever again.

But the pain Jimin felt in his chest every morning when he woke up, weighing his body down like a dark energy clung to him, whispering everyday into his ear—tormenting him. He was a sorry excuse for a man who couldn’t even come to terms with his own feelings.

Taehyung noticed Jimin turn stiflingly silent. He had never seen Jimin like this and it pained him to watch his best friend look so... depressed. He was never like this, but then again, Jimin had also never been in love with someone. Well, Jimin argued over whether or not he was in love, but Taehyung was perceptive enough to notice the change in Jimin’s spirit. It was as if he was an entirely new person from high school and even his early years in college. He was bubblier, smiled more and although Jimin was rarely home nowadays, Taehyung had a hunch that he was spending his time valuably.

Taehyung clapped his hands loudly, jolting Jimin out of his silence. “Alright! I have a surprise for you, brother! Tonight, I am taking you to a party. Nothing too serious, it’ll just be our close friends.” He proposed, grinning enthusiastically. Jimin quirked his rectangular eyes as a series of emotions passed through him.

“Tae... I don’t know if I’m ready to do something like that yet.” He replied honestly; Jimin’s voice was soft and quivered on edge. His hands were sewed tightly together and he was bent over, elbows resting on his exposed thighs.

“It’s just a suggestion. I won’t force you or anything, but I’m inviting you as your best friend. I can’t stand seeing you like this anymore,” Taehyung said sincerely. Jimin stole a glance at him as he stood from the bed and headed to the door. Taehyung stopped in the middle of the doorway, grasping the wooden frame and craned his neck back. “Feel better, okay?” He reassured and softly clicked the door shut behind him.

Later that night, Taehyung texted Jimin the address of the party with an attached message that wrote, “just in case you’re feeling up to it”. He was so grateful to have someone like Taehyung in his life and he knew for a fact that he wasn’t deserving of someone as caring as him. Taehyung put in so much effort to pull Jimin off his ass and here he still sat the morning of the party with dark bags that hung from his droopy eyes and greasy, messy hair. God, he was a hot mess.

“Aren’t you coming with?” Jungkook asked as he pushed open the door to Jimin’s room. He was dressed up in a black v-neck with an equally dark jacket thrown over and green, army pants. Jungkook was running his fingers through his permed hair to style it.

Jimin on the other hand, was sitting cross-legged in his swivel chair with headphones around his neck and was playing The Weeknd’s Wasted Times on full volume. At this point, it might’ve jumped up to his most played song. Jimin lowered the volume to hear Jungkook better.

“If you get ready now, you can still make it to the pre-game.” The younger boy taunted as he straightens his collar. Taehyung had left earlier in order to help prepare for the party considering he was on alcohol duty. Jimin’s lips formed a straight line. First it was Taehyung, now Jungkook needed to stick his nose into his business? How low had Jimin sunken?

“Be honest with me, Jungkook. Do you think it’s best for me to be going to a party right now?” He gestured to his face and down to his disorderly attire.

“Yes,” Jungkook replied bluntly. “I’m not like Taehyung either. I’m not going to baby you and let you do as you wish forever.”

“Excuse me?” Jimin sharpened his tone.

“You let an amazing woman slip through your fingers and now you’re facing the consequences—which you should be. You’ve respectfully atoned for your mistakes, but it’s time to turn yourself around. I know Y/N would hate seeing you like this.”

“Which is exactly why I have been avoiding her at all costs.”

“Is it? Or is it the other way around?” Jungkook snapped back. Jimin didn’t respond. “Either way, I can’t bear seeing you like this. Come out for a drive sometime.” Jungkook said and closed the door behind him. Jimin waited until he heard the front door open and shut, meaning that Jungkook had left.

Both Taehyung and Jungkook were right. Everything they said, be it comforting or not, was just to encourage Jimin to look past his faults, his insecurities, and that damned possessive mindset that was the quintessential factor towards his downfall. He knew he had to change, but was he capable of doing so? Was he able to pull himself out of this dark, negative pit that prevented him from seeing the light of a future that in his ideal world, promised you?

It was an entirely new experience for Jimin to be standing in front of the bathroom mirror, smoothing down his navy green long sleeve repetitively. It was as if his thin silver chain was never centered correctly and there was always a strand of hair that was out of place. Had he always been this nit-picky about his appearance?

Nonetheless, he had put in this much effort to look like this and he wasn’t the type of man to give up halfway. He had to go to to this party now. Jimin told himself that if the party was anything near terrible, he’d find the closest exit and leave while snatching a bottle of alcohol to drink in the security of his room walls. He also decided to take an Uber because he had no idea how much he would be drinking tonight. Jimin could feel his anxiety rise in his stomach as he approached the house. He had never been in this neighborhood before, but he could tell he was near because the cars along the sidewalk were increasing. He took a deep breath as the driver pulled to a halt.

“Alright man, this is it,” the driver said and gave Jimin a concerned look. “You good, man?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Thanks.” He replied back hastily and got out of the car. Once the Uber car drove off, Jimin was left to his own devices. He walked towards the house with heavy steps and it felt like eternity before Jimin reached the front door; he simply stared at the doorknob. Why was he so nervous? This might’ve been the hundredth party he’s attended so it shouldn’t even be a big deal. Were you feeling these nerves every time Jimin asked you to come to a party? And how you were always reluctant to go? God, it was like he was being reminded of how big of a dick he was every single day.

Jimin bundled up his nerves and pushed his way through the door; loud hip-hop music vibrated through Jimin’s skull. He scanned the foyer of the house and took in his new surroundings. The interior was definitely fancier than he had expected.

“Just our close friends, my ass...” Jimin muttered under his breath. Perhaps he had been too nervous to notice the posh neighborhood he had entered. Redwood laminated floors were laid all throughout the house and pristine white walls reached to the high ceiling. It was a bit overwhelming so Jimin maneuvered through the clusters of people to find a beer or some Hennessy. Anything would suffice.

Jimin stumbled into the kitchen area and managed to find a cold beer in the fridge. He cracked it open and gulped the bittersweet nectar until it was half empty. The taste lingered on his tongue and he smacked his lips. It was like being reminded of his partying days. Jimin roamed the house idly with a drink in his hand to keep himself occupied. He searched for Jungkook or Taehyung since they were not there to greet him at the door which meant they were deeper inside the house possibly already drunk off their asses. Jimin turned the corner and entered the living room, fashionably furnished with black leather couches and even a fireplace topped with family photos framed in elegant frames. Luckily, he saw Jungkook sitting in the center of one couch; Jimin perked up brightly.

“Jungko—“ he called out and stopped himself short, his voice caught in the middle of his throat. Sitting on the end of the couch rolling a glass of wine in her hand was you. Your hair was braided and there was a small, flowery pin tucked behind your ear. You wore a tight, black dress with gold accents along the waist and thin straps that rest over your small shoulders. You wore a long gold necklace with a small charm at the end that dipped into the crevice of your breasts. Your smooth legs were pointed downward as you sat on the edge of the couch; red bottom heels shaped your feet and added a sexy flare to your outfit. Jimin stood frozen in place—his eyes wider than they’ve ever been as the room slowed down. You were the center of his attention and suddenly, it felt at that moment, Jimin wasn’t surrounded by swarms of people. At that moment, it was like the first time he had ever laid eyes on you and fell in love all over again. You were so close—literally just a few feet away from him, yet it felt like you were worlds away.

Your bright laughter yanked Jimin from his thoughts and he frantically retreated behind a small group of people and then slowly hid behind a wall. Why he was hiding was entirely unknown to him. It wasn’t like this was your party or he was avoiding you. He simply thought… it would be best if you didn’t see him in his lowest state. But as Jimin closed his eyes, he could still very vividly make out the curvatures of your dress and your exposed collarbone, the light but beautiful makeup that matched so elegantly with your dress—

Jimin’s jaw slacked and he looked down at his crotch; his cock was semi-hard in his jeans and he could just make out the outline of his erection. Jimin’s hand flew to pull his shirt down and cover his erection and looked around for the nearest vacant bathroom. Unfortunately, the first floor of the house was so cluttered with people, Jimin fled upstairs in hopes of finding a bathroom up there. He climbed the stairs with long strides, shouldering through the people blocking the top of the stairs. Jimin saw a door that was slightly ajar and he ran for it, slamming the door open. There was a couple inside; the girl was perched on the counter while the man stood between her legs with his arms wrapped around her waist as they kissed. When Jimin entered, the two pulled away in shock.

“Get out.” He huffed with a crazed look in his eye. The couple was reluctant at first and gave each other a strange look. “Now.” He growled and the two then hurriedly gathered themselves and fled the bathroom which Jimin locked on their way out. He fell back against the door and rest his head against the wood while raising his shirt with trembling hands. He peered down at his erection that wasn’t going away. Jimin cursed under his breath and breathed heavily. He couldn’t walk out there with his dick half hard in his jeans, but there was no other way of getting rid of it besides taking a cold shower, which was entirely out of the question.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck me.” Jimin cursed at himself and gnawed on his lower lip as he daintily traced the outline of his cock through his jeans with the pads of his fingers. His breathe hitched as he moved his way to the tip, swirling small circles around it. Jimin suppressed a moan in his throat and allowed his eyes to close. He imagined you in your black dress again and how your ass looked in that tight, black satin. In his formulated fantasy, you were slowly sliding the dress up your thighs until he saw a black thong—god, your ass looked so plump he wanted to caress it and pinch it.

Jimin unbuttoned his jeans with nimble fingers and reached into his underwear to cup his balls that had made his underwear hot and sweaty. He fondled them in his hands before sliding his hand along his hard shaft, slowly tracing out the veins. Jimin pinched the swollen head of his cock and whimpered, lurching forward from the sudden pleasure that jolted through him. He inhaled deeply and took his cock from out of his underwear; a thin string of precum had dampened a spot in his clothes. He swiped his thumb through it and smeared the liquid over the red tip.

Jimin bit down hard on his lip to keep from making any noises as he started to massage his cock slowly with just the pressure of his fingers. He pulled the skin around his cock down to the base before sliding back up to the tip. The slow movements were just enough to pump more blood into his cock, but Jimin loved the teasing pleasure he was giving himself.

“A-Ahh… Y/N…” he moaned your name in a raspy voice; one hand slipping under his shirt to touch his abdomen. He started moving faster and wrapped his entire hand around his cock to give it more elongated motions. Jimin hissed when he enveloped the reddened head and pulled downward. His hips would jerk forward every time he reached the base and it wasn’t long until he was thrusting his hips into his own hand. His moans were harder to silence and came out as broken grunts of pleasure.

He nestled his head against the door and he could feel the back of his hair get tangled from the friction. He had spent so much time styling it to perfection and now he couldn’t care less as he was preoccupied stroking his dick in one hand while the other grazed the skin of his stomach. He recalled the night he last was able to see you, to caress your moonlit skin. It had been so long, but he could still remember the allure of your honey voice and how you beckoned for him. He remembered tracing his gentle hand over the blades of your shoulder and down the valley of your back; your gorgeous, plump breasts that he grasped in his hands while rolling your nipples between his fingers.

Jimin slid his fingers down his bare naval to cup his scrotum, giving his balls a firm squeeze. An involuntary loud grunt broke though his lips and he started stroking his cock in a faster pace; the prominent squelching sounds caused by his energetic movements filled Jimin’s head, evoking more memories of his after-dusk affairs that he shared with you. He imagined sliding his length over your tight, wet slit while staring into your starry eyes. Your lips—he couldn’t believe such a beautiful smile could utter such sinful words and oh, how he loved kissing them. He loved holding your face in his hand, brushing your hair behind your ears while your nose squished against his by how passionate you would get.

He wrapped his slippery hand around the end of his penis and snapped his hips wildly while gripping the base of his shaft. He pierced the skin of his bottom lip from his teeth but Jimin, in that moment of ecstasy, didn’t feel any pain. Only the blinding white pleasure that flashed behind his eyes. He called out your name once more in a trembling, needy breath before spurts of white, hot cum unleashed from his urethra. Jimin cupped his hand over the tip, but his energetic cum flew past his open fingers. His chest heaved and his whole body twitched from the aftermath, but he didn’t dare open his mouth to release the moans of pleasure.

Jimin slowly blinked his eyes open and adjusted to the light of the bathroom from the darkness behind his eyelids that he were squeezing so tightly shut. He glanced down at the mess he made—milky spunk coated his palms, darkened his jeans and he even managed to get it on the tiled bathroom floor.

“Shit!” He spat and pulled his drawers up with his clean hand before grabbing sheets of toilet paper and wiped his cum shamefully. After flushing the remnants in the toilet, Jimin washed his hands once, maybe three times simply because of the guilt that settled uncomfortably in his stomach. He had never, not once been able to cum by just thinking about someone. Masturbating to visual stimulation was easy and sure, everyone watched porn, but to be able to get hard by seeing you in a dress and cumming by fantasizing about holding you again was different. He felt wrong, despite how good it felt. Jimin splashed freezing cold water on his face to cleanse him of the sinful feeling and scrubbed the tiled floor so hard he got a cramp in his hand.

He left the bathroom with his head hung low so he wouldn’t be noticed and fled downstairs. He didn’t want to stay any longer because Jimin was sure his face was beet red. However, as soon as he reached the bottom of the staircase, he bumped into someone. He stumbled forward and muttered a “my bad” over his shoulder, but barely stayed to sincerely apologize. He set his eyes on the door and his feet led him outside.

[Reader’s POV]

You stood on the tips of your heels to look over the crowds’ head, eyes darting around frantically. You were shoved by the people around you because of your small stature, but you still hunted for that familiar head of jet black hair. Could it be him? Could it be the man that appeared in your thoughts like a runaway dream? Or perhaps you were just chasing the ghost of a man that you used to know.

Eventually, you gave up on trying to find Jimin as you lost track of all the black hair in the mass of people. You were sure—almost positive that it was Jimin. There was no mistaking the familiar tone. You listened to his velvety voice nearly everyday and you could pick him out blindfolded by his breathing.

Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration, but there was no mistaking what you heard. You didn’t have much confidence despite the beautiful dress that you humbly modeled tonight, but you were confident that the voice belonged to Jimin.

You found your way back to the living room where a group of your friends were in the middle of a game of Mafia. You had already been killed off as a civilian so you went to refill your glass of wine. You rest your bum on the arm of the couch and sipped your drink while you waited for the game to finish. Jungkook, who had also been killed off in the beginning of the game because he was “too suspicious” (he was innocent by the way), slid into the seat next to you and looked up at you with beady eyes.

“How are you enjoying your night, Miss?” He asked. You gave a curt nod and sloshed your wine around in your glass.

“The night is still young and this is my fourth glass of wine, I’d say it’s going pretty well.” You replied. Jungkook laughed and rest his arm on your thigh. His large hand cupped your kneecap and he squeezed. Your eyes darted to his subtle hand that he laid on you.

“Then won’t you come home with me afterwards?” He said in a sultry voice. You tried not to visibly cringe at his words. Jungkook had been hitting on you on and off ever since you stopped talking to Jimin and you hated the fact that he was so quick to jump in front of the line. Jungkook was hot and you knew you should feel lucky that he was trying to impress you so hard, but you didn’t feel a single ounce of attraction towards Jungkook. And you weren’t petty enough to sleep with Jungkook to get revenge on Jimin. You couldn’t imagine going back into the same apartment where everything started.

You brushed his hand off and strained a soft smile. “I’m sorry, Jungkook, but you know I can’t do that.”

He pouted and if he had puppy dog ears, they would be wilted. “So it can’t be me? No matter how hard I try?”

“I’d be lying if I said I never gave it a thought, but I don’t think I’ll be looking for a relationship anytime soon.”

“Or at least, not with me, right?” He asked and you gave Jungkook a puzzled look. “Is it because of Jimin?”

You glared at the younger man. “Me being single has absolutely nothing to do with anyone and I would appreciate it if you didn’t associate my happiness with being in a relationship. I am perfectly fine by myself.” You snapped while clenching your wine glass in silent rage. Jungkook backed away with his hands up in defense.

“Alright, I’m sorry. I just thought I’d have a chance and shoot for it.” He apologized and you huffed.

“Well, as long as you understand,” you sipped your wine. “I don’t mean to be that girl, but how is he?”

“Jimin? Hah, that man hasn’t left his room in the longest time.” Jungkook scoffed while thinking back to earlier today when he tried to pry Jimin off his ass. “I invited him and I’m sure Taehyung did too, but who knows? That man hasn’t been willing to do anything with us lately.”

“Is that so?”

“I don’t know what happened between you two, but it must’ve been pretty bad,” Jungkook said and stopped himself short, giving you a side glance. “Sorry, too soon?”

“Not at all,” you shrugged and gulped down your glass of wine. You jumped off the arm of the couch and pulled down your dress over your ass. “I think I’m going to go.”

“So soon? But it’s so early.” Jungkook pouted as he watched you leave.

“Yes, well, if you must know I’ve never been one to stay long at parties.”

You hitched a ride with one of your friends that just so happened to be leaving at the same time. She dropped you off back home at your apartment and you took your time unwinding, stripping off your dress and throwing it on your chair to hang it up later. You undid your hair from its tight braid and let it fall loosely, the strong scent of shampoo emanated from your wavy locks. You wiped your makeup off and hopped into the shower because being in an extremely crowded area made you feel unnecessarily more sweatier than usual.

After showering, you were finally able to relax in bed, but even as you hugged your throw pillow and propped yourself up to finish the latest season of Brooklyn Nine-Nine, your mind wandered elsewhere. What if Jimin had come to the party? What if you two had crossed paths without either of you knowing? And even if he did show, why would that matter to you?

How many times had you cried yourself to sleep in the past month? You forced yourself to stay awake thinking about what your life would be like if you hadn’t met Jimin. You’d probably end up alone—probably forever, still chasing a fantasy where you met the love of your life and lived happily ever after. You couldn’t sleep, because you knew that would never come true. Jimin didn’t know this, but he was able to give you hope. He made you believe you could chase your dreams and he stood there—right by your side, supporting you. How could you ever ask for anything more? How could you let such a supportive and caring man slip through your grasp so carelessly? If only you were a little more assertive or had a lot more faith in yourself, you could’ve told him how much he meant to you and how much you regretted hearing him leave. He was the only person that had ever shown you a single ounce of love, but of course you had to fuck it up. You fucked everything up. Maybe you were cashing in on the karma that you’ve complied over your lifetime. Maybe things will get better. Maybe in another life, you’d find another Jimin. Someone else that would make you feel as happy and wholesome as he did.

But in this life, you felt it was all over for you. You never had any luck in love and this was yet another example as to why you should never fall for someone again. It was a set up for disaster and you were bound to get hurt. So save the tears and hardships and the effort in making yourself feel pretty for someone else and bending your back for them to notice you. You were done with it.

Nonetheless, it was impossible to forget how gentle Jimin touched you—the first person to ever lay their hands on you and he held you like a fragile gem. You can still remember his touch and how it left a fiery trail on your skin. It’s almost impossible to get over the fact that the two of you, were at some point in time, more than friends. Behind those closed curtains and slow, rocking music, the two of you were lovers. You had to apologize in some way. Although you weren’t completely at fault for your separation, you felt ashamed for not being able to tell Jimin your true feelings and if you had... maybe none of this would’ve happened. You wouldn’t have spent three months taking extra shifts at your job just to distract your mind from your problems.

At that moment, interrupting your television show was a knock at the door. It was soft and almost too quiet so you were unsure that you even heard it at all. You wondered if it was your roommate since she wasn’t home, but she had no reason to knock. She lived here, for goodness sake. So who else could it be?

You slowly stepped towards the door with light steps and stood on your toes to peer into the peephole. Your eyes widened upon seeing a head of black hair tucked underneath a grey hoodie. You planted your feet on the ground and pressed your fingertips against the door. What were you going to do? What was he doing here in front of your apartment? Were you ready to face him?

Another knock startled you and the vibrations on the door only made his presence that much more real. How long had it been since he was this close to you? A single piece of wood separated the two of you and if you opened it, you could see him. You could close the distance that had grown so, so far in the past three months.

“Y/N?” Jimin called out from behind the door. You gasped; the familiarity of your name rolling off his tongue reminded of how he whispered your name in your ear while your bodies were pressed together under the sheets. “Damn it, I knew she wasn’t home.” You heard him shift and panic overcame you.

“Wait!” You exclaimed through the door. “Don’t go!”

“Y/N? Is that you?” Jimin voice was louder now, as if he were standing right in front of you. You bumped your forehead against the door and curled your fingers inward.

“Yes, Jimin.”

Jimin’s breath stuttered. You were right behind that door—the courage he mustered hadn’t been in vain and he finally took the first step that would lead him to a better future, hopefully. “I—I’m sorry for showing up so suddenly. Do you have a moment? Can… we talk?”

Silence fell behind the door and he was afraid you had turned and left him speaking to himself. But your soft voice saved him.

“Sure. But the door stays closed.”

“That’s fine, I just wanted to get something off my chest.” Jimin inhaled deeply and ran his hand over the cold, hard wood. “I am… so sorry for everything I did and—and said that night. I was overreacting and scared that… you were going to be taken from me by some dick like Jungkook. But I realized that I was just being selfish and stupid and I should’ve trusted you. I should’ve told you earlier how much I care for you and how much you mean to me—I should’ve never let you cry and remembering that night keeps me up every night because I know everything was my fault and I just—I’m so… so sorry.” Jimin nestled his forehead against the door. His voice was so… weak. Like a cracked glass vase that would shatter any second. It trembled as if he were on the verge of tears.

You bit down on your quivering lip as a small whimper escaped. You had say it now, or your words were never going to see the light of day.

“I-I’m going to be honest with you, since we’re already on the subject.” You said through the door, your hand trembling in fright. “You’re quite immature for someone your age, Park Jimin. I can’t believe you could possibly think that I would do something as heartless as two-timing you, even though we weren’t explicit. How much faith do you have in me? I have never—ever considered any one else beside you!” You reached for the door handle with shaking hands and unlocked the door as you spoke the last words; the fluorescent lights in the hallway blinded you, but you opened it widely. Jimin stood there, frozen as he took in your words. When you opened the door, his wide eyes glistened with the sparkle of tears and darted to you. Your eyes were also lined with tears and you stood in the door way, breathing heavily.

“Hi.” He whispered.

“Hi.” You replied, one hand gripped the door handle tightly. Jimin’s eyes fell to his feet and he shifted from side to side.

“You know, you don’t have any reason to apologize. It was completely my fault.” He said in a serious tone. You shook your head and stepped towards him.

“No. I said some things I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.” You said as Jimin raised his head, a small smile formed over his thick lips.

“You’re too nice for your own good, you know?” His voice was softer than you’ve ever heard it and he spoke from his heart. He closed the gap and you were reminded of how broad Jimin was. He smelled of soap and the earthiness of rain and interestingly enough, pine. “So, can I take this as forgiveness?” He asked as traced your arm with his fingers. You softened your gaze and your lips stretched into a smile.

“Hmm, I think I need more than a few words.” You hummed. Jimin’s eyebrow rose playfully.

“Oh? Is that how it is?” He cradled your face in his hands and traced your soft cheeks with his thumbs. His eyes darted around your face and took in all of your features. The hair that fell over your eyes, the way your lashes fluttered against your cheeks and how they shaped your glittering eyes.

“I know the order is all messed up and this was the first thing that should’ve come out my mouth the minute I started feeling this way,” Jimin ran his thumb over your bitten bottom lip and the imprinted the velvety texture into his brain. He looked deep into your eyes; his hands felt hot and sweaty and his throat threatened to close on him, but he had to get the words out. “Will you go out with me, Y/N?” Jimin asked as his eyebrows furrowed adorably. You inhaled sharply and your nose stung from the urge to cry right then. You nodded eagerly and grabbed his face, pulling him in and kissing him with such passion you almost knocked him backwards. You tasted like vanilla lip balm and your lips were unbelievably soft. He pulled you closer—the taste of your mouth was so intoxicating and addictive, he wanted to taste your lips forever. You gripped Jimin’s grey hoodie and deepened the kiss; you parted Jimin’s mouth and lapped at his tongue. Your breathy moans dripped into Jimin’s mouth and he drowned your sound out.

“I was so—“ he kissed you.

“—afraid—” another kiss.

“Of losing you.” Jimin said in between smooches and moved forward until your back hit the wall. You gasped and Jimin shut your lips with his again. His fingers were tangled in your hair the more intimate the kiss became.

“Jimin, we’re outside.” You moaned the moment you felt his fingers slide underneath your shirt, his touch burned your bare skin. Jimin nibbled on your lip before his hands slithered around your waist. His face fell into the crook of your neck and he stayed in that position, nuzzling his nose into your sweet smelling skin. Your hands found their way to his back and you pulled him closer, breathing in his scent.

“Can we go inside?” He mumbled just centimeters away from your ear, sending shivers through your body. Your grip on his hoodie tightened and you nodded shyly. You slipped your hand into his and pulled him inside, slamming the door behind him. You gathered his hoodie in your hand, balling it together and yanked Jimin down and crashed your lips into his. Jimin slammed his back into the door and grunted into your mouth, but the pain was quickly forgotten as soon as your tongue slipped back into his mouth.

“Mm, fiesty.” He mumbled and you felt his hands slither down the sides of your hips. He moved slowly and you swore he was trying to feel each and every one of your ribs. He grazed right over the curve of your ass and pressed his finger under your ass, cupping it with his digits. You kissed the side of his mouth and stood on your toes so your nose was hovering over his.

“Let me do everything tonight.”

Jimin’s eyes shot open. “But I—“

“No buts.” You trailed your hand over Jimin’s chest, ghosting your fingertips over his nipple. His chest jumped as he gasped, but he made no action to stop you. “I want all of you.” You said as you dropped to your knees, running your hands over his stomach. His abs weren’t as solid as you remembered and you swore you felt his sternum through his clothes. Had he been eating anything in the last time you’d seen him? It felt like he lost so much weight. Nonetheless, you slid his sweatpants just enough so his semi-hard dick slipped from the waistband. You peeked through your eyelashes at Jimin, his neck strained with a prominent vein raised through his skin and disappeared into his jawline.

You glided your hand over his cock, just grazing the surface with the lightest touch of your fingertips. Jimin sighed shakily and hunched over; his hands were balled into fists against the door.

“Y/N, please…” he moaned and closed his eyes. He traveled back in time to when he was in the bathroom of the party committing such a sinful act and was able to cum just by thinking about you. That was nothing compared to this. It was worlds better; stroking him with the lightest touch enough to drive him insane. But in little to no time, Jimin’s cock was fully erect from your teasing stimulation.

“Missed me much?” You licked a long strip up the underside of his cock. Jimin’s jaw fell.

“Too much, aah.” He sang. You cupped Jimin’s balls and while working your way to the tip, you lapped around his girth with your tongue and tasted the faint saltiness of his cock. You tickled his frenulum with the tip of your tongue and Jimin’s knees shuddered and his hand rose to possibly grab the back of your head, but fell when you enveloped his tip in your warm mouth.

“Fuh-fuck, your mouth is so hot.” He hissed. You hummed, satisfied with the compliment. You wrapped your tongue around his swollen head, the rough texture of the muscle was a new sensation for Jimin. His moans were getting much louder and you thought the neighbors would hear and come complain. Well, then you’d get your revenge for that night Jimin exposed you in front of his friend. That jerk.

You took him deeper down your mouth until he reached the back of your throat. Jimin legs felt weak from the pleasure and he could barely hold himself up without bending his knees. He huffed heavily, chest shaking as he took rapid breaths.

“Ahh, deeper.” He pleaded in a gruff voice. You glanced up and pulled back, focusing your tongue towards the tip. Jimin whimpered and his whines switched on something dark in you, desiring nothing more than to make him fall apart from your touch. “Christ, Y/N, just let me cum.”

Jimin’s thick cock fell from your mouth with a wet pop and you stroked him off with your hand. “Let you cum? But I’m just getting started.” You pouted, lips pursed against his pink head lathered in your saliva. Jimin groaned in frustration and his hips shuddered forward, unable to sustain your teasing.

“I can’t help it—ugh. Your lips are so soft,” he balled his hoodie in his fist as a guttural moan spouted from his parted lips. You wrapped your lips around his cock and sucked him deeper into your mouth. “And your... throat is so ungodly tight.”

You hummed playfully, his cock sliding down your throat. Jimin gasped and squeezed his eyes shut; his length throbbing against your tongue as you swirled it around his thickness. He looked as if he were about to cum any second so you bobbed your head up and down.

“F-Fu—oh god. Just like that, don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop.” He moaned as his eyes were closed in concentration to stay afloat or else his body would float away in pleasure.

Just then, breaking Jimin out of his state of bliss were a pair of footsteps that were approaching. Jimin’s hands flew to your head and attempted to push you off of his dick.

“Y/N, there’s someone—“ He stammered, but you ignored him, his desperation only made you move faster and sucked harder. “Fuck, fuck! Y/N, stop, I’m gonna—“ Jimin wasn’t able to finish his sentence before you bottomed out, your chin rest against his twitching balls and his cock shoved down your throat as you gulped down his hot cum. Jimin jerked you forward, pushing your face into his stomach as his entire body doubled over in pleasure. He didn’t utter a sound and you heard the footsteps stop in front of the apartment across the hall; the door opening and promptly shutting in a span of seconds. You waited obediently for Jimin’s dick to soften before slowly releasing your restrains around him, lips still wrapped tightly to collect all of your saliva and his cum. You leaned back and swallowed, wiping the sides of your mouth and chin for excess juices and sucked your fingers clean.

“Demon.” Jimin panted, hair matted to his sweaty forehead and his eyes darkened with lust.

“Am not.” You said with a pout. Jimin yanked you upward by your bicep and you let out a surprised yelp. Your body slammed against him and Jimin latched his lips onto your collar and sucked hard. You let out a high-pitched moan and melted under his touch. That is, until you felt his teeth sink in and pain quickly overcame the pleasure.

“Ow!” You winced. Jimin licked at his teeth indentations that surrounded the blotchy red mark like a crown. “Who’s the demon again?” You scrunch your nose, making Jimin laugh coldly.

“Oh, I am going to mess you up.” He purred and whipped you around so you were now pressed against the door. Jimin’s lips were on yours in an instant and his hands were just as quick to reach under your drenched panties. His fingers moved nimbly as he rubbed small circles over your clit. A shudder ran up your spine and you jerked forward to meet his hands. However, Jimin was just as devilish and petty as you were and pulled his fingers away as soon as he saw you were feeling the slightest pleasure. You whined.

“Don’t you dare cry, not after what you did to me.” His voice was husky against your ear. Jimin yanked your panties down and you finished it off by slipping your legs through and kicking them aside. He gripped your right thigh and raised it, exposing your sex and lined his cock against your entrance.

“Let me hear you say it.” He said, leaving your neck with wet kisses. He rubbed his cock, already hard and raring to go, against your slit and lining it with your juices. You felt him prodding against your hole and it took so much willpower not to lower yourself onto his cock and have him slide all the way in. Your mouth watered at the thought.

“Jimin, fuck me, please. I’ve been waiting for this for too long, I think I’m going to go crazy.” You pleaded desperately. Without another word of argument, Jimin slid his cock in. The stretch was so amazing and fulfilling your toes curled as he pushed deeper. His raw cock scraped your walls intimately and his rod radiated heat, sending your mind into a frenzy. Your walls were so tight and constructed around him so tightly, enveloping his entire length in a hot vice. He buried his face into your neck and you let out a loud and spirited moan.

“Oh god, please move. You feel so good.” You cried. Jimin’s fingers dug into your thigh and began thrusting fervently right away. Given your position, Jimin was able to reach deep inside of you with each thrust and slammed into your sweet spot. You moaned every time you felt him poke at the entrance of your uterus but his vigor and roughness was all the more sexy and visually captivating to watch as sweat dribbled down the side of his face while his hips moved wildly.

“So tight, ‘s like you’re sucking me in.” He grunted. You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him. Jimin hips moved faster and his hips slammed into you, the squelching sound of your pussy coincided and melded with your moans that drowned into Jimin’s mouth. It had been so long since you had his cock and it felt so good, so electrifyingly good you couldn’t keep hold of your mind as it floated off into a plane of bliss.

His hips snapped into you rapidly and your juices were smearing all over your inner thighs and Jimin’s hips, making your stick to Jimin’s skin. He licked along your neck, savoring the saltiness of your sweat and ground his hips into you, the soft hairs along his naval tickled your clit, but he was so deep inside of you your body was too frozen from the rapture of Jimin’s raw cock inside of you to care about anything else besides him.

You tangled your hands in Jimin’s hair and moaned into his mouth as you tightened around him. You weren’t able to give him a word of precaution before you body twitched and climaxed with his cock still thrusting inside of you; your eyes rolling back from the intensity of your orgasm. Jimin felt how your walls squeeze around him and he slowed his movements, allowing you to ride out your orgasm to the fullest. And even though he had just cum a while ago, the urge was back in no time and heat swirled in his lower region.

“You’re gonna make me cum, baby.” He grunted, bucking his hips into you. You hovered over his lips.

“Cum for me. I want all of you.” You said and watched Jimin’s melt from your words. He lifted your other leg up and slammed deep into you, only able to put in a few more thrust before you felt his hot cum paint your walls. He kissed you while he drained himself in you and you gladly took all of him, holding him close to you. He slipped his cock out, slowly pulling away from your tight walls and as soon as it was out, a stream of white spunk dripped out of your hole and pooled at the floor. You slowly lowered your trembling legs to the ground and cupped your sex so the mess wouldn’t increase.

“Sorry, I got carried away.” He panted and watched you slide your finger through your slit, coating it in his cum which was oddly arousing.

“I can’t believe you just did that.” Your shoulders shook from your light-hearted laugh. Jimin managed a smile and picked his sweats from the ground and slipped into them.

“Should I go get...” he started and let his sentence trail off upon seeing you lick his cum off your fingers in a kittenish manner. You glanced at him, a hint of seduction behind your gaze.

“What?”

“Nothing, I just never get tired of seeing you do that. It’s so hot.” He ran his fingers through his hair in disbelief. You lined your lips with your tongue when you were done. You picked your crumpled panties from off the ground, straightened them out and shimmied into them, adjusting the area around your butt.

“You should get going. My roommate will be home any minute and I still have to remove all the evidence of us having sex from here.” You smiled softly.

“Damn, I didn’t realize how late it was.”

“No?”

“Not at all. I was thinking about you and before I knew it, my feet brought me here.”

“You ran here?” You sounded uneasy. Jimin stepped forward so he was facing you, just inches away. His mouth twisted into a silly smile and he bonked the space between your eyebrows with his knuckle, knocking you back.

“It was a joke, silly.” His squeaky giggle lifted your soul and you couldn’t help but grin. Jimin stroked your hair, sweeping it away from your eyes. He looked at you with such endearment and a longing gaze as he held your cheek in his palm gently. His eyes fell to your lips, then back at your eyes. “Thank you for listening. I’ll let you sleep now.” He leaned in and pecked your lips.

“Goodnight, Jimin.”

“Sweet dreams, beautiful.”

Taehyung and Jungkook had woken up late the next day due to their partying the night before. They stumbled out of their rooms with droopy faces and aching headaches and huddled in the kitchen like zombies to fix themselves a quick breakfast. Jungkook poured himself a bowl of Frosted Flakes while Taehyung opted for a package of untoasted strawberry-flavored Pop-Tarts.

“You have fun last night?” Taehyung asked mid-bite in his groggy, morning voice. He was leaning back in one of the chairs in the kitchen while Jungkook stood with his feet spread. Jungkook was too busy munching on his cereal to answer him right away, but he gave a short nod; his brown fringe brushing over his tired eyes.

“Like always.” He said and smirked. Taehyung snorted and the two tapped fists. Just then, Jimin burst out of his room full dressed in a sky blue tee and ripped denim jeans. He sported a slightly darker blue baseball cap over his hair—which didn’t look like a tumbleweed for once—and was rummaging around the living room, throwing couch cushions and throw pillows over his shoulder. He whipped around to his two roommates.

“Have either of you seen my keys?” He panted. Jungkook shrugged absentmindedly, not even raising his eyes from his bowl of cereal.

“Have you checked your pockets?” Taehyung asked as Jimin patted his legs down to no luck. “Maybe they’re in your room?”

Jimin fled to his room and both Taehyung and Jungkook exchanged a confused look before Jimin walked back out of his room with his keys dangling from his fingers.

“Where were they? I bet they were in your pocket, huh?” Taehyung chortled and tossed a piece of Pop-Tart into the air and catching it in his mouth. Jimin slipped the keys into his pocket and fixed his hat over his head.

“No, it was in my jacket. I guess I must’ve left it there last night.” He replied. Jungkook glanced up from bowl of cereal and his gaze sharpened at Jimin.

“Last night? Where were you last night?”

Jimin raised his eyes and noticed Jungkook’s narrow eyes. “I… went to the party.”

Taehyung’s expression lit up. “You did?! I’m so proud of you, dude!” He exclaimed brightly. Jungkook poked the inside of his cheek and quirked an eyebrow.

“I see.” Jungkook said under his breath. A part of Jungkook was glad that Jimin had finally gotten out of the house after being holed up in his room for the longest time, but Jungkook couldn’t help but feel bitter thinking back to last night before you left. It felt like, no matter how hard he tried, he would never appear as attractive or heroic as Jimin did in your eyes. It wasn’t that Jungkook wasn’t glad that Jimin was so happy, but seeing his spirits so lifted was a clear sign that something happened last night. That fact alone ticked Jungkook off.

“That’s great man, but why didn’t I see you? Why didn’t you tell us?” Taehyung asked curiously.

“Well, I didn’t stay for a long time anyway. I just stopped by and… had a drink.” Jimin said and raised his arm to check his watch. “Shit, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you guys later!” Jimin waved to his roommates before heading out the front door and slamming it shut behind him.

“Look at him, something good must’ve happened. Do you think he and Y/N made up?” Taehyung sat back with a smile on his face. Jungkook finished off his bowl and set it in the sink.

“Seems like it, doesn’t it?”he muttered under his breath while brushing past Taehyung, a sour expression plastered on his face.

Jimin jumped into his car and wrestled with his keys to start his engine. After everything you said last night, the first Jimin wanted to do drive over to your apartment and see you again, to kiss you and hold you in his arms tighter so you wouldn’t slip through his careless fingers. He couldn’t forget the kiss last night and he touched his lips to remind himself of your kiss that sparked like fireworks. He could only think of what would happen if he hadn’t gone to see you last night. How long would it have taken him to muster up the courage and talk to you? How lucky had he been to have his words come across and resonate with you? He feared what would happen if things had taken a wrong turn. You could’ve cursed him out—chased him away from your door and never to be heard from again.

But now Jimin had to prove to himself to be a better man, someone that would cherish you and never make you feel the slightest insecure again. You told him over and over again how you had never been in love before and that it was all a faraway fantasy that happened in movies and broadway shows. True love wasn’t real in your opinion, but it was Jimin’s sole purpose now to prove that wrong. Although he wasn’t any different from you; he had never been in love nor did he believe he could fall for someone this hard, but in the short time that he knew you, you only showed him the better things in life. You changed him. You pulled him straight out of his boring and bare lifestyle, seeing the same views—the same people dancing hypnotically to the same music. It was like being surrounded by sheep that only knew what they’ve been exposed to. It began to feel so repetitive and Jimin woke up some days wondering if going to school was going to change anything because those days too felt as unchanging as the rest. That is, until you appeared and changed everything.

Would he be able to make you as happy as you made him?

You dragged your heavy feet all the way from the parking lot of your complex and were surprised to even make it to the elevator which gave you about a 20-second grace period where you could rest your feet. Although you loved your job and wouldn’t change it for anything else in the world (besides a six-figure paying job, but when would an opportunity like that come around?), but you were starting to wonder if these extra long shifts were worth the calluses that formed on your heels after being on your feet for hours on end. At this point, you were yearning for the end of the day where you could relax in a hot bath with a glass of wine to melt your stress away.

You swung the door to your apartment open and instantly slung your heels to the wall, sighing in relief. Your roommate, Ji Soo, poked her head from the kitchen at the sound of the door opening; her hair was done up in a messy bun and she wore an oversized men’s t-shirt.

“Someone’s had a hard day at work.” She pointed out, a small pint of cookie dough ice cream in her hand. She spooned some into her mouth as used her eyes to gesture to the table. “Someone also has a secret admirer.” She giggled.

You looked to the coffee table and was slowly captivated by the crown of ruby foliage that decorated your table, casting a red glow around the room. You walked to the table with hypnotized steps and picked up the heavy bouquet, turning it side to side to capture more of the roses’ essence.

“Who…” you began, your vocabulary was empty upon casting your eyes on the flowers. Your hand touched something on the back of the bouquet and you pulled it out, revealing a piece of card stock lined with gold foil. On the back was engraved in the same gold foil:

I never stop thinking about you

The fancy, gold embroidery didn’t take away from the message that was written and how deeply it struck you. You traced over each word with your finger and soon a goofy, love-struck smile curled at the corners of your lips.

“Who is it from?” Ji Soo asked and rest her bottom on the corner of the kitchen table. You pressed your lips together to contain your smile.

“My secret admirer.” You said slyly.

You kept the bouquet of roses on your desk where the light from the moon cast a white glow on the petals. You could stare at them forever and never get tired of them. You knew they would eventually wither and dry into brittle pieces, but until then you kept them on display.

[11:39 PM] you: the flowers are beautiful [11:39 PM] you: thank you

[11:40 PM] Jimin: I have no idea what you’re talking about

For a second, you thought your assumptions about your secret admirer were wrong, until Jimin sent another text.

[11:40 PM] Jimin: kidding [11:40 PM] Jimin: I know you love roses

[11:41 PM] you: you seem to know a lot about me

[11:41 PM] Jimin: you aren’t exactly the most discreet [11:41 PM] Jimin: but thats not exactly a bad thing [11:42 PM] Jimin: I can learn a lot from you

Was Jimin finally willing to open up about himself? The one thing you wanted the most was to know the real Jimin and maybe, just maybe it was possible.

[11:43 PM] you: I don’t have anything to teach you

[11:44 PM] Jimin: or so you think [11:44 PM] Jimin: when can I see you again

You blushed thinking to your intense makeup session with Jimin right outside of your door and you too couldn’t wait to kiss him again. You imagined his intense kisses that he left on your body and how tenderly he touched you, like a fragile doll that he was afraid of breaking again. It was a shame that he had to leave during the night because it wouldn’t be so bad to wake up next to him.

[11:45 PM] you: this weekend [11:45 PM] you: lets have dinner

You wanted to see him as soon as possible and what could be better than a dinner date? Yeah, sure, it was a cliche among all cliches, but this was what you wanted to do. You were the ruler of your own world and from now on, you were going to play your cards right.

[11:46 PM] Jimin: a dinner huh? [11:46 PM] Jimin: sounds great [11:46 PM] Jimin: will you let me plan this one out? I want to show you a good time

[11:47 PM] you: well if you insist then I won’t argue

[11:47 PM] Jimin: then its a date

A date. Finally, a real fucking date. One with someone you actually cared for and harbored true feelings for. How different would it be? How were you supposed to act now that you were in a relationship and how long could you maintain it before your karma got the worst of you and snatched your happiness from you right when you got it.

[11:50 PM] Jimin: I’ll let you sleep princess [11:50 PM] Jimin: I love you

You flung your phone across the room and it smacked against the wall. You flipped over on your bed, grabbbing your pillow and stuffed your face in it and screamed. Your legs flailed around the bed and kicked up your blanket, messing up the sheets as well. You only stopped when your throat felt like it had been abused with sandpaper and you raised your head to breathe. The first time. It was the first time you had heard those words said to you in a romantic expression and Jimin had yet again taken one of your firsts from you.

You crawled off the bed and grabbed your phone, replying with ‘I love you too, goodnight’ before jumping back on your bed and rolling around, holding your phone to your chest. This was all so new to you; these tingling feelings that burst in your chest like firecrackers and made you feel light-headed with bliss. Was your heart able to handle Jimin if he was going to say such things so spontaneously?

It wasn’t hard for Jimin to come up with his date plans. He spent the last three months thinking about stuff like this and it was only a matter of choosing which one he wanted to do first. There were many to choose from: an aquarium date, a stroll in the park, or maybe he’d take you the carnival and drag you on the Mega Drop like he’d been wanting for the longest time. There were so many possibilities and he was positive he’d get to all of them, but there was only one place that he had in mind.

Jimin sent you flowers every day for the entire week leading up to your first date with him and each bouquet had its own message. You collected the cards and kept them safe in your drawer, with a red ribbon tied around the growing stack of gold embellished cards. Every night you would pull them out and read them over to yourself like a young maiden in love because technically that’s what you were. Although, as the number of flowers increased, the places to display them decreased drastically and soon your room had turned into a greenhouse of assorted flowers, blending to recreate a fresh, Spring-like scent through the apartment.

Finally, the awaited day had come. Jimin didn’t speak a word of his plans or where he was taking you. He simply told you to be ready at eight, so by law, you had to begin getting ready four hours ahead of time. You had already chosen your outfit, a pale pink summer dress that hugged your waist snuggly with a ribbon tied at the back. You accessorized with a long gold necklace that hung low as well as a matching bracelet. The shoes were perhaps the hardest to pick out as you had to decide between a neutral beige or a darker pink, both of which looked amazing with your outfit. You consulted Ji Soo and she said, and you quoted, that “the beige is sexy.” Going from that, of course you had to choose the beige.

You painted your face beautifully with makeup and even topped off your look with lip gloss, which Ji Soo complimented as well. You sat at the edge of your bed half an hour before Jimin was supposed to come pick you up and Ji Soo poked her head in to check on you.

“You look like a doll, I still can’t get over how cute you look!” She squealed and rest her cheek against door frame, admiring the way you sat on the bed in such a delicate manner with your knees poised.

“I feel like my face is going to melt off. I’ll probably come back looking like a hot mess.” You laughed and raised a compact mirror to fix your hair. Ji Soo eyes softened, like a mother sending her daughter off to a dance. You were her roommate for the majority of college and she couldn’t ask for a more lovely friend. Despite not being in a relationship and having no experience in that field whatsoever, you gave her the best love advice. And now she couldn’t be more proud to see you beaming and radiation happiness.

“I hope you have fun tonight.” Ji Soo winked before receding back to her room and you waited for Jimin’s call.

Meanwhile, Jimin had also spent his morning and for fact of the matter, the entire week preparing tonight’s event. More specifically, he stayed up late last night and made a complete mess in the kitchen. Everything had to be perfect and he wouldn’t accept anything less. Jimin had about seven outfits planned out in his head, but as soon as he tried them on none of them felt right. He switched up the outfits, mixing and matching garments together until he finally decided on a large black and white plaid flannel. He tucked the front flaps into his black jeans with a leather belt holding them in place. He fled his apartment in a flash and hopped into his car. Jimin took one glance at the backseat to double check if everything was in place, and with that assurance, he was on his way to see you, singing along and drumming his hands on the steering wheel to 88rising’s Peach Jam.

It happened in an instant. A streak of bright white light blinded Jimin and he ducked his head, slamming his foot on the breaks. His body lurched forward from the force, his seatbelt snapped on his chest and the next thing he knew, the windows had crashed and shattered around him while his body was being hurled around wildly in his seat. Shards of glass pierced his skin and Jimin must’ve slammed his head against the steering wheel and dashboard a dozen times before everything went still. His eyes struggled to stay open and he could hear the faint cars from the Main street driving by. Jimin fought to stay conscious, but his vision was wavering, blurring the starts in the sky and making them appear as bright city lights. His conscious was fleeting and Jimin shut his eyes, eventually gave into the serene monotonous ring in the back of his mind.

And you waited.

#btssmutclub #kpopwonderlandtag #Jimin smut #Jimin fic #Jimin fluff #Jimin angst #Jimin scenario #bts smut #bts scenario #woo what a wild ride #also IM SO SORRY

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bellabottomtrousers · 6 years ago

Text

Undercover (Bucky Barnes x Reader) [Part 2]

Read Part 1 here

Fic Details:

2.1k words

Summary: This takes place outside of the MCU, but Bucky is still Bucky. You are a secret agent who is put on a mission with The Winter Soldier, someone who you do not get along with. You have to go undercover as a couple on your honeymoon.

Contains: original characters, language, a scene used from Sebastian Stan’s new movie Destroyer.

Author’s Note: Part 2 of a 5 part series! Please leave feedback!

The three hour jet ride to the Florida Bed and Breakfast was spent mostly in silence. Bucky looking out the window on the other side of the plane, while I listened to music and read a book. I knew we needed to talk eventually, we had to convince these people we were a couple on our honeymoon. I just didn’t know when, or who was going to talk first. Until Bucky surprised me, sitting down right in the seat in front of me, staring. I pull one of my earbuds out.

“Can I help you?” I ask raising my eyebrow.

“How are we doing this?” he grumbles out looking down at his feet. His hands were together in his lap, he occasionally squeezed them together which caused his muscles to shift under the fabric of the long sleeve red shirt he was wearing. I could tell he was tense about this whole thing.

“Well, we have to pretend to be a happy couple on their honeymoon. So maybe you could start by relaxing a little.” I say, shutting my music off and shifting in my seat. He releases his grip on his hands and sits back a little, relaxing his shoulders.

“I’m relaxed” he mumbles, although we both know its a lie. He sits there staring at me for a few seconds and I’m about to tell him it’s a little creepy until he speaks first.

“You should kiss me” He says leaning forwards, like it’s the most casual thing to come off his lips. My eyes nearly bulge out of my head.

“Excuse me?” I choke out. He’s looking right at me, but I can’t read his expression.

“Kiss me” he repeats. I shake my head in disbelief and let out laugh.

“Why?”

“So I know” he starts, “I don’t want to look surprised the first time it happens in public”

I continue to stare at him, my mouth slightly open, I turn my head to glance around the plane. It was a good plan, but I couldn’t believe he was the one who thought of it.

“Dead serious” he say when I turn back to look at him.

I move forward placing my hand on the back of his head pulling him into me. I move my lips against his and he kisses back firmly. The kiss lasts a few seconds before I pull back and sit in the chair leaning back. I look to him for a reaction and he looks at me, letting out a breath.

“Okay. Got it” he says nodding.

“Think you can fake liking that?” I ask, raising my eyebrow at him.

“Probably..yeah” He answers leaning back in the chair as well.

This is your pilot speaking, 10 minutes till landing, we’ve got clear skies and 80 degree weather coming up in Ocala, Florida.

“Are you going to be good in that shirt? It’s going to be hot as hell” I say gathering my things and rebuckling my seat to get ready for landing.

“I’ll be fine.” He says harshly, tugging the sleeves to further cover his arms. I roll my eyes at his rudeness.

“Oh before I forget we have to put these on.” I say reaching into my purse and taking out two wedding rings. I hand him one and he hesitates before taking it from me, frowning down at the ring.

“It’s not even real, jesus does the thought of marrying me disgust you so bad?” I scoff annoyed. He looks at me and opens his mouth to say something, but instead gets up and goes back to his seat for the remainder of the flight.

***

The drive from the airport to the B&B was about a half an hour long. We went from being in the city, to being surrounded by lots of empty land stretching out for miles. Cattle and horses scattered about in each one.

We pull up to the huge, white farmhouse, with a porch going all around the sides. There’s horse stables and fields with cows on one side and on the other is an entire golf course and an inground swimming pool.

“Jesus Christ this place is huge” Bucky mutters as the taxi comes to a stop. I silently agree with him as thoughts are running through my mind of where exactly this secret bunker could be within all this land. We step out of the car and grab our luggage making our way up the steps of the house. Before we get to the door it’s opening and an older man and woman greet us. I quickly grab hold of Bucky’s hand which makes him jump a little. He looks down at our hands and back up to me.

“Hello! You must be Y/n and James! Welcome to Destination Retreat! I’m Mary and this is John we are the hosts of the house” The older woman greets us, stepping forward to shake our hands.

“It’s nice to meet you” I say, putting on my best smile,

The man steps forward and takes our luggage from us, smiling bright.

“I’ll take these for ya! You can follow me inside and I’ll take you to your room!” He says and we walk with him to the upstairs as his wife explains the grounds.

“So! We have horseback riding, golf, a game room, and a pool! Breakfast, lunch, and dinner will be at the same time everyday in the community dining room!” She explains and Bucky pauses.

“Community dining room?” He asks, raising his eyebrows. She nods enthusiastically.

“Yes! You both and the other guests are welcomed to join us for meals everyday, family style! The other guests love it, and it’s strongly encouraged” she finishes as we enter our room. It’s a large room with a king bed in the middle. Two large dressers, a desk, and our own private bathroom.

“We’ll let you both get settled in! Dinner is at 6!” Mary says before her and John leave the room shutting the door.

“Well at least we have our own bathroom” I say taking my suitcase over to one of the dressers. I put it on the floor and unzip it. I look up to Bucky who is still standing there with a sour face.

“What?” I ask and he points to the bed.

“There’s only one bed” he says.

“Well yeah. This is a couples suite” I say standing up.

“So I have to share a bed with you?” He says and the way he says it stings, but I ignore it.

“Whatever it’s not a big deal it’s clearly big enough for both of us. You won’t even touch me” I shrug. He looks at me with a blank stare on his face, like he’s thinking about something.

****

Bucky’s POV

At dinner time Y/n and I walk into the dinning room at 6:05. Everyone was already at the table and Mary and John were beginning to place the food down. There were three other couples sitting at the table and everyone looked at us as we walked in. Y/n gives them an awkward wave as Mary set down a bowl of mashed potatoes.

“Oh! I’m so glad you’ve joined us! Please take a seat!” She says gesturing to the two empty seats at the table. We sit at the tables and the other couples cheerily introduce themselves.

There was Deborah and Mark from Nebraska, Judy and Carl from Maine, and Steve and Gina from South Dakota. They all had very enthusiastic personalities which was kind of nauseating.

“So you two are on your honeymoon?” Judy asks grabbing Carl’s hand, “We are as well!”

Y/n smiles wide, I can tell its forced, but they seem to buy into it. She grabs my hand and squeezes it, my heart beats a little faster at the touch of her skin to mine.

“Yes! James and I just got married a few days ago it was really beautiful” She says looking at me. The sight of her smile makes me smile and it doesn’t feel forced at all. Her gaze lingers just a little bit longer than normal and there’s something in her eyes I can’t make out. She then turns away as the others share the stories of their relationships and I sit there silently as she does all the talking. Mary and John sat quietly listening to the conversations of their guests. I want to get them talking so we could learn more about them. I nudge Y/n a bit and she looks at me. I move my eyes towards the older couple hoping she gets the clue. She nods slightly and turns to face them.

“Mary, John, how long have you two been married?” She asks.

“About 30 years and still going strong!” Mary says “We met in college in the science department, we both had similar majors, he was physics and I was chemistry.” She explained. So they were both majors in the exact specialties that are capable handling nuclear substances. Clue number one.

“So you could say you both could feel the chemistry between the two of you!” Gina laughs out, causing everyone to laugh with her. Y/n and I let out strained chuckles and looked to each other. If there’s one thing we have in common it’s that we do not want to be here. We all continue eating in silence until John spoke out.

“So James, I would love to hear the story about your arm” He says setting his fork down. My body tenses and I squeeze the fork in my hand. Y/n looks over at me like she’s waiting for me to tell the story too.

“I lost my arm and got a new one” I say simply, not giving anymore information.

“Oh come on you’ve got to have a story behind it” John says.

“Please tell us! I’d love to know why it looks so strong!” Deborah giggles earning a look from her husband. I can feel my heart racing and my breathing getting heavier.

“Tell us the story!” Carl says and the rest of them are all talking over each other, trying to get me to speak. It’s incredibly overwhelming and I abruptly stand up, my chair making a loud screeching noise that quickly silences everyone. Without saying anything I leave the dining room and make my way upstairs. I could hear Y/n’s voice apologizing for me, “I..um..I’m sorry about that. I’ll just go check on him” she’s stutters.

I walk into our dark room not bothering to turn the light on, I sit on the bed with my head in my hands trying to work on my breathing. A few seconds later I hear the door open and close and the click of the lock.

“Bucky?” She asks. I don’t respond and I feel the bed sink in next to me, “Hey I-” she starts placing her hand on my shoulder, her touch is like a burning fire and I jolt away

“Leave me the fuck alone” I mutter.

“What is your problem I’m trying to make sure you’re okay, you just stormed out on them which is incredibly rude!” She says. I turn to her, filled with anger and agony.

“I was rude?! How about them asking all their nosy fucking questions.” I say raising my voice.

“Lower your fucking voice” She sneers, but then pauses letting out a sigh. “They did come on strong, are you okay?” She asks the frustration in her voice fading as she steps closer to me again. I look at her with a pained look, my heart clenching at her words.

“Why do you care? Just leave me the fuck alone” I say walking into the bathroom and slamming the door.

“You are so fucking frustrating!” I hear her whisper yell kicking the bed.

I leaned up against the bathroom door letting out a few breaths, trying to calm myself down again. I can’t talk about my arm, it’s not something I ever talk about. They never ask me anything else it’s the first thing that comes out of their mouths. And Y/n, god Y/n drives me fucking insane. I push her away the best that I can, I treat her like shit, and even though she gets angry back at me, she still seems to care. It’s true, I don’t have any reason to hate her and I don’t hate her which is the problem. I can’t let myself get close to her. Even just her touch sends me somewhere else, my idea to kiss on the plane, I don’t know where that came from.

I decide to just take a shower and when I finally go back into the room the light is off and Y/n’s in bed. I get dressed, putting on boxers and sweatpants before climbing into bed. In her sleep she turns around to face me and I sigh, taking in her resting features and without thinking reach up brushing my human hand against her cheek and she leans into the touch.

***

Taglist:

@mr-stank-i-dont-feel-so-dank

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danfanciesphil · 7 years ago

Text

Give Me A Try (New Chapter)

Gay Instagram Model/Bartender Phan AU Part 2

(Part One)

Also up on Ao3!

The Habenero bar is closed on Sundays, thank God.

The owner of the establishment is, surprisingly, a devout Catholic that believes in resting on the Sabbath. Dan is not all for this Catholic tradition (ignoring, for now, all the oppression and homophobia) because after Saturday night’s hell shifts, he’s usually in need of some recuperation.

He wakes up at 2pm on Sunday afternoon on his sofa in a shirt that doesn’t belong to him. His phone is stuck to his cheek, and there are crisp crumbs in his hair. There’s a fug of stale, smoky, sweat in the air, like the smell of the soaked dancefloor of the bar at the end of each night. Belatedly, Dan realises that he’s fallen asleep in what he was wearing when he got back last night, meaning that he’s still soaked in alcohol.

Grimacing at his own grossness, Dan hauls himself up from the sofa and staggers into the bathroom to shower. It’s only as he peers up at his reflection in the mirror above the sink that he remembers the shirt. At first, it confuses him, as it’s far too nice of a garment to be his. It’s clearly fitted, tailored probably, with a subtly cinched waist, and neat, complex stitching around the hem and sleeves.

He peers closer at his reflection to read the little label on the pocket.

Givenchy

Dan jumps backwards, hands held aloft as if he’s about to mark the thing with his grubby paws. He needs to get this thing off him right now, it’s far too expensive to be on his body. How had he let himself fall asleep in this last night? It’s probably all crumpled, he’ll have to get it dry cleaned-

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he scrambles for it, heart pounding as he catches sight again of his snappily dressed reflection. It’s a text from Tyler, the last of several by the looks of things. He swipes to view them.

From: Tyler omg CANNOT believe what happened last night

From: Tyler can we get brunch today?? lots to discuss..

From: Tyler hellooo?? earth to dan?

From: Tyler did u die from overstimulation of the brain after giving ur all time celeb crush ur fREAKING NUMBER

From: Tyler message me when ur awake bitch x

The blood drains from Dan’s face as he reads through the messages, all of which confirm that the events of last night weren’t a dream, and that, yes, Phil Lester did saunter into the bar, flirt with him, and hand over his designer shirt so that Dan wouldn’t have to finish work in a soaked one.

Not knowing how to respond to Tyler, Dan chooses to just ignore it for now. He places the phone down and begins carefully unbuttoning the shirt, fingers practically trembling when he thinks of how expensive it would be if he were to accidentally rip a button off. As his fingers open the lapels, his mind flashes up a helpful image of Phil doing the exact same in front of him last night, his methodical, pale fingers working to reveal his bare chest inch by inch, right in the middle of the god damn bar.

Dan’s face flames, and he tries hard to think of something else. Once the shirt is off, he folds it as carefully as he can and places it on the counter beside the sink. He then shucks off his beer-soaked jeans, which do not get anywhere near the same treatment, and jumps into the shower.

It’s only as the warm, comforting stream of water cascades over him that Dan’s frantic mind relaxes enough to slip back into the memory of the previous evening, and all that transpired. Phil Lester. Right there before him.

The slow, flirtatious smile spreading across his broad, full lips. The familiar sweep of his jet black hair. The pulse of his glinting blue eyes in the swirl of coloured lights.

‘I got distracted by the cute bartender, and forgot to order him another one...’

‘I could save you as cute bartender when you text me...’

Cute. Phil had called him cute. Twice.

The water seems scalding hot, suddenly. Dan’s body temperature rises by at least two degrees, he’s sure. He swallows down some saliva, and runs his hands through his wet curls. How on earth had any of this happened? Situations like this are so unlikely that they’re almost never heard of.

He feels how he imagines Katie Holmes must have felt when Tom Cruise sidled up to her, all flirtatious smiles and pick-up lines, after she’d been staring at his poster for all her childhood, tacked onto her bedroom wall.

Again, the thick, treacly gaze Phil cast across to him over the bar seeps into Dan’s mind. The memory of it covers Dan's whole body, as if it were pouring out of the shower head, slathering him in its intensity. The amount of time Dan has spent staring into those eyes on his phone screen is insurmountable, but having experienced them in real life, he now knows that he may as well not have bothered. Those eyes will haunt him for the rest of time.

He feels the familiar scratch of arousal start to drag at his thighs, tingling at the tips of his fingers, so he turns the temperature down, trying to divert it. Now that he’s spoken with Phil, so recently, it would seem odd to jerk off to the thought of him.

...Not that AmazingPhil is anything like a stranger in Dan’s mental storage of wanking material.

It’s just as Dan is rinsing the shampoo out of his hair that he remembers the one, tiny hiccup in the exchange with his crush. Phil had stolen Dan’s phone to type in his number, and had seen that Dan had been stalking his Instagram.

As he freezes, remembering this mortifying scene, the shampoo trickles down into Dan’s eyes, blinding him.

“Fuck!” Dan shouts, loud enough that he’s sure the neighbours heard.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tyler shovels a slice of avocado toast into his mouth. He chews a bit, noisily, then continues speaking with his mouth full. “I trawl the billions of nasty vintage shops in the Laines for a designer shirt, and you get one handed to you for free?! And by a dazzling, incredibly hot model? Hand over your fucking magic lamp, Dan. Some of us need it more than others.”

Dan watches with a slightly downturned mouth as Tyler talks around his mouthful of food. “Err, I think I was due some good luck, actually.”

Tyler looks like he’s about to argue, but then shuts his mouth, staring down at his plate in reluctant acceptance. “Yeah, okay, true. But still. Can I at least touch it?”

Dan shakes his head, drawing the bag containing the shirt closer to his side of the table. He’s taking it to the local dry cleaning company after this, as well as giving the staff there a long, terrifying warning that if they do so much as snag a stitch, there will be hell to pay.

“No way,” Dan replies. “You’ll nick the thing if I let you too close to it.”

Tyler sighs. “You know me too well.” He bites his lip, staring longingly at the bag, and sighs again. “So, when is Mister Delavigne retrieving his garment?”

Dan shrugs, poking at the poached egg on his plate with a fork. He has no idea why he ordered this, he doesn’t really eat eggs. But brunch is such a specific meal, he feels like he needs to order something aesthetically ‘brunch-like’.

“Wait, you mean you haven’t set up a time to give it back to him yet?” Tyler asks, horrified.

“It hasn’t even been a day,” Dan says. “Besides, he said he might stop in on Thursday for Bingo-”

“No no no!” Tyler cries, sounding scandalised. “Dan, are you this clueless? The man gave you his number!”

Dan’s cheeks heat, remembering the incident that occurred during this scenario. “Yeah, to text him about getting the shirt back.”

Tyler rolls his eyes. “No, you nonce, the shirt is irrelevant! It’s an excuse for you to get in touch with him.”

This time, Dan rolls his eyes. “Don’t be stupid. It’s a fucking designer shirt, he just wants to make sure he’ll get it back.”

“He was flirting with you!”

“He’s a flirty guy. Trust me, I know everything about him. I’m like... a big fan.”

A sigh of pity gusts across the table towards him. Tyler places a hand atop his, and leans forwards. “Dan, listen to me. Text that hunk of delicious, geek-chic muscle, and watch how he responds. I guarantee he will try and flirt more.”

“I guarantee he will just say he wants his shirt back.”

Tyler smirks. “You’re on, dumbo.”

It takes Dan two and a half beers to summon the courage to text Phil. He spends Sunday evening scrolling through the photos on the AmazingPhil Instagram page, studying each one in great detail so that he can remember each minute feature of Phil’s perfect, Adonis-like face.

He’s had the text message screen up for some time, the word ‘Phil’ at the top where he’d saved his number, as if he were just any ‘Phil’, rather than the Amazing Phil that has haunted Dan’s daydreams ever since he first stumbled on a photo of him years prior.

For maybe the sixth time that night, Dan types out a potential message.

From: Dan To: Phil Hey, this is Dan from Habeneros bar. I have your shirt. Would you like me to send it back to you?

He doesn’t send it yet. Instead, he copies the message, and pastes it into his chat with Tyler. The response is practically instantaneous. Dan wonders, not for the first time, if Tyler actually has any semblance of a life outside of the bar.

From: Tyler To: Dan wtf is that shit????

From: Tyler To: Dan r u trying to turn him off

From: Dan To: Tyler ?? what do u mean

From: Tyler To: Dan u sound like a bot

From: Dan To: Tyler im being polite!!!

From: Tyler To: Dan polite is not going to get you in his pants

Instantly, Dan’s cheeks catch aflame, and he feels his heart squeeze. Even the idea of such a thing is too much for Dan’s poor, wrung out brain to comprehend. He could never, in a billion years, be that lucky. After last night, where one of the most absurd of his sexual fantasies came true - Phil stripping off in front of him in public - he’s sure his luck has run dry.

From: Dan To: Tyler shut up. tell me what to say then

From: Tyler To: Dan ‘hey sexy, still shirtless? i live nearby if u want some help with that...’

Dan splutters and chokes on his beer.

From: Dan To: Tyler NO!!

From: Tyler To: Dan fine fine. prude. how about...

Teeth gritted as he wills his heart rate to settle back into a reasonable rhythm, Dan waits for Tyler’s next message. His fingernails tap on the edge of his beer bottle. Trit, trit, trit.

From: Tyler To: Dan ‘hey! not sure if u remember me but u heroically clothed me in ur Givenchy at a bar on Sat. the lanky bartender covered in blue sugary liquid? i know, i know, super hot. anyway :’) i have your shirt. you should swing by the bar again! or i can send it back. up to you dude! but bingo nights are off the fuckin chain js. let me know :) x’

Dan reads the message through, only cringing slightly. Honestly, he was sure it would be way worse. It’s actually kind of funny, and weirdly sounds like him. Tyler has clearly been subjected to Dan’s lame sense of humour for far too long.

Without thinking, Dan drains the rest of his beer, copies the message Tyler gave him, and pastes it into the text box he’s opened with Phil. He presses send before his alcohol laced mind can catch up, wanting to be rid of this conundrum.

From: Dan To: Tyler ok, sent it.

From: Tyler To: Dan omg what :O

From: Tyler To: Dan did you really?? :’’’D

From: Tyler To: Dan i thought you’d want to edit it a bit first!! wow ok looool

From: Dan To: Tyler dont say that! you’ll make me anxious

From: Dan To: Tyler besides you made it sound like me its fine

From: Tyler To: Dan uh huh... let me know what he says :’D

From: Dan To: Tyler i fucking hate u

From: Tyler To: Dan xxx

The corner of Dan’s mouth quirks traitorously. His relationship with Tyler is complicated. Never before has he been able to hate someone and love them at the same time. Just as he’s about to pocket the phone again, it buzzes in his hand. He glances at the screen to see that Phil has - oh, God - already texted him back.

He almost drops the damn thing.

From: Phil To: Dan hey dan! yeah of course i remember you ;D surprisingly i dont strip off in the middle of a bar that often. or for just anyone ;) omg id forgotten about bingo!! super excited. i’ll be there! what time should i swing by? xx

His hand grows clammy, and he can feel his heart picking up speed. It’s mental that just reading Phil’s words can have him so agitated. He wonders if Phil has already saved his name into his phone. Probably not. Dan’s still a complete stranger, just one that happens to have a very expensive item of his clothing.

From: Dan To: Phil awesome. you wont be disappointed! bingo starts at 7 on thursdays :) ur shirt and i will see you there! x

Dan dithers about the kiss. He deletes it and retypes it three times, wondering what sort of message it transforms into when it’s added. In the end, after careful analysis of Phil’s initial message (in which there are not one, but two kisses attached) he decides to leave it on.

Dan more or less expects that to be the end of the conversation, and he breathes a sigh of relief as the text swoops out of his control, but the sight of the three pulsating dots on the left bottom corner of his screen stop him from closing the text window.

He waits, heart palpitating, for Phil’s reply.

From: Phil To: Dan are u feeding her well? i hope ur taking her for a walk twice a day. tell her i love and miss her, and will see her soon. xx

Dan snorts with laughter, realising that Phil is referring to the shirt.

From: Dan To: Phil she just pooped on my carpet :/ buttons everywhere x

From: Phil To: Dan :o so sorry. will be sure to give her no treats when i get her back xx

From: Dan To: Phil what kind of treats does she like? x

From: Phil To: Dan moth balls, tide pods... she’s fussy :/ xx

Dan’s sniggers into his jumper sleeve, eyes crinkling at Phil’s silly responses. Is this flirting, he wonders? Could Tyler have been right about this?

From: Phil To: Dan gotta run! im sitting in makeup for a shoot and they just finished prettifying me :’D see u thurs ;) xx

‘You’re already pretty’ is Dan’s instant thought for a response, but he deletes it as soon as his fingers begin typing the words. He shakes his head at himself, berating his brain for being so gooey and idiotic.

From: Dan To: Phil cool :) see u! x

Much more appropriate, Dan thinks, then locks his phone. It hits him like a freight train as he sits on the edge of his bed, blank phone in hand, that he just arranged a follow up meeting with AmazingPhil.

He remains perfectly still, sure that the second he moves, the impact of what he’s just done will send him into a full blown panic attack. He invited Phil to Bingo night of all nights.

He drops his head into his hands, groaning. As he looks up through the slats between his fingers, he notices the Givenchy shirt, hanging proudly on the door of his wardrobe.

“This is all your fault,” Dan tells it. It doesn’t respond.

Bingo nights are one of the Habenero bar’s busiest. Tyler first came up with the idea around two years ago, being a self-declared Bingo-hoe, but filled with criticism of Brighton’s few and far between Bingo events.

“Bingo should be about booze, glitter, and loud, obnoxious screaming,” Tyler used to say. “Brighton needs to up its Bingo game.”

Finally, after months of pleading to Habenero's owner, Tyler managed to wrangle an opportunity to host an experimental Bingo evening, run on his terms. He spared no expense of the meagre budget he was permitted, and created Brighton's, and maybe the world's, first Gay Rave Bingo Extravaganza.

There are several rounds to the game. The first is the ‘classic’ round, to get everyone into the swing of things. Players are in teams of up to five, they get a Bingo board between them with a selection of random numbers. Tyler, the charismatic host, hops up on the stage to crack a few jokes and welcome everyone. He then goes back to serve drinks whilst Dan calls out the numbers.

Teams receive ten points per round if they win, five if they come second, one if they come third.

The following rounds get a little... messier. There’s a ‘drag race’ round, where new boards are handed out, and photos of the RuPaul’s Drag Race contestants are projected onto a screen. Players must correctly identify the contestants in order to be able to cross them all off on their boards.

This is followed by Dan’s favourite, the ‘closet smash’ round, where clips of famous ‘gay’ scenes from movies, TV shows, webseries’ or any other kind of media are shown on mute, and players must cross the unheard lines of dialogue off on their board.

There’s a ‘guess the ballad’ round, where LGBT+ friendly songs are played that must be guessed, and finally one last round of just numbers, this time while everyone is significantly more drunk (drinking a sip or a shot each time a correct answer is guessed is highly encouraged, but not necessarily advised by the bar staff, due to the lawsuit that could ensue) and there are loud, booming Madonna hits playing.

The team with the most points at the end of the night gets a £50 bar tab, along with a shower of glitter, confetti and applause. The losing team has to forfeit.

Phil arrives in the nick of time, flanked by one intimidatingly attractive man, and a slightly older straight couple. Dan spots them straight away, and hops down from the stage, pink-cheeked, as Tyler continues welcoming the various patrons that have shown up.

There is no shortage of teams this evening. Dan sincerely hopes Phil is prepared for what’s about to unfold here, although if he has ever been to a different Bingo night, he probably has a very different idea of what to expect. As Dan approaches, he can see the flicker of surprise that is so often found on first-timers' faces, flickering across Phil's gorgeous features.

“Hey,” Dan manages, heart already clawing itself up his throat.

Phil turns to him, a bright smile sweeping across his face at once. “Dan!”

A bright, white flash of electricity shoots down Dan’s spine; hearing his name on Phil’s lips is a little too much to handle, at present. He manages not to swoon on the spot, just.

“You made it!”

“Of course!” Phil grins. “How could I resist Bingo night?”

Dan smiles, melting under the pleasant, crackling campfire of Phil's warm greeting. Tonight, Phil is wearing contacts, and his eyes seem even bluer than they had the first time. As he stares into them, Dan thinks he can spot glimmers of gold, of violet, of lime.

“Not sure this is quite the sort of Bingo night I pictured when you dragged me here, Phil,” the attractive man on Phil’s left says, breaking Dan out of his trance.

Phil laughs, nodding in agreement. "Me neither. But I'm excited. This is PJ by the way, Dan." Phil jabs a thumb at the man. "And this is my brother, Martyn, and his girlfriend, Cornelia."

Biting back a stab of jealousy, Dan shakes waves to each of them, ending on PJ, for whom he finds himself needing to bite back a stab of jealousy. How many attractive men does Phil just cart around with him, day to day?

"Oh don't get me wrong, Dan, I'm excited too," PJ says. "Anything glittery brings out the craft-wizard in me."

"Sophie's going to be so pissed that she missed this," Phil says, eyes still sweeping around the gaudily decorated bar. Tyler spares no expense for Bingo nights. Everything is covered in banners, in balloons, in... glitter. Lots and lots of glitter. It's a nightmare to clean up at the end of the night, every time.

"Not sure it's acceptable to have two straight couples in a gay bar," PJ mutters in response.

Ah, Dan notes, his jealous monster retracting its claws. PJ is perhaps not as much of a threat as he'd thought. Not that there's anything about Dan which would need threatening. His chances with someone like Phil are laughably non-existent, whether or not Phil's handsome friends are straight.

"Oh, you're all very welcome," Dan assures PJ. "Bingo is a non-discriminatory sport."

"Sport?" Martyn asks, looking a little more on the concerned side than some of the others.

Dan chuckles. "Yeah, uh, our take on Bingo is a bit more... energetic, than you might be used to."

Phil raises a perfectly arched eyebrow, obviously intrigued. Dan just smiles back enigmatically. “So, do you have a spare table for us?”

“Hmm, we might,” Dan says, trying with all his might to look nonchalant as he sweeps a vague gaze across the room.

By no means can Phil know that Dan has spent the last two hours in which he and his co-workers set up being relentlessly teased for insisting on saving the best table for AmazingPhil. He'd gotten to work early, in fact, and reserved Phil the table right near the front, not too close to the speakers, but with a fantastic view of the ball cage and the screen.

As breezily as he can, Dan leads Phil and his friends to this table, and gets them seated with pens, a Bingo board, and some drinks menus. It’s at this moment that Tyler, who has been buffeting the audience about on the breeze of his easy, clever humour, decides to introduce him.

“And this yummy little twink over here is Dan,” Tyler says into the mic he’s holding. He gestures down at where Dan hovers, near to Phil’s table. The audience all turn to him, spreading a warm, gradual blush over his cheeks. “Dan will be fondling all your balls this evening, so do please keep an eye on him. Tip him well, ladies. Fellas. Folks in between.”

The audience laugh heartily, including all of Phil's table, so Dan just glares at Tyler, then scurries onto the stage in preparation for the first round. As he draws the first few numbers from the ball cage, Tyler wanders through the tables, taking drinks orders and greeting some regulars. Dan watches him hawkishly as he goes, hardly concentrating as he calls out the numbers. Eventually, Tyler saunters over to Phil's table, which is a frightening thing to behold. Dan stutters as he calls out the number in his hand, too intent on trying to lip-read Tyler's words as he converses with Phil and his friends.

Whatever Tyler is saying seems to be making Phil laugh, which is hardly a good sign.

After a minute or so, Tyler moves away, and Dan relaxes into his routine, cracking jokes each time a vaguely sexual number is called out - everyone loses their goddamn shit as usual when he reads out 69 - and things pass without issue. He keeps an eye on Phil's table as subtly as he can, and from what he can make out, the four of them seem to be having a good time.

It catches Dan off guard when a table near the back shout out "Bingo!", distracted as he is by Phil's presence tonight. He blinks at the winning table for a moment before remembering his duty, and calls them up on stage to check their board.

"Alright, winner of the first round, table 22!"

"Our team name is actually Cougar Chasers," one glittery young man informs him.

Dan just smiles awkwardly, not wanting to explain that team names have never been part of the Bingo rules. As the team leave the stage, Dan glances back down towards Phil's table just in time to see Phil mouth "this round?" to PJ.

He smirks to himself, wondering how the infamous AmazingPhil will cope under the intensity of the next few hours.

Phil does not cope well.

His team struggles the most by a long way, which is perfectly normal for first time Bingo players at Habenero. They get some points, but only a few, and are often seen scribbling frantically, or having heated discussions amongst themselves, eyes wide, hands gesticulating, stirring the confetti that's gathered on the table.

Despite his poor performance, however, Phil seems to be enjoying his experience thoroughly. His glasses may be steamed from the dry ice Tyler pumps out in excess, and his clothes and hair might be smothered in an inch of glitter, but he's grinning widely, and is clearly trying his hardest. His forté seems to be the drag race round, for which his team actually manages to place second due to Phil's apparent extensive knowledge of the show.

He throws the board up in the air when he shouts "Bingo!", but unfortunately it's a fraction of a second too late, and another team snags first place.

At the end of the final round, it becomes clear to Dan, with a slow sense of dread, that Phil's team has lost. The losing team gets a forfeit, and it's almost always the same thing. Tyler swans over to the stage to announce the winners, and Dan falls back, eyeing Phil's table with a prickling fear.

"...so big round of applause once more for our winners, everyone!" Tyler shouts once he's announced everyone. The crowd cheer and whistle for the winning teams, who bow theatrically, blowing kisses to the audience. "Bring your sparkly asses up to the bar to claim your £50 worth of drinks. But, come on now folks. I know what you dramatic little hoes are really excited for." Tyler winks and they all laugh, cheering happily. "Our big losers tonight... I am most scintillated to announce, are..."

Dan bites his lip.

"Table 34! Otherwise known as our smoking celebrity presence this evening, Instagram's AmazingPhil," Tyler announces. "And friends."

Phil's eyebrows shoot up in unmistakeable shock. The crowd cheers, bewildering him and the others at the table even further. To Dan's surprise, Phil looks to him, questioningly, as if he's asking Dan to explain. Dan sends him a pitying glance, wondering if there's any way to warn Phil of what's about to happen. It's usually fairly pointless to try and stop Tyler, however. And besides, the idiot is already speaking again.

"So, I'm sure you all know by now what happens to our losing team each week," Tyler says, grinning down at them all. "Table thirty-four, please kindly follow me to the bar."

A loud 'whoop' of excitement resounds around the room, and there's a scrape of chairs as people hurry over towards the bar, wanting to secure the best spots for the spectacle about to unfold. Dan reluctantly begins climbing down from the stage as well, at which point he feels someone grab his arm. He turns, surprised to find himself face to face with Phil, and stumbles on his way down. Phil, who still has hold of his arm, manages to stop Dan from landing smack down on the sticky floor, hauling him upright.

Dan, mortified, stammers out some sort of thank you, much to Phil's amusement. "Don't worry," Phil tells him. "I surprised you, it's my fault. Though I have a feeling I'm not going to be feeling as chivalrous towards you in a few minutes."

Phil raises an eyebrow at him, still questioning, and Dan just attempts an enigmatic smile. He's so flustered that he's sure it comes off as more of a grimace, but at least he tries.

"Hey, mate, it's not my fault you suck at Bingo," Dan says, his daring comment scrounged up from a reserve of courage he wasn't aware existed. "The Habenero staff accept no responsibility for you not reading the rules of the event before participating."

Phil huffs a laugh, and releases him. "Perhaps a certain bartender should have given me a list of these rules before allowing me to sign up?"

Dan throws his hands up in front of him, already backing away from the conversation. "Hey, all the rules are listed on our website. Now, sir, if you would kindly step up to the bar to accept your forfeit."

Just as Dan is about to turn from him and sprint off, Phil steps forwards, penetrating Dan's personal bubble with his intimidating presence. Dan stops breathing instantly, caught in a sudden limbo as the world slows around him, the movements of the crowd crawling to a snail's pace, the pumping music becoming a distorted drawl. Phil leans towards him, a smirk on his lips, which he brings to Dan's ear.

"Kind of like it when you call me Sir."

He leans away, and the world falls back into its rhythm, the music blaring, the lights swirling in a cacophony of colour. Dan blinks, or so it seems, and Phil has moved from him, is back with his friends, headed for the bar. Dan lets out the breath he's been holding in a sudden rush, his lungs screaming with relief. He takes a moment to gather himself as best he can, heart palpitating wildly, and shakily makes his way over as well.

"So, Dan, tell me," Phil says, wiping his sodden fringe from his brow. "How is it that whenever I come within ten feet of you, I seem to have an overwhelming urge to remove my shirt?"

Dan, who is having a great deal of trouble averting his gaze from the miles of smooth, glittery skin covering Phil's bare chest, shrugs, mouth moving without making a noise. Phil is dripping wet, covered in beads of moisture, his damp shirt slung over one shoulder. He looks delicious, like a cold, dewy, fresh apple, just begging Dan to sink his teeth in. Just then, Tyler wanders over, placing two shots down on the bar between Dan and Phil.

"Don't worry, hot stuff," Tyler tells Phil, winking. "Dan's pretty, but his charms wear off eventually."

"I doubt that," Phil replies smoothly. Dan splutters, reddening. Phil glances down at the shots Tyler handed over, frowning. "What's this?"

"Thought you deserved a drink after all we put you through this evening," Tyler says. "And I thought Dan might like to join you."

Dan glares at Tyler, who just beams back, happily, before sauntering away. Shyly, Dan turns back to Phil, who has picked up the shot glass between his thumb and forefinger, and is rotating it in the space between them, gazing into the clear liquid.

"Sorry about him," Dan says, surprised that he's able to force the words out, croaky as they are. "And sorry about... y'know. Everything else."

Glancing over the rim of the shot glass, Phil grins, eyes crinkling. "Are you kidding? This is the best Bingo night I've ever been to."

"Even though we sprayed you and your friends with the soda hoses for losing?"

Phil nods. "Which means you must be an excellent Bingo host."

"I'm just the guy who reads the numbers," Dan says, dismissive.

He refuses to take credit for the Bingo nights. They're Tyler's baby, he just helps out.

"You clearly know your way around the balls," Phil jokes, winking as Dan splutters again. His cheeks feel like they're about to burst into flames, at this point.

"Hah, well..." Dan shifts awkwardly, adjusting his jeans - they have a tendency to slip down his hips without permission. "Good to know I have at least one talent, I guess."

"So, are you going to drink with me, Dan?"

Dan hesitates, looking down at the shot Tyler poured for him. The milky yellow colour suggests tequila, perhaps the strongest thing he could have given them. Dan has over an hour left of his shift still, and technically he's not supposed to ingest any alcohol whatsoever during working hours. However, that doesn't mean he never does. Customers buy him drinks all the time, and while he sometimes declines, or pretends to drink them... there have often been instances where he's given into temptation.

As he stares across the counter at his all time crush, shirtless and dripping from where he'd been sprayed with lemonade and soda water, Dan kind of gets the feeling that this is going to be one of the times where his resistance falls through.

Not trusting himself to speak, Dan just picks up the shot, and watches in quiet awe as Phil smiles, clinks his own against it, and throws it back, expertly. Caught on the tantalising bob of Phil's stubbled Adam's apple as he swallows the spirit, Dan almost forgets to drink his. He remembers just as Phil's eyes fall back to his, and downs it swiftly.

Purely to show off, Dan reaches below the bar to grab some lemon wedges, and hands one to Phil, blushing. "Here, it's practically blasphemous to do a tequila shot without a chaser."

"Well, I'm no stranger to sin," Phil says, but accepts the lemon anyway, grinning.

Dan bites into his lemon wedge, cursing himself internally when he realises how unattractive his face becomes as he does so. Luckily, Phil just chuckles, and does the same, wincing. "Ugh, that was awful. Tell your friend I said thanks."

Dan laughs. "I will."

"Well, I'd better get back to my friends," Phil says, scanning the immediate vicinity for them. "Not looking forward to another shirtless walk home though, I must admit. I got some... peculiar reactions from people last time."

"Sorry about that," Dan says, one hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "Oh, wait, what am I saying? I have your shirt from last time, you can wear that."

"Oh, right," Phil says, laughing to himself. "I completely forgot that's why I came tonight."

"Having too much fun, clearly," Dan jokes, already scooting out from behind the bar. "Come with me, I left it in the staff room."

Dan weaves through the thinning crowd of people. People tend to leave pretty quickly after Bingo night ends on Thursdays. He and Tyler will probably be able to close early tonight. Dan can feel Phil following behind, as if he's attuned to Phil Lester's movement, tapped into the heat of his body. He feels he'd be able to just sense if Phil was in a room, even if it was packed with people. Phil's presence pours out a specific, viscous aura, clogging Dan's pores, seeping into the workings of his brain and slowing them down, smearing a haze across his sight.

They reach the door of the staff room, marked 'private', and Dan pushes inside, heading straight for the lockers on the far wall. His skin prickles, sensing that Phil has followed him in here. It only now occurs to Dan how strange this might seem, luring Phil into an empty, secret room under the premise of returning him something. He decidedly does not turn around, instead choosing to fumble with his locker key in the door.

"I, uh, got it dry cleaned," Dan babbles, drawing the garment out of his locker. It's still on its hanger, as uncreased and pristine as Dan could manage. "I don't know if it was supposed to have any special treatment, but I told them to be extra careful-"

As Dan turns, he realises that Phil has moved extremely close. Neither of them hit the light switch, so the room remains dark, only lit dimly by the coloured lights pouring in through the ajar door. Dan can hear Phil breathe, can hear the thump of someone's heart - probably his own. He's pretty sure the song playing in the bar outside is Britney's 'Toxic', but he can't be sure. The sound of his own desperate, roiling desire is deafening.

"Thanks, Dan," Phil says softly, reaching for the shirt. "Wish I could've seen you in it." There's a pause; Dan can hear his own cells fizzing through his body. "Or not in it."

In that second, Dan is sure he's about to be kissed. Every sign is there: Phil inching closer, leaning in, the flutter of his eyes, as if they're about to fall shut. Dan tries to brace himself for it, to prepare his frantic brain for something so miraculous, so improbably, so utterly wild as being kissed by AmazingPhil-

The door swings open. Blinding, fluorescent light floods the room, and Phil steps backwards, cringing from it.

"Shit, sorry..." Lara says from the doorway. Her round, pretty face is filled with apologies. "My shift is over, Tyler said I could head home... fuck, did I interrupt-"

"Hey, it's okay," Phil says brightly, sending her a soft, reassuring smile. "Dan was just returning my shirt. I need to head home as well, anyway. Great night, guys! Thanks again for the shirt, Dan!"

In the next second, he's gone, and Dan, a mess of emotions, is somehow on the floor, back against the lockers, mind utterly blank. He vaguely notes, in the background, Lara jabbering at him, a thousand apologies falling from her lips.

For two agonising days, Dan hears nothing else. Aside from Tyler bringing the topic up every few milliseconds, Dan's life trundles on devoid of AmazingPhil. Even his Instagram is dry. The day after Bingo night, Phil posts an apology note on his Instagram story that reads:

overdid it at Bingo last night (dont laugh) - having a much needed hangover day in bed with sweet potato fries & a Buffy marathon. Posts will resume ASAP! xx

The day after that, Phil posts nothing. It's unusual. Instagram is Phil's job, so he posts at least once a day, normally. Of course, there are exceptions, like when he goes up North to visit his family, or is too busy and forgets. There's far from a regular upload schedule, but AmazingPhil can normally be relied upon to post at least once a day, and often more.

Then, on Sunday, just as Dan is getting in from his shift at around six in the morning, his phone buzzes. Dan reaches for it as he's peering into his fridge. He's bone tired, but his stomach is not going to let him go straight to sleep.

He checks his notification, and freezes, under the judgemental eye of the courgettes on the shelf in front of him.

amazingphil just posted a photo

Dan swipes the screen carefully, his heart in his mouth. How is he going to handle seeing this man, again, after everything that's occurred? He holds his breath, picturing the slow steps Phil made towards him, the gradual descent of his plush, pink mouth, the glimmer in his round, blue eyes...

The photo flashes up, and Dan's stomach twists in shock. His heart plunges to his knees, and he has to cling onto the fridge door for support. The photo is of Phil, and someone else. That someone else is recognisably Charlie Hickory, the man Phil had brought with him the first time they met.

They're kissing.

Hey guys! Sorry for the lack of posts, as you can see I've been kind of busy ;) back to normal uploads now, I promise!! xx

As his eyes sting with white hot jealousy, Dan realises just how deeply he's stupidly, ignorantly allowed himself to wade into this swamp of yearning for a guy he could never, in a thousand years, hope to get.

"Well, I'm a fucking twat," Dan sighs, and slams the fridge door.

(Part 3!)

#phan #phanfic #phanfiction #dan x phil #dan and phil

296 notes · View notes

lovelylogans · 7 years ago

Text

daisy dukes

shoutout to @warnadudenexttime‘s roman edit, here, which was on loop the whole time i was writing this. i’m really uncertain about writing from roman pov so this was an interesting experiment, lmk how it turned out!

warnings: irresponsible underage drinking, self-hate and self-deprecation, occasional swearing, angst

pairings: royality if you want. could also be platonic i left it open for interpretation

words: 4,374

read on ao3

It had been a bad week.

Nothing had particularly caused it. No bad grade, or snide words, or upsetting news. Just a week full of Roman feeling like he wanted to rip off his own skin out of sheer boredom, the cursor blinking menacingly at him from the pages of a word document, and the only notifications on his phone from people trying to maintain some kind of social media milestone. Just a week full of awkward small talk, an absent roommate, and music filling up the silence of his dorm room. Just his melodrama deciding to act up again, just his brain throwing a hissy fit when it didn’t have to do so.

Patton would tell him to reach out, to talk to someone.

The thought of Patton—sweet, kind, wonderful Patton—dropping whatever Friday night plans he surely had, just to sit and listen to Roman whine about how he was feeling sad, and lonely, and miserable, actually made Roman want to break something, so he wasn’t going to do that. It wasn’t Patton’s fault that he’d picked a tiny college two states and five hours away, good for Patton’s future career, while Roman had stayed in their home state. It wasn’t Patton’s fault that Roman hadn’t been able to talk to anyone. It wasn’t Patton’s responsibility, and it wasn’t Patton’s problem, and he would not have Patton—pitying him.

He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to think about it.

Roman slipped his headphones around his neck, grabbed his key, and slouched out into the hallway, down the stairs, to the vending machine nestled in the basement. He passed by two girls toting makeup bags, chattering loudly about something at a Greek organization, a string of foreign syllables strung together that had graced Roman’s ears often enough in the past few months.

He fed a dollar into the vending machine. He got some orange flavored soda. He fed another dollar into the machine, and got another one. He slouched back to his room. He dropped to his knees in front of his bed, and pulled out the black safe his parents had gotten him in a midst of theft concerns that Roman had used for only one thing. He fished the key out of its hiding face, and knelt again, opening it.

He pulled out the bottle of vodka, and rose to his feet.

He picked up the plastic cup he’d stolen from the dining hall weeks ago and began to mix his drink. Alchemy, he thought to himself. The only kind of chemistry he could ever understand.

He’s working on draining the cup for the third time before he thought, fuzzily, about the Greek party the two girls mentioned. He looked at his cup. He measured the weight of the glass vodka bottle in his hands, heavier than expected.

Greek party meant free booze. Free booze meant not draining what little supply he had. Greek party also meant people barring him from the party unless he knew people, which, fucking clearly, he didn’t.

Unless he was creative about it.

And, past week aside, Roman knows how to be creative. It’s one of his only redeeming qualities.

He looks at the vodka bottle, his plastic cup, and grins at it a little.

Going to frat parties alone is dangerous, Roman, a voice that sounds remarkably like Patton’s echoes in his ears. It’s irresponsible.

Maybe I want dangerous, he thought next, and abruptly cut off that line of thought before it could go anywhere... bad.

College years are all about irresponsible, right?

He drained his plastic cup, and turned to his closet. If he was going to do this, he had to look and act the part.

He got ready in his room, smoothing over his hair with his hand, because he didn’t want to make the trek down the hall to the bathrooms, and also mirrors weren’t all that appealing at the moment, and picked out the best outfit he could. He scrolled through social media for about fifteen minutes, before he straightened his shirt and strode out of his room, out of his dorm, and into the cold wintry night. He shuddered, tucked his hands under his armpits, bent his head, and speedwalked to the frat house—still took ten minutes. He slowed as he heard the bass thumping, and surveyed the house.

It was ridiculous—pillars and a grand doorway and a walkway lined with dead, unflowering bushes—and Roman circled the house, once, twice.

There were boys guarding the doors. He saw clusters of women get waved in, and stray men get waved away. Roman frowned, and pinched at his shirt, and thought.

He didn’t have to think very long.

“Hey!” Someone called, and Roman felt someone clap their hand on his shoulder. He jolted, and turned.

“I didn’t know you were in a frat,” the girl said. Roman could place her face—she was in his intro to acting course—but not her name. Roman hesitated, looking to the house, and back to her. There was a cluster of her friends behind her.

“I’m not,” Roman said, and decided to be honest. “I just want to get drunk, and I don’t have a fake. So.” He gestured weakly to the house. For a moment, everything was still.

Then she threw her head back and laughed, and slung an arm around his shoulders. “How ‘bout I help with that?”

Roman blinked. “Really?”

“Really,” she said, and with some gesture to the group, the cluster of girls clouded around them, and she frogmarched him forwards, not letting her arm leave his shoulders.

The boy at the door was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, open over his bare chest. He frowned at Roman.

“He’s with us,” the girl piped up, and smiled at the boy. “He’s in a different chapter. He’s from UCLA.”

The boy drew back, looking at Roman, previous scowl gone. “Oh, sick. Sup, dude?”

“Sup,” Roman agreed, and bumped fists with him as the boy waved their whole group in, and Roman looked at the girl. In. He didn’t even have to try to think of a solution.

“I owe you,” he said.

She waved him off, and just as suddenly as she’d appeared, she and her group vanished into the crush of people.

Roman squashed down the feeling of disappointment. She didn’t have any obligation to talk to you, he scolded himself.

The frat party was just like any other frat party: the only light was from the funky bulbs some poor rushing freshman probably had spent the whole day screwing in, throwing everyone’s faces into odd shadows. The talking was loud, but the music was louder. It was crowded, and people were bobbing to the beat. It’s a frat party; nothing fancy, nothing too out of the ordinary. Just rap music, and drunk people, and cheap alcohol mixed with cheaper soda.

He knew what to expect. A tiny basement with some kind of pole that the drunkest would try to dance on. People grinding like there was no tomorrow. The ground sticky with spilled drinks. People making out in corners. Pockets and clusters of dancing people.

Roman closed his eyes for a second. Breathe in, breathe out.

He opened his eyes, and let a charming smile stick itself upon his face as he gently shoved his way through the crowd, heading for the booze.

The people manning the bar seem a little overwhelmed, or a bit too preoccupied with the girls leaning heavily on the counter, batting her eyelashes. So Roman takes two red solo cups, and fills them to their brims before sweeping his way out onto the dance floor, already working on transferring its contents into his body as quickly as possible.

He didn’t want to think. So he had to drink, and fast, so his thoughts got to that enjoyably floaty stage, where he couldn’t hang onto a thought if he tried, ideas and realizations and impressions floating through his fingers like smoke, never to be seen again.

It turned out, downing two red solo cups filled up with vodka and just enough soda to make it so that he didn’t gag at the taste within five minutes of each other did that pretty handily.

He went back and drank two more. Just to be really sure.

Then a song starts playing, and something about the slow bass beat burrows its way into his bones, and he nudges his way closer to the center of the dance floor.

He could do this, too. He knew he could.

It was like the song was moving him, the song a current or an ocean wave, and Roman was doing all he could to stay afloat, to move with it. His eyes slid shut, and he let himself crest and fall with it; his hips swayed, his arms curled, his torso twisted.

He was aware of the people surrounding him, the room heating to ridiculous degrees, though that might have been the booze, too. It’s the sea of anonymous bodies, pressing in on him, closing him in, like he was amongst their ranks. They surge and eddy with the wave, with the beat, guided by the same bass, the same warmth in their stomachs, all of them a single entity of motion and sensation.

Colored lights exploded behind his eyelids. All that mattered was the beat. All that mattered was the music, the lyrics, the beat, the drums and synthetic rhythm. He didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that he was sad, he was here, and that was what mattered. He wasn’t going to think. Roman danced harder, like if he moved well enough, if he was graceful enough and suave enough and good enough, he wouldn’t be so fucking sad anymore, like all his problems would be fixed.

He went to get some more drinks. The exact number of how many he’d had was starting to get blurry. He went back to the dance floor.

He could smell sweat and vodka and an edge of something that was either perfume or cologne. The vodka was puckering his mouth, the obnoxious sweetness of the soda clung to his tongue. He didn’t want these things. He didn’t want to feel them. He wanted to be—he didn’t even know what he wanted to be. Some kind of organism, its only thought of functioning in this noisy current of this ocean of bodies. Like his body could only express rhythm and sensuality, his place in this bizarre ecosystem.

And he doesn’t know if it’s the vodka hitting him at last, or the fact that the song has changed to things he recognized—but, gloriously, it started to work.

The music matched his heartbeat, and he could feel his heartbeat thundering away in his chest. He moved, faster faster faster, almost clumsy with it, but feeling so eager and bright for once, bouncing and swaying and swinging as the beat declares, and he’s so familiar with the cresting waves now, practically surfing them. The atmosphere’s infectious, and as he got into the flow of it, Roman realized he hadn’t even been focusing on keeping a smile on his face; and yet, his cheeks were hurting anyways.

He loved this. He loved it so much. It was like he was shaking all of the bad out of his body, sweating it out, stomping it underfoot, letting the beat whisk it all away. Dancing almost felt more intoxicating than the vodka, at this point, and he was just—lost in it. He was dancing for himself, lost in it.

Something hedonistic and joyous was building up inside of him, and he laughed with it, the sheer energy inside of him, and then he opened his eyes.

There was no one with him.

The smile slipped, fell, crashed off of his face. The laugh faded abruptly.

It felt like the stupidest realization in the world. Roman had come alone. He had had passing conversations, at best, with the other people here.

He’d come to forget. Mission fucking accomplished. He hadn’t anticipated the pain of remembering.

It was like someone had flipped a switch inside of him. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted out, now. He wanted to be plastered and stupid and alone.

He pivoted sharply, and started to shove his way towards the bar. People barely paid him any mind, too busy talking and laughing with their friends, and God, Roman was the freak who’d come to a party, alone, and danced, alone, and expected people to like him for it.

What a fucking joke.

He didn’t matter to these people. He was such a small, forgettable blip on their radar that they weren’t even bothering expending the energy of forming an opinion of him. And... and maybe they shouldn’t.

The bar had been mostly abandoned. Roman calmly went behind, dug around, and came out with a travel mug the size of his head. And then another red solo cup. Just because.

Roman shouldered his way up the stairs, ignoring the “hey!” of a girl, and fled the building.

He started to walk.

He kept on walking. He occasionally found his feet to be a bit cumbersome, and he would pause to take deep gulps of his drink, before he kept going. He didn’t know where he was going. He just knew he didn’t want to go back to an empty room.

Surprisingly, there were still people wandering campus at this hour. A few people seemed to be just as intoxicated as he was; others just seemed like night owls. Roman surveyed them all, and wondered if his desperation was quite as obvious from the outside.

Finally, he managed to crash onto the quad, and took solace, sitting on the ground, leaning his back against a pedestal that held some weird modern art sculpture, shuddering from the sensation of cold stone up against his back.

Something buzzed against his ass. Roman frowned, and dug his phone out of his pocket, squinting at the screen.

message from dadshine

Roman swallowed, drew his knees up close to his chest, and took a deep breath before he unlocked his phone, fumblingly clicking his way over to the messages app.

dadshine: hey ro!! sorry i haven’t been texting this week, project had me swamped!! but i just saw that disney made this recipe and i thought of you <3 hope you’re doing well!

There was a link to Disney’s facebook page. Roman didn’t bother to click it yet.

princey: misd u patoon

Less than thirty seconds passed before the phone buzzed again. Within that thirty seconds, Roman had taken five gulps from the travel mug.

dadshine: i miss you too!! we have to organize a facetime movie session soon!! princey: yah princey: csn it be didney? dadshine: ??? you okay, ro?? princey: webt yo a oarty princey: kinda drubk princey: lov u lots

The travel mug was much lighter. It took him a few seconds to realize that “I Am The Walrus” was coming from his phone, not from a distant passing car.

“Lo,” he mumbled.

“I love you too, Roman,” Patton said, and Roman huddled up tight, a hand coming up to his forehead, because even as much as the phone distorted his voice, this was still Patton, his best friend in the whole wide world.

“Were you busy?” Roman asked, and his tongue felt much more difficult to operate than usual. “M’sorry. You should get back to—“

“No, I was just watching 101 Dalmatians,” Patton said, voice soothing.

“You love that movie,” Roman whispered into the phone. His breath was making smoky curlicues in the air. “Y’should. Get back to it.”

“How much have you had?” Patton pressed, and Roman’s eyes squeezed shut. Because he knew how this would go: Roman would tell him that he couldn’t remember, and Patton would be quietly upset about it, and he’d be so gentle with Roman that it would feel like Roman could shatter from it.

“Lot,” he said quietly, examining how red his fingers had gotten. That was normal in the cold, right?

And, yes, there it was: the soft, worried sigh that made Roman feel like he was about two feet tall.

“Are you still at the party?”

“No.” Roman whispered.

“Are you home?”

Roman looked out at the quad, and then went back to examining the backs of his eyelids. “No.”

“Do you... do you have someone there with you?”

Roman’s eyes squeezed shut tighter, and his fingers pressed, near-painful, into his forehead. He could never lie to Patton. “No.”

“What about the people you went with?! Did they just—leave you alone—?”

“I went alone,” Roman choked out.

There was a pregnant silence. Roman could hear Patton’s breaths, careful and measured.

“Please don’t ask it,” Roman managed to say.

“Roman,” Patton murmured. “I just—“

“Don’t, okay? I went to a party, alone, with my only intention to get really, truly fucked up, I’m sitting outside in the middle of February, freezing my ass off, because I didn’t want to go back. You and I both know the answer before you even ask it.”

A pause, then:

“Do you have a coat, at least?” Patton asked meekly.

“For fuck’s sake,” Roman said, and started to laugh, not cruelly, but the kind of laughter that came when he was trying really hard not to cry.

Patton let his laughter die down before he said, “You should get back to your dorm, Roman, it’s freezing where you are.”

Like that, any sense of laughter withered up and died in his chest.

“It’s,” he began, but the words stuck in his throat. “I don’t want to,” he said, and he realized he sounded petulant, like a child, and Patton was just trying to help, but—

But he just didn’t want to.

“I know,” Patton said, and Roman blinked, looking up and out before realizing there was no one else, and, again, the sound was coming from his phone.

“You are doing something.” Roman said, straining his ears, trying to deduce what it was. But he was just so, so drunk.

“Nothing important, just fidgeting, go back to your dorm, Roman,” Patton said.

“I—“ Roman began, and huffed. “I don’t—“

“Why not?” Patton asked, and oh no, his voice had taken on that gently shattering edge again, and Roman shivered, not entirely from the cold.

“Lonely,” he forced out between his teeth.

Whatever Patton was doing hushed. Then it resumed again at double time.

“Well,” Patton said, keeping his voice light, “Good thing you’re on the phone with me, then.”

“No, it’s not—“ Roman began, and huffed again, eyes squeezing shut. “I’m—alone.”

Another pause. “You’ve got me.”

Roman snorted, scuffed his shoe over the stone.

“You do,” Patton said, forceful. “Now get up and go to your dorm, or I’ll—I’ll start playing the Shrek soundtrack!”

“You wouldn’t,” Roman scoffed.

“I absolutely would,” Patton said. “Do you want me to start singing All Star? I will.”

Roman didn’t doubt it for a second. “Okay,” Roman sighed. “Okay, I’m getting up, fine.”

“Good,” Patton said, firmly.

The walk from the quad to his dorm seemed much shorter with Patton chattering away in his ear. If Roman didn’t know Patton, he wouldn’t have noticed the undercurrent of worry in his voice. But Roman did know Patton, so he couldn’t help but hyperfixate on it.

“I’m in my dorm,” he told Patton when he’d managed to unlock his door, and for a moment, Roman was terrified of Patton hanging up with him.

“Good,” Patton said. “You should drink some water.”

Roman shuddered with relief. Patton wouldn’t hang up on him. Not now. Not when Patton knows Roman is sad and drunk off his ass.

Roman drank his water, and then drank some more, and got ready for bed with Patton’s gentle urging. He washed his face, and brushed his teeth, and changed into pajamas. The whole time, Patton kept up a soothingly brainless stream of chatter for Roman to sink into, letting him hmm and oh his way through the conversation.

Roman laid down in his bed when Patton told him to, and put his phone on speaker, setting it on his bedside table before he laid his head down on his pillow.

“You’re all tucked in?” Patton checked.

“Mmhmm.”

“Snug as a bug in a rug?”

Roman hummed. “As a bug in a rug. You should read me to sleep, or somethin’.”

“I’ll do you one better,” Patton said, softly.

“Yeah?” Roman asked, already on that edge between sleep and waking.

“Once upon a time, there was a very handsome prince named Roman.” Patton began. “He loved to sing, and dance, and act. The whole kingdom would gather around to watch him perform, for he was very talented, and it was his favorite thing in the world, so it made their prince very happy. And the kingdom loved to see their prince happy.”

Roman’s fists curled into his blankets, and his eyes slid lazily shut.

“Prince Roman was very close friends with a... jester? Let’s go with jester. The court’s jester, Patton, who loved to see Prince Roman happy. They grew to be very close friends, very good friends, and it made the jester very happy to spend time with the prince.”

He was very warm. Patton’s voice was soothing, the babbling rush of a brook, a voice Roman had been familiar with for almost all of his life.

“But the prince and the jester both grew to be of age, and both were sent away on quests. They were both sent away to study their crafts, to form new allies for the kingdom, and to slay a couple of dragons, while they were away. The jester cried the night before leaving for his quest, because he wasn’t sure how he would be able to see the world without the prince by his side.”

Roman’s eyes popped open. Patton hadn’t told him that. He was about to ask, but Patton was rushing ahead.

“But the prince would face a large and dangerous dragon, one he had never had to struggle with, because he had always had the jester beside him. This dragon was also magic—a dragon witch, if you will. She was cunning, and dastardly, and had it out for the prince, because she was jealous of how happy and talented the prince was. The dragon witch saw that the prince and the jester were apart, and decided to make her move.

“The prince had been having trouble before, but when the dragon witch struck, the prince found himself wounded, cursed, and unable to call for help. The curse left him feeling a kind of sadness that he had never known before, a kind of loneliness he had never faced. Fortunately for the prince, however, a letter from the jester arrived, just in time, and the prince realized how to defeat the curse. So he composed a letter as quickly as he could, and the jester dropped everything he was doing, so they could slay the dragon witch together, once and for all...”

Roman was slip, slip, slipping, and Patton’s voice faded away.

Roman awoke to the repeated and desperate sound of someone trying to knock their knuckles off on his door.

Roman groaned, and checked the time. Oh, great, four hours of sleep. Of all the times for his roommate to randomly pop back in—

“Coming,” Roman creaked at the door, staggering to his feet and clapping a hand to his head as his vision swam. The knocking did not cease.

“All right, I said I’m coming,” Roman snapped at the door, and opened it.

He didn’t have the time to look at who it was before he was almost knocked over.

Patton. Patton was here.

He had his face buried in Roman’s shoulder, arms wrapped around him tight, like he was trying to squeeze the life out of Roman, and Roman only hesitated for a second before sweeping Patton into his arms, trying to hold him as close as possible. There is something in his chest, growing, warm and bright.

When they separated, Roman’s mouth was hanging open, and his eyes were maybe a little wetter than they were before. He didn’t let go of Patton’s shoulder’s—it almost felt like if he’d let go, Patton would fade.

“Patton,” Roman breathed. “I—you—“

“You’re not alone,” Patton said, stubborn. “Okay? You’re not alone.”

“I—did you just drive all the way here?”

Patton hesitated, and said, “You were feeling sad.”

“Oh, my God, Patton,” Roman said, trying not to laugh, and instead tugged Patton in for another, shorter hug, the thing in his chest not decreased at all. “How long has it been since you slept?”

“Like,” Patton said, and scrunched his nose, trying to think.

“If it takes you that long to come up with a number, it’s been too long,” Roman said decisively, and shut the door behind him. “C’mon, we’re both exhausted. We can snuggle.”

“Snuggling sounds good,” Patton said, and Roman sat on his bed as Patton rustled through his bag, tugging out his pajamas, and Roman felt the fondness swell up in his throat, dangerous and overwhelming.

They were Winnie-the-Pooh themed. Patton had packed Disney pajamas to stay with Roman.

“D’you wanna be big spoon or little spoon?” Paton asked, folding up his glasses and handing them to Roman, so he could set them on the nightstand.

Roman paused, considering, and said at last, “Little spoon.”

"Spoon-purb,” Patton teased, and Roman groaned, even as he was tugging back the blankets so they could both get under them.

“Awful,” Roman said, but he was grinning too wide to really make it look like he meant it.

“Yeah, you missed me,” Patton said, clambering in beside Roman as they both laid down on their sides.

Roman smiled, feeling the comforting weight and warmth of Patton against his back.

“Yeah, I really did,” he said, soft.

Patton pressed a soft, chaste kiss to the back of his head, and nuzzled into the back of his neck. “Go back to sleep, Roman.”

“Love you,” Roman murmured, and he felt Patton’s smile against his skin.

“I love you too, Ro.”

taglist: @somewhatsanders @tommysandypantsisasolarnymph @erlenmeyertrash

#text #my fic #my fanfic #sanders sides #sanders sides fanfic #roman #patton #right brain #royality

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gaypasta · 7 years ago

Text

do you want fries with that?

Chapter 8/? Read on Ao3 Chapter Directory

Everything was going to plan, or at least according to Richie who was currently arguing with Ben over his music choices. Stan was almost taken aback by the organisation skills Richie had presented when it came to getting everything set up in such a short amount of time, his parents had only left an hour beforehand and Beverly was due any minute now. Eddie had overestimated the number of balloons that were needed - Richie, however, had insisted that all of them were to be used, so Stan and Bill - being the tallest - had spent the better part of an hour tacking balloons to the wooden skirting on the ceiling. They were planning to use Helium, so they wouldn’t have to use tacks but Eddie refused and began listing off all the types of cancers related to the inhalation of Helium and Richie lay defeated under Eddie’s wrath. Stan carefully stepped over a puddle of balloons which had been left ‘for dramatics’ on the kitchen floor. There was nothing dramatic about a kitchen, Stan had thought but nonetheless, Richie was the Lieutenant in this operation and Stan pretty much gave him free reign of his house - after removing all breakable ornaments from the space and covering the seats in a plastic lining - and Richie was doing great. He had all the snacks laid out on the kitchen table, the candles were going to be lit as far away from the alcohol as possible and the lights were dimmed, but not so dim that you couldn’t see people’s features - but dim enough that Richie’s light-up sneakers were bouncing bright lights across the floor.

Above the archway which connects the living-room to the kitchen hung an obviously homemade banner with ‘Happy Sweet Sixteenth, Beverly!’ written in black marker. The writing was slightly lopsided but Stan didn’t cast it much of a second thought. A few pictures of Beverly and the rest of his friends were taped to the wooden supports for the archway, Stan hoped that the tack from the tape didn’t take off any of the varnish. Most people wouldn’t notice if there was a small line of exposed wood peeking out behind the varnish, but Stanley’s parents were much like himself in the fact that they were rather pedantic, they knew their home and knew exactly the way things should be. Stan traced his hand over a picture Bill had taken on his Polaroid camera. Stan, Beverly and Richie were skipping stones down at a particularly deep part of the Quarry and Richie had been over-enthusiastic in his throwing, and slipped on a patch of algae and fell right into the water. The photo captured Richie’s sour expression and Stan and Beverly laughing at him, stones falling from their hands and almost slipping into the water themselves. Pinned underneath was another one, labelled ‘ July 6th’ - clearly a sunny day, Bev lying on the grass in one of Mike’s fields, with Mike braiding daisies into her hair. Her hair was shorter then, she had grown into the short haircut well and although it was a shock when she had cut it, no one could imagine Beverly with long hair anymore. Stan smiled fondly, that was the day Mike needed help with silage - a gruelling task that they all agreed to help him with, since his Grandpa was getting on in the years. Even Georgie had came down to ‘help’ - which ended up translating to Richie dragging Georgie off to pet all the animals.

There were easily a dozen more photos all including Beverly, even the picture Bill had taken for her ‘Employee of the Month’ poster in the Diner and a picture of her sharing a smoke with Richie during Halloween night, covered in paint. Stan inspected them all with care - making sure he didn't tousle them too much that they’d fall. He appreciated Bill bringing his camera, although he always groaned when Bill insisted they all take a photo, Stan knew that in time, he’d appreciate the pictures - even the ones of himself - like the way he is appreciating these ones.

It was in the middle of examining a picture of Beverly giving the camera the finger, there was a red solo cup gently nudged against the back of his hand.

“Here, you deserve a drink.” Mike insisted gently, Stan waved his hands.

“I’m staying sober, Mike. I don’t want anything broken but thanks for the offer. You should give it to Richie, he’s still arguing with Ben and I think he brought up one of Ben’s boy bands so things might get ugly.”

Mike laughed and dropped the cup into Stan’s hand, “I’m the designated driver for tonight, I’ll make sure no one gets up to any badness.” He stopped himself and looked at Richie, who was trying to do a handstand - presumably to make a point to Ben, as he was red-faced and shouting while doing it, “Well, not too much badness.”

Stan nodded as he took a small sip of the liquid, it was cider, “Thanks Mike, I’ll not get too drunk.”

Mike laughed, “I’m not expecting anything out of the usual, don’t worry.”

Stan nodded and took another drink, staring out of the window in thought. Richie assured him that everything was going to plan but it didn’t feel right. He felt as though there was something missing and it was toying with him. He went through the checklist and everything was there; the spare bedroom was made in case someone passed out, the bathroom was cleaned, the glasses have been replaced with solo cups, Beverly’s cake is sitting on the island counter, the porch light is on, the thermostat is set at a comfortable 72 degrees and is set to turn off at 1:00am. He couldn’t think of anything that was missing and yet he still had a nagging feeling like something was wrong, that something wouldn’t go right and Beverly wouldn’t enjoy it.

Maybe it was her gift, Stan didn’t know her exact dress size but he bought her a dark blue pinafore and it looked as though it would fit - and he knew she had a pair of blue converse so he wasn’t afraid of it not matching her wardrobe. Maybe she wouldn’t wear it - Stan had never seen her wear a pinafore before, except her brown one from years ago.

“You alright?” Mike’s voice was littered with concern, but his face was soft as always, “You look a little spooked.”

Stan sighed, “Yeah, it’s nothing.”

“If your trouble leaves your mouth it leaves your head, you know.”

“I’m just worried Beverly isn’t going to like it. What if there’s a reason she doesn’t celebrate her birthday and we trigger something she had intentionally swept under the rug?”

“Like a bad memory?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Well, I think the only way to fix that is to make good memories about her birthday. To overshadow the bad ones.”

“That makes sense. What if she wants it quiet, though? A quiet night in instead of a party.”

Mike raised an eyebrow at him, “Have you ever known our Bev to want a quiet night in?”

Stan chuckled, many memories being called to attention, “You’re right. Remember that time she and Richie climbed out of your window and tried to ride your horse?”

Mike’s face lit up, “Yeah, and the horse was so spooked we couldn’t ride her for two weeks, Eddie made them apologize to Grandpa.”

They laughed about the horse for a while, exchanging memories, before Richie piped up from behind them, “Hey! What did you losers get Bev for her birthday? I got her an axe.” His chest was pushed out in a show of pride.

Stan almost dropped his cup, “An axe?! Richie, why did you get her an axe? In fact, more importantly - who sold you an axe?”

“I had to cycle to the next town over to get it, I went to seven different stores in Derry, and no one would sell me one!”

“Yeah, because everyone in Derry knows that the first thing you’d do with an axe is accidentally cut your fingers off,” Mike said.

“Michael, I am disappointed.” Richie said incredulously, “Remember that time, four score and many years ago, that I cut a log for you?”

“It took you ten minutes to cut one log and you dislocated your thumb,” Stan said flatly.

Richie scoffed, “Kids these days don’t appreciate hard work.”

“Guys! I see her bike! Everyone get down!” Eddie shouted from the kitchen, and they all took their places as Eddie rushed to switch off the lights. Richie and Stan rushed towards the same location - behind Stan’s loveseat. There wasn’t a lot of room for the two boys, admittedly they were the tallest of all their friends - but it didn’t bother either of them enough to move. Stan was peering off to the side of the couch to watch for Beverly’s shadow. Stan could feel Richie’s warm breath tickling under his collar as Richie leaned forward, vibrating in excitement and wanting to be the first one to jump up at her. It wasn’t moments later that Stan watched Beverly’s shadow ghost over the room as she walked past the porch light and knocked on the back door twice. Stan had told her to use the back door - most people did, after all. The front door was really only for formalities. After no answer the door knob tentatively twisted open and the door slowly creaked open into the darkened room. Before she even got the chance to announce her presence, the light was switched on and Beverly was encapsulated in confetti from party poppers.

A strong chorus of ‘SURPRISE’ rang out as everyone jumped from their hiding spots, Richie jumped on Stan’s toe and made him curse and push him off - bumping slightly into Ben, who was too busy staring at Beverly with wonder to even notice. Beverly looked shocked initially, with the sudden noise and movement but she quickly embraced the situation and began laughing as she looked at the decorations and the presents - many of which were poorly wrapped, not for lack of care - which were piled up on the kitchen counter.

“You’re all fucking losers.” She laughed as she brought Eddie, who was standing within grabbing distance, into a tight hug and gave him a kiss in his hair as she made a beeline to the kitchen counter, where Bill was waving her over.

“What is the birthday girl’s drink of choice?”

Beverly took the bottle of vodka from his arm and winked, before taking a straight swig - resulting in loud cheering from Richie and Bill, “Anything and everything.” Her voice sounded gravelly from the burning in her throat, but her face hadn’t flinched. Stan, who sometimes found it difficult to drink beer, wondered how she could drink liquid akin to gasoline without a twitch.

Everyone, including Stan himself crowded into the kitchen to give their Birthday wishes over drinks, Beverly’s face was flushed at being the center of attention but she was smiling and laughing and even trying to get Eddie to take a shot of tequila with her - he didn’t, mumbling about liver disease and took a sip of his soda. Stan’s worries slowly melted away and he finished off his cider without realising, until Richie handed him another cup with a wink. The wink, which only Stan had caught, made his face break out in a smile and his cheeks flush, both of which he hid behind the mouth of the cup as he took a drink. Stan stood with Richie as he played barman, making Ben a fruity cocktail as requested and Ben almost spitting it out because of how terrible it was, Richie just laughed and told Ben to get stuck in. Surprisingly, after a few minutes Eddie came to Richie with a request.

“Richie I want a drink.”

Richie and Stan looked up from their conversation with wide eyes, unbelieving that those very words had come out of Eddie’s mouth. His eyebrows were furrowed and his arms were crossed in an attempt to appear broader than he actually was, it was almost comical. Stan and Richie exchanged a look, neither particularly wanting to challenge Eddie, although he was only five foot and a bit, he had a lot of fight in him and when Eddie went off, he went off. Richie took a gulp and stood up straight, fixing his glasses.

“Sure big guy, what’ll it be?”

Eddie stared at Richie for several moments, “Uhh…” he was almost wide-eyed, like a deer caught in the headlights, but not wanting to look inexperienced, even though everyone who was attending knew that Eddie very rarely drank, “Whatever you think.”

Richie gave an obnoxious ‘aww’ at Eddie and began searching through the row of liquor he brought - Stan briefly wondered why he required four different brands of vodka but decided that it was best not to ask questions. Richie poured a handful of different drinks into a cup and presented it with a flourish, “A mai tai for my guy.”

Eddie gingerly took the cup, giving it a sniff before downing it, to both Stan and Richie’s horror.

“Um, Eddie…” Richie tried to lower the cup but his hand was slapped away.

Eddie threw the empty cup to the ground and wiped some remaining pink off his lips, “That was disgusting, make me another one.”

“That… wasn’t really a drink to down, that’s a cocktail - you don’t down cocktails.” Richie was met with a glare and he quickly went to fix another mai-tai, with a lot fewer spirits in it that the previous one, Stan noted.

“Eddie I thought you were worried about liver disease?” Stan said, as Eddie peered over Richie’s shoulder to watch him make his drink.

“I’m making an executive decision not to think about that right now.”

“Atta man! Die young like the rest of us, fall at your peak.” Richie cheered, handing Eddie his drink, “Now sip this one, otherwise you’ll be sick and I’m sure as hell not cleaning up your barf.”

Eddie’s eyes widened momentarily before he nodded and moved to the living room, slowly sipping his drink while he talked to Bill, who was handing out presents to Beverly. Stan and Richie watched Beverly’s reactions from the kitchen, her face lit up when she opened Stan’s present. She gave him a thumbs up and a flurried ‘thank you!’ before being very gingerly handed the axe, which was unwrapped bar a bow on the iron head and a jagged ‘love Richie’ carved into the handle. She gave it a few practice swings, which were more violent than necessary before Mike managed to wrestle it out of her hands and he opened the back door and threw it into the yard, knowing no one would be bothered to put their shoes back on to go get it.

The following few hours were a flurry of lights, sounds and dancing - Ben played music that everyone loved but would later object to the accusation, Bill and Mike danced - Bill, despite having a dozen beers in his system, was the much better dancer. Eddie had only had two more drinks, but was fairly buzzed, as was everyone else. Stan had drunk slightly more than intended but luckily he had paced himself and he wasn’t nearly in the same state as Beverly, who was dancing and singing loudly, stumbling over her own feet without a care in the world, which is what Stan intended. He wanted Beverly to let loose for her sixteenth birthday.

Richie had pulled him to the centre of the living room, brushing everyone to the side and told Ben to change the song, Stan blinked for a few moments in confusion and asked Richie what was going on. Richie shook his head and told Stan to shush . Richie stretched out his arms and legs as if preparing for a marathon while Ben fumbled the new cassette tape into the boombox. Stan tried not to laugh as his favourite guilty-pleasure song began to fill the room, he failed though, when Eddie grumbled, “Fucking Cyndi Lauper, for real?”.

Richie belted out the lyrics as though there was no one else in the room, “I came home, in the morning light! My mother says when you gonna live your life right?”

He pointed at Stan to finish the verse, and Stan scoffed and rolled his eyes but with the drink making his confidence and his inhibitions were slowly being phased from his mind, Stan belted out the next verse, throwing his hands in the air and accidentally splashing some cider onto the floor, “The phone rings, in the middle of the night, my Father yells what you gonna do with your life,”

Richie laughed and joined him for the remainder of the second verse, Stan was an excellent singer and he usually was the one who sang in temple when required but he didn’t like to show off. Richie however, sounded more akin to a car driving over a series of cats - no one seemed to mind though as they waited for Richie and Stan to finish the verse before everyone - even Eddie - sang along for the rest of the song.

Richie and Stan still remained centrefold and Stan jumped in place to the beat while Richie’s arms and legs seized in what Stan assumed was Richie’s dance moves. Beverly was laughing and pulling Ben to dance, he mumbled something about being the DJ but let himself be pulled in by Beverly, who held his hands as she danced wildly. Stan momentarily scanned the room for any drinks which could have been spilt, but thankfully Mike had been moving cups out of the way as everyone got drunker and wanted to dance with more avidity.

The song finished and Stan finished his drink while Richie chanted some drinking chant he’d picked up from God knows where and Stan ordered Richie to get him another drink, who bowed and scurried off - popping several of the balloons he had left on the floor. Stan briefly wondered if he was drunker than he had initially thought, so he moved his fingers, recalled some bird names and their origins and tried to clear his head. He admitted, he was slightly more drunk than he intended to be at the start of the night, but he wasn’t making a fool of himself or losing track of what was happening. He was just, buzzed, he still had his wits and his sense, but he was just… more confident. More at ease with the space his body and personality took up. Stan knew in the back of his head, that he should probably call it quits on the drinking, before he gets worse - but just as the thought entertained his head he watched Mike grab the drink out of Eddie’s hand and switched it with Bill’s - who had been drinking triple vodka and blackcurrants the past hour, Eddie probably would have puked if he had accidentally taken a swig. Watching Mike take control and look after all his friends made him feel at ease, and he knew he could trust Mike enough to have another drink or four.

He went to ask Richie where his drink was, but he caught the tail end of Richie walking out the back door with a cigarette in his lips, he was without his shoes so Stan knew he wasn’t leaving. Not that he would have any reason to think he was leaving. So Stan sighed and made an effort to step over the balloons and pour himself another cider but he was stopped in his tracks by a hand on his arm. He noticed the chipped nail polish and the freckles which rode from her hands the whole way up to her neck but most importantly he noticed a lazy but genuine smile on Beverly’s face, it made him feel even happier than he already was.

“Stan, I need…. Um… I need to...talk! I need to talk to you. No, not here, um… the hall? Yeah, the hallway! Let’s go!” Beverly didn’t really give him much of an option as she pulled him through the balloons and past Bill trying to hoist Eddie over his shoulders, for some reason. Bill was probably the most wasted out of them all, Stan faintly wonders how he was going to manage work tomorrow.

Beverly dragged them into the hallway and closed the door behind them, giving them a faint veil of privacy. She looked Stan up and down, as if calculating what she was going to say next and Stan shifted slightly under her gaze. She slowly grabbed his hand and held it there, not doing anything with it, just holding it softly, like one would hold a toddler’s hand.

“Stan, thank you soooo much for all this.”

Stan blinked, “Wait, Bev-”

“No, let me finish. Don’t be modest. I’ve never really had any of … this . Not just a birthday party and presents, but I’ve never had a proper group of friends that I’ve felt at home with. I know we’re only ‘work friends’ but I don’t care, I love all of you so much. I love having something to look forward to in the morning, even if it’s going to fucking work. Imagine that? Being excited to go to work.” She laughed, Stan couldn’t pinpoint if it was a happy one or not, so he stayed silent, “The only friend I ever had abandoned me over a stupid rumour, and I know she knew it wasn’t true - like she was looking any excuse to drop me. I know you guys wouldn’t do that though, I feel … wanted, you know? And that’s a pretty fuckin’ new feeling for me - oh wait that came out more dramatic than I intended. Fuck, well, what I mean is that I know you all care about me - even if you all have different ways of showing it. When I’m in a bad mood Richie will offer me a cigarette and nothing more or nothing less, Bill will give me a hug and let me rant to him, and Ben - oh our Ben - he just … talks, he probably doesn’t even notice that he’s helping, but he’ll just talk about whatever school project he’s doing or whatever movie he saw last and it just is so soothing. Stan, but this?”, she gestured around, pointing at a stray balloon, “this is more than I ever could’ve expected.”

“Beverly, it wasn’t anything to do with m-”

“Shut up, Stan.”

Stan wasn’t really sure how the next position came to be, but by the time he blinked, Beverly’s lips were on his and she was softly cupping his face. Her soft fingers traced down his cheeks until they fell to his shoulders. Her lips weren’t soft like he’d heard Ben fantasizing about one day - they were chapped, dry and firm. He felt as though the thought was doing a dishonour to Beverly’s femininity but he couldn’t help it. She was beautiful, yes. She had a strong personality that was a stream leading into a waterfall, unintimidating and gentle at first glance but suddenly you’re being thrown into the riptide and riding the currents. She was a great friend, but that’s the thing. That’s all she was. Her lips on his felt like putting a belt on baggy pyjama bottoms - it makes logical sense - belts hold up pants, even pyjama ones. But it felt wrong, it may make logical sense but it didn’t nothing to calm his morals.

With that thought, he moved away, holding Beverly’s shoulders. He glanced around to make sure that Ben hadn’t seen, Stan was certain it would kill him. “Beverly, I didn’t plan this, Richie did. I just hosted it - don’t give the credit to me.”

She looked at him with eyes wide and her hands clasped over her mouth, before letting out a surprised laugh, “Richie? No way! He’s such a puke, though!”

Stan nodded and gave her shoulder a curt pat before turning to leave, as he turned to leave a flicker of light from the window caught his eyes. A cigarette bud went shooting to the ground as the figure - which Stan could only name to be Richie, swiftly got up and moved from the window, a storm of lights following his footsteps. He was only out of Stan’s sight for a moment before he came through the front door, face like a storm.

“Richie! We were just talking about you - hahaha - that sounded mean, not in a bad way! Just about how you’re the best for throwing a party for me. A party! How cool is that!” She laughed again and swayed into Stan slightly, who held her up while touching her as little as possible. Richie gave Beverly a smile, a smile which Stan, even in his slightly inebriated state could recognize instantly as fake, “No problem Bevvie,” and without so much of a glance, he walked back into the party, the sudden volume of music when Richie opened the door just made the hallway seem even more desolate with its absence.

“I - I have to pee, real bad.” Beverly groaned, Stan nodded and led her to the bathroom, keeping the door slightly ajar in case anything happened.

After walking Beverly back into the party, Stan froze with the sight he met while walking into the kitchen in search of a soda. On the island counter stood a row of shots, six of them, with Richie’s hand circling the first one. Richie’s eyes immediately shot up to meet Stan’s and with an almost delirious smile, he lifted the shot glass to his face and tipped the clear liquid into his mouth. His body shuddered slightly as the taste met his tongue, and Stan felt himself shuddering too as Richie’s hand fell to the next shot and repeated the action. Stan felt as if the acidic liquid was being poured down his own throat as it began to ache. Stan looked around owlishly, to see if anyone else noticed how out of character this was for Richie, but no. He was the only one - even Mike was preoccupied with trying to get Bill to put Eddie down. Richie smoked and Richie drank, but Richie never got drunk . He never understood why until the previous weekend, Stan knew Richie didn’t want to end up like his Mother, and it sent an aching pain to his chest when Richie necked the third shot.

Stan couldn’t help but speak out, since no one else was even casting an eye in their direction, too preoccupied with their own antics, “Richie, cool it. It’s only ten o’clock, you’re going to pass out before midnight at this rate.”

Richie looked him directly in the eyes and took the final two shots without even blinking.

He couldn’t explain why Richie taking a row of shots for the explicit reason to get plastered made his chest tighten and his body feel cold, he should be encouraging it. It’s a birthday party and Richie wouldn’t be out of place if he was drunk, in fact, he would fit in a lot better after these shots. Something about Richie taking the fourth and fifth in rapid succession - with one in each hand made Stan want to leave, made him want to turn his back or close his eyes - and the cheer Richie let out after completing his own marathon of schnapps felt like a cry of defeat rather than victory, or maybe that was just the sound of his throat burning.

For whatever reason, Richie skidded off to jump at Bill,who crumpled to the ground instantly which resulted in a wrestling match. It looked a lot more like two fish flopping on a fishing deck but Stan watched lamely anyway as Bill limply tried to hit Richie in the face - catching his neck instead. The two scrapped for a while until Stan got bored of having to tell Richie to stop biting and he went off to grab the can of soda he intended to get minutes earlier. Stan hadn’t turned his back twenty seconds when Richie’s hands steered him away from the comforting plastic bottles of soda and towards the heavy glass bottle of alcohol.

“Richie, what are you doing?”

“Showing you a good time Stan, drink up, buddy.” Richie tried to hand Stan a full bottle of vodka and waved it under his nose, the smell of disinfectant was so strong it almost burnt his nostrils and Stan grabbed it out of Richie’s hand and softly put it back where it belonged. “Boo, don’t be a party pooper. Have another cider at least, ma’am.”

“I’m not drinking anymore, I’ve had too many as it is.”

Richie rolled his eyes, “There’s no such thing.”

“Yes, there is.”

“Well, not tonight there isn’t! C’mon, take the stick out of your ass for one night . Your soul won’t even leak out or anything - promise!”

Stan gave Richie a soft kick to the shin at the insult, he realised that he had a small window of opportunity and the retaliation died in his throat in exchange for a compromise, “Fine but only if you stick to soda for the next few hours.”

Richie swayed from side to side, weighing his options, “Fine, it’s a deal - I’ll make you a Bill Denbrough special, then.”

“What? Richie - no.”

“Too late! I’m pouring the vodka!”

“Richie - put it down.”

“Oh no! I accidentally put in too much, whoops!”

“Richie, I’m not afraid to choke you.”

Richie handed him the violent concoction and smiled out of the corner of his mouth, “Promise?”

Stan yanked the drink out of Richie’s hand, glaring at him as he took a swig of it. He tried his best not to let his disgust show on his face, it truly was a drink for animals. Stan briefly wondered what was wrong with Bill for this to be his drink of choice, but he didn’t get a chance to wonder for long before Richie was pulling him out the back door with a pack of cigarettes in his other hand.

The door shut behind them, the music muffled behind the door. It felt almost like stepping into a different planet, where the moon was bright and the air was like ice - cutting into Stan’s bare forearms and making him shiver. Stan watched Richie slide onto the grass, not seeming to care that it was damp, “I don’t remember me saying I would join you in the freezing cold for a smoke.”

Richie blinked several times at his lighter - trying to remember how to use it. The cold air had hit him hard - and the alcohol only pumped harder through his veins. Stan watched Richie whine as he tried flicking his lighter for a minute before Stan took the lighter out of Richie’s hands, “Hold still,” Stan crouched down to kneel beside him, holding his spare hand to Richie’s cheek, blocking the wind as he flicked his thumb down the striker wheel onto the fuel lever, a bright yellow flame instantly brushing against the tip of Richie’s cigarette. The reflection of the flame bounced off Richie’s glasses and made his face light up in a warm light. Richie sucked and within seconds his cigarette was successfully lit - he let out a cheer and a breath of smoke drifted into the wind.

“I knew I didn’t need to ask - you’re still here aren’t you?” Richie grinned around his cigarette, cheeks raising his glasses up his face by a few centimetres.

Stan took a drink again - he wasn’t particularly thirsty, Stan didn’t take a drink just so the cup would hide his smile, why would he? “Shut up, Richie.” He mumbled.

Richie took a drag and let his wrist lazily sit on his upright knee, smiling into the sky with a face of delirium. “Stan…”

“Yes, Richie?”

“I have something to tell you… but it’s a -” Richie quickly looked around, as if someone had crept up on them to listen to their conversation, “it’s a secret.”

Stan nodded and decided to indulge in whatever nonsense was going to flow out of Richie’s mouth. They had only been outside a minute and the cold air had really played an effect on Richie’s sobriety (or lack thereof). “Go on.”

Richie laughed, “I know that you’re a -” Richie broke out into a fit of laughter - almost stubbing out his cigarette on his jeans, he began his sentence again, but only falling into the same fit of laughter. Stan sat patiently, his face like a statue, which only made Richie laugh even more. “Womanizer!”

Stan’s face twisted in confusion, “A what? Did you just call me a womanizer?”

“Y-yeah!” Richie laughed and somehow managed to take a drag between his giggle fits. “I always thought Mike would be the first one to bed a girl - besides me of course.”

Stan looked away from Richie, “I don’t understand what you mean, also if you mean sex - please just say ‘sex’.”

Richie barked out a short laugh before rolling his bottom lip between his teeth. Richie delicately placed his cigarette on the grass, trying to avoid it getting damp before clumsily clambering onto Stan’s very own lap. Stan, who was a big fan of personal space began pushing Richie off but it was too late, Richie went dead weight and refused to budge for all Stan’s strength.

“I saw you kissing Beverly.”

Stan froze, even ceasing the actions of breathing for a few moments - he froze the way one would when their parents walk in on them doing something they definitely shouldn’t be doing. Stan wasn’t sure why he felt an overwhelming sense of guilt and he tripped over his own tongue trying to explain what had happened to Richie before he gets the wrong idea.

“Shhh -” Richie placed a finger over Stan’s lips, which made him flinch long enough for Richie to speak over his words, “It’s fiiiiiine. You don’t even gotta worry about it. Listen..” Richie firmly grasped the back of Stan’s head and brought their foreheads together, “You two are great for each other. I don’t know how long it’s been a thing or whatever but I hope she is what you need, Stan.”

Stan tried to move his head back but it only resulted in Richie dipping his head onto Stan’s shoulder, who let out a huff. His glasses were jabbing into his collarbone and he tried to jerk Richie’s head off his shoulder to no avail.

“Richie-”

“Best friends don’t keep secrets from each other, Stan. I even told you when I had my first wet dream, in great detail - even down to her cup size.”

“I really didn’t ask, though.”

“But I cared enough to tell you! And it was a small thing, but you wouldn’t even tell me a big thing! You keep big secrets from your best friend. That's preeeeetty shitty, Stan.”

“I didn’t ki-”

“No! Stan! You didn’t!” Richie whipped his head up to meet Stan’s eyes, Richie’s glasses were fogged up and Stan couldn’t even meet his eyes properly, he assumed Richie could barely see his face. “Beverly is your best friend now! I can’t believe I’ve been dumped to the side. I’m going to go drown my sorrows because my main man doesn’t even appreciate me and he just drops me… like a plate.”

“I’m actually lost in what this conversation is about.”

Richie huffed and went to slap Stan’s head, but missed and stumbled heavily in Stan’s lap - Stan quickly shot his hands out to Richie’s hips to stabilize him. “I'm just telling you about how you’ve replaced me!”

“Richie -” Richie opened his mouth to speak, but Stan slapped a hand over his mouth and glared at him, “Let me speak, asshole. I didn’t kiss Beverly - she kissed me. I’m not dating Beverly nor do I want to date Beverly - so no, I’m not abandoning you, you’re still my best friend and you’re sitting outside crying in my lap over nothing.”

“Bmm beev lomphs tu?”

Stan grimaced and whipped his hand off Richie’s mouth, wiping the spit off on Richie’s t-shirt. Richie blinked at Stan, awaiting a response.

“I think we both know that I didn’t quite catch that.”

Richie dramatically huffed and rolled his eyes, “I said ; but Bev likes you.”

“You’ve lost me. Where did you draw that conclusion?”

“Well she kissed you! Duh!”

Stan wondered for a moment, Richie wasn’t wrong, she did kiss him. But she also kissed Eddie on the hair, she’s kissed everyone’s cheeks and foreheads many times sober, Beverly wasn’t one to hold back on the kisses and Stan really didn’t think it was too far of a reach to say that with a lot of alcohol in her system, she kisses people on the mouths too. Stan may not have been the best at noticing people’s affections towards him - but he was fairly certain that Beverly didn’t harbour any feelings of the sort towards him. “That was a platonic kiss, I’m sure.”

“What’s that?”

“Platonic means intimate but not romantic or sexual.” “I get straight A’s I know what fuckin’...platonic means. How can you kiss platonically? That doesn’t make sense. That’s like… having platonic sex or casually sucking Bill’s dick as a friend, though.”

Stan shrugged, “I guess if you can kiss someone on the forehead platonically, you can kiss them on the mouth platonically too.”

Richie shifted in his lap, staring at him with wide eyes - his glasses were no longer fogged up - Richie was twisting Stan’s shirt in his hands, twisting tightly, then untwisting. A rapid pattern which was going to crease the fabric but before Stan had the chance to tell Richie to stop, the boy had surged forward and stole the words straight from his lips.

Richie moved his lips against Stan’s for a moment - while Stan, who’s eyes were wide open - moved to tell Richie to stop. At this moment, however, Richie had used it as an opportunity to slip his tongue in and explore Stan’s mouth. Stan froze - not out of shock or surprise - he just forgot how to move for a minute, in fact, the only thing that could move was his tongue as it traced Richie’s movements with such need that it had taken Stan aback.

Richie scooted himself closer into Stan’s lap and sighed into his mouth, a sigh of pleasure? Relief? Stan wasn’t sure - all he was sure about right now was that Richie was moving on top of his crotch and it wasn’t doing much to ease the images of the dirty dream that had plagued him all week, Stan found that in his inebriated state, he didn’t mind all too much and his hands found themselves in Richie’s hair - it had been combed, Stan noticed - holding Richie’s head to keep him from moving away. It was when Stan’s tongue had found its way into Richie’s mouth did Richie pull away - face flushed and pupils blown.

Neither of them moved for what felt like an eternity, Stan’s hands were still in Richie’s hair and Richie was still sitting directly on top of Stan’s growing erection, Stan could only pray that Richie didn’t notice it. If it weren’t for a loud bang that came from inside the house to startle them, they might have stayed like that all night. But they didn’t and Richie moved off Stan’s lap and picked his cigarette off the ground, relighting it on his own this time with shaking hands.

“So platonic kissing is a thing?” Richie asked from behind his cigarette. He glanced at Stan in trepidation.

Stan swallowed thickly and nodded, taking a drink of his almost forgotten vodka blackcurrant, “Yes, I suppose it is.”

#stozier #richie tozier #stan uris #ff #mine #it movie #dywfwt

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harryspaceshipmchale · 7 years ago

Note

hey there, Pidge. jeff x annie: 58, 61, 90, (and 94 unless you have a limit) heh ;)

Send a number and I’ll write an angsty fic.

Hey! Did you enjoy your movie?

So turns out my ficlet for #58 ended up being 1.5k words so… have this instead of all of them. Although you can also have a fic you’ve already read for #90 (if you’re reading this and you’re not Janine, then it’s new to you! Come read!), even if it’s not an exact prompt fill - it’s on a similar vein and I may as well make use of it.

I’ll put these on AO3 soon.

S5 AU

58. “What I feel for you terrifies me.”

Annie’s not sure how it happens exactly, emphasis on exactly. One minute they’re reminiscing over Troy because it’s officially been a month since he’s been sailing the seven seas and the next they’re going back down memory lane just for old times’ sake, just for the five of them.

They’re all outside Jeff’s apartment after having dinner when the topic of Troy arises and because it’s a fairly warm night out for the time of year, they end up sitting on the steps outside of his block, with Shirley stood up on the bottom step, leaning against the railing because she doesn’t want to ‘dirty her skirt’.

Slowly but surely Shirley becomes tired of standing and it triggers a chain reaction of everyone wanting to leave one by one. Britta says she has a shift at her new bar to get to and Abed has to study for a quiz in the morning so they all leave with their genuine excuses but for some reason, she just shrugs at Abed when he asks if she’s coming and stays put.

She and Jeff haven’t spent much time alone together since, well, she’s not entirely sure when so, later on, she wonders if that’s the reason she stayed behind; some part of her subconsciously wanting to know if they ever even can again.

Jeff doesn’t stand when everyone else goes to leave so they’re sat side-by-side when they’re left alone. He’s pouting in thought, his hands clasped between his bent legs as he hunches over and she wants to know what he’s thinking; maybe he’s wondering why she’s still there or maybe he’s just letting all of the emotions of the night set in - they’d had fun over dinner, all laughter and playful bickering as usual but it was inevitable that one of them (Shirley) would get teary eyed when the Troy-shaped gap was highlighted. She doesn’t have to ask though because he breaks the silence for the both of them.

“Do you remember Troy and Abed’s moving in party?”

She raises an eyebrow at him whilst he’s not looking, presuming he’s just carrying on with the evening of reminiscence.

“It’s hard to forget.”

“I hit my head on the ceiling fan before I was about to go home.”

Annie lets herself smile at that because she sees him squint in amusement.

“Oh yeah… and I was worried you wouldn’t be able to drive home because I thought you might be concussed.”

He smirks and shakes his head before smiling back at her goofily.

“How would I get a concussion from hitting my head on a ceiling fan?”

“I don’t know… I thought you hit it badly. Or maybe you just acted like you did to get my attention.”

As she soon as she says it she scrunches up her shoulders as if a stiff breeze has passed them even though the leaves on the trees around them are barely moving. She’s so used to him responding badly or taking things the wrong way or too far that she has to prepare herself for brushing it all off and forgetting, especially these days when he barely talks to her at all.

“And why would I do that?” He asks, looking over his shoulder as he continues to sit forward from her. She shrugs, attempting to move the conversation swiftly onwards. Again, he’s one step ahead of her, already on to the next memory that comes to mind.

“I remember your moving in party. Well, I remember making it into one, by bringing beer.”

“Yeah, thanks so much for the help.”

He grimaces and looks jokingly ashamed for a moment or two.

“I never saw your first place, did I?”

She sighs, realising she hasn’t thought about her cramped little two room apartment in a while.

“I should have moved out long before then.”

He sits back, his hands going behind them on to the cold expanse of the top step, not bothering to care if anyone decides to leave and walk out whilst they’re sat there.

“You were going to though, right? With Vaughn?”

She hasn’t thought about him in a while, either; there’s been no need to. She let him go from her life years ago, all the way back on that fateful night when she’d kissed the man sitting beside her.

“I guess.”

She can hear Jeff swallow even as a car drives past so she knows what he’s about to say has some thought behind it. They’re tiptoeing around a rather touchy time in both of their lives, one that crosses and intertwines like how their bodies pressed together when Jeff stood forward and responded to her kiss. It scares her a little and it makes her regret not just getting up to go with Abed in the first place.

“Why did you only tell me?”

She knows what he’s referring to of course and luckily the answer isn’t too hard to admit. It doesn’t give much away.

“I knew you wouldn’t judge me.”

He watches her and then lowers his head as if he’s questioning if that assumption is true or not. She wonders what it would feel like to push it further, see how far they can go before he washes it all away; stands up and tells her he isn’t feeling too good or that he’s just remembered he has to call his mom for the first time in a while because otherwise, she’ll be asleep.

“Maybe you would now, though.”

It’s not hard to believe he would, truthfully. It’s not hard to imagine him telling her she’s throwing something away to chase someone who doesn’t love her. It’s not hard to imagine him telling her she should wait until someone better comes around. It’s not hard to imagine him telling her a hundred and one things that are wrong with the person she’s following and how he won’t treat her the right way as if he knows it all. It’s not hard to imagine him thinking he’s well-intentioned, either. It is, however, hard to imagine him asking the next question until he does.

“Why did you kiss me?”

Whilst she’s still lingering onto how he might respond to her moving on from Greendale now, he’s still holding onto that moment and for a second she wants to laugh. She wants to laugh but she ends up biting her lip and scrunching up her face as tears threaten to form on her waterline. She shrugs a couple of times and goes over different answers in her head, her lips quivering not because of the emotions welling up inside of her but because she’s rehearsing what to say before it escapes her aloud.

“Because…” Her voice is a whisper and he lowers his head, feeling guilty, “…I thought we were on the same page.”

She shrugs again, hopelessly.

“Because… I wanted to.”

She doesn’t want to know what he’s thinking now. She honestly just wants to be free of it all.

“You hurt me. You kissed me back and you acted like it was nothing and maybe it was to you but you knew it wasn’t for me.” She’s crying now and she doesn’t care. “You never said sorry. You knew I was hurting and you never said sorry. After all this time, you never said sorry.” She takes a shaky breath and whimpers as he tilts his head back, looking up to the sky and his building towering up behind him.

After a while, Jeff mumbles, “I know” and it makes Annie turn away and hold her hand to her face to avoid breaking out into an embarrassing sob. She wipes under her nose before turning back because she’s gone this far; she has to know.

“Can I ask you one question?” He has to say yes, so he nods and lets her ask it, “Did you really regret it? I don’t need you to say sorry now, it won’t fix anything, I just need to know if you really did.”

He’s pouting again but this time it’s different because he’s moving his lips around and chewing on the insides of his cheeks. She’s not sure why she needs to know but she knows one thing for certain; she won’t be able to hold it together whether he says yes or -

“No.”

She closes her eyes again, tight and shut so she can’t let herself cry again.

“What I feel for you terrifies me, Annie,” Jeff admits, his breath shaky. She can’t see it in the dark light but his eyes are glossing over too. She might have questioned what he’s saying if she’d been more composed but instead, she lets herself understand it, if only to a certain degree.

“I just want us to be normal again.” She breathes out, letting herself fall and lean on his shoulder. He doesn’t hold her close, just rests the side of his chin on her hair.

“Me too.”

And maybe it doesn’t fix anything. But also, maybe it fixes everything.

Post-S6

90. “You think I’m better than you? You’re better than me!”

(A variation of)

When he realises she’s been gone too long for her to have just popped to the bathroom, he excuses himself from the table and scours the rooms and hallways of the bar, his phone in hand just in case, before swinging the back door open to see if she slipped out instead. His instincts are correct but there’s no relief to it because nobody goes to the bathroom and ends up outside for a good reason and usually said person never went to the aforementioned bathroom in the first place.

“Annie?” Jeff calls out, his hand still on the door just in case she’s on the phone or is heading back inside any second. She just hums in response though and wipes a hand across her cheek. He frowns, confused, before joining her, the door clicking shut behind them, the low buzz and mumbles from inside disappearing.

“Hey, what’s going on?” He stands to her side, a little puzzled by the expression on her face; he can only describe it as sad and upset. His hand jumps to her arm, smoothing down it comfortingly like he always does now.

She waves a hand and shrugs his hand off a little, trying to force a smile to break through.

“Nothing, I just came out for some air. It’s stuffy in there.” She nods her head back towards the bar where Britta, Frankie, Craig and Chang are to be found inside. And Bob too because he’s friends with Jeff now. That’s what happens when other people leave; they’re not necessarily replaced, it’s just that other people find their ways to fill in the gaping hole.

“Don’t lie to me.” He says softly, shaking his head, trying to get a real answer.

“It’s nothing.” She drops her chin, looking over to a puddle in the tarmac in front of her, the muddy water mixed with oil leaking from a car, swirling into a strangely pretty pattern of purples and blues. “I’m fine.”

Jeff lets his shoulders fall with a sigh, glancing at the dark sky before stepping forward and placing both of his hands on her this time. He cranes his neck so there’s less distance between them.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay? Did you… get some bad news or something? Tell me.”

“Jeff, I’m fine, okay?”

His grip tightens around the tops of her arms, over the top of her navy sweater that matches with his shirt.

“No, you’re not. You’re stood in the parking lot whilst we’re all waiting for you back there.” He laughs a little, still trying to work out what went wrong, “I’m celebrating. I thought we were having fun?”

“Yeah, I know, you’re celebrating.”

Jeff tilts his head and squints, making her close her eyes as his tightened grip loosens, realising she might have let it slip.

“Annie?”

She smiles but it’s only told hold it in as folds in her lips and bites down before letting a breath go as she exhales shakily.

“I’m,” Her voice breaks and Jeff’s eyes widen, a comical casino game spinning through his mind, waiting for her words to align the ending of her sentence which could have endless outcomes, “jealous.” Tears prick her eyes as she avoids his own as much as she can, “I’m jealous, okay? I’m jealous.”

Jeff’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, confusion still running right through him.

“You're… jealous? Of…? A party? Because, I can throw you one any day, just give me an occasion. I’ll get banners and balloons or whatev-.”

“It’s not that.” She cuts him off, making it clear that she’s not about to explain what it is, however.

“You’re jealous… of…?” He huffs out and steps back and tries to rack his brain, “You’re jealous of the fact I got my first real job at age forty-three?”

When she doesn’t say anything he rubs a hand across his jaw.

“Wow. I was… not expecting that. It’s funny because I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you. I wouldn’t have gone to all of those interviews. I went to them because I thought, you know what? If I can get just one, I know it will make Annie happy. She’ll be proud of me and I want that. And I thought you were but it turns out… you're… jealous? Annie, what have I got that would make you think that? We literally share the same apartment. We live together. I’m not hiding anything else. I love you.”

In the blurry corner of his eye, he can see Britta open the back door and watch them for a second before walking back in again, letting them be.

“It’s not that,” Annie says, succumbing to having to explain in greater detail. “I just… I guess I realised that I’m not over it. I thought that I was over not having what I wanted. I thought I’d grown, you know? I thought I knew that I was okay with what I have but now I just feel like… that maybe I’ve failed myself or something. And now, you have what you want but… I don’t know if I do. And I am proud of you. I’m so proud of you and I’m so happy for you. I feel awful that I’m out here crying about nothing.”

“Annie, come on, what more could you want? You’re twenty-six, you’re gradu-.”

“I know I am. But you’re not.” She raises her voice a little, trying to argue her point.

“Uh, yeah, I know, I don’t need reminding.”

“That’s not what I mean. You don’t get it. All of my friends, they’re out there getting full-time jobs and starting their careers and starting to think about buying a house and having kids and starting a family and I just feel like I’m not going anywhere. I know things have changed but I still feel like I haven’t followed any of the dreams I used to have.”

Jeff almost wants to rewind then, stop her in her tracks.

“No, no, you’re mistaken. I do get it, trust me. I’ve been twenty-six for almost two decades. It’s taken me until this week to get a real job that I didn’t lie my way into because when I was your age, I really screwed up. And yeah, maybe this is where it gets a little awkward between us because… I’ve been there, Annie. But, there’s also a positive to that. You’ve got me. I can help you through it. It sucks knowing there are always going to people out there who seem to have it better than you or who seem to have it all figured out but Annie, from the day I met you, I’ve always thought, wow, this woman has figured out more than I ever will. She knows what she wants and she’s gonna’ get it.”

“And I really hate to say this and I’m so glad it doesn’t affect us in any other way because I love you but… when you get to forty, you’re gonna look back and realise how young you were. If I could go back and start over when I was your age, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But you’re not gonna have to do that because you’re not going to regret anything and if you do, well, I’m not doing a good enough job. Also, if you ever want to change your mind on things then it’s fine to do that. I wish I’d realised that sooner, too.”

She’s listening intently, nodding when necessary, rolling her eyes and holding back more tears.

“Look, if we cut it even tighter than we are, with this new job, we can get a house in the next two years. It might be small but we could do it. And if you want kids earlier than you thought, then, we can go home now and try. I’ll get my car.”

She rolls her eyes again and he smiles, getting through to her.

“Seriously, you have nothing to worry about. I do get it but it’s just… life. You’re gonna’ graduate with your Masters and within a month you’ll be making me pack up my stuff to ship it across the country because you’ve got a job for some fancy forensics organisation.”

She laughs a little sadly as he steps into her space again now that he knows he’s making himself clear and understood.

“You may laugh but guess who was laughing when you said I’d actually get an offer? I couldn’t have done it without you and I’m gonna’ make sure you won’t be able to do it without me either. Although, that’s practically impossible because you could do everything on your own.” Her hands find his but he lets go to lift her chin up with the tip of a finger, “See? Look how good I am at pep talks.”

“I’m sorry.” She whispers, sniffling simultaneously.

“Don’t be. You have nothing to apologise for.”

“I ruined your evening and made it about me.”

“You didn’t ruin anything and it’s not my evening. Nothing’s just about me anymore. It’s about us.” He kisses her forehead whilst leaning forward, letting her fall and press her cheek into his chest. “Speaking of which, can we go and have a drink together with the others?” She nods before rising up and hugging him firmly around the neck. He swallows by her ear and closes his eyes over her shoulder before speaking again, low and quiet.

“You have nothing to worry about. You’re always going to outshine everyone, especially me.” He kisses her shoulder as she leans into him even further.

“You know people are going to think I’m only with you for your money now, right?”

He chuckles against the nape of her neck.

“You know you’ve been with me too long when that’s your way of lightening the mood now, right?”

“I’ll never be with you for too long.” Annie breathes out before shaking any other thoughts away by stepping back and straightening herself out.

“Has my makeup run?” Jeff squints to see in the light but just smooths the pad of one of his thumbs under her eye before shaking his head.

“No, you just look beautiful.”

She takes his hand so they can walk back inside to re-join the table. Jeff sits down beside her and swings his arm over the back of her chair and the conversation between the group starts flowing again. Bob flicks up his chin from the opposite side of the booth.

“You guys pop out for a quickie?”

“Nah, I’m a classy lawyer now.” Jeff wriggles his eyebrows as Annie frowns in disgust.

“Pfft, you’re barely a lawyer now, you’re only a consultant.” Britta spits out.

He shrugs confidently and leans his head against the top of Annie’s as she talks to Frankie to her side.

“Better than nothing.”

#jeff x annie #jeff x annie fic #prompts #prompt fic #zacscottysnl #puff #SO MANY WORDS #I cried writing both of these just so y'all know #mine #my fic

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actualyuuri · 8 years ago

Note

Your take on the after Sochi GPF banquet? :))))))))

It’s not easy for Victor to remember what it’s like to laugh.

But he does, somehow.

He does, and now there’s a man half-conscious in his arms, and it’s even harder to remember how he’d ended up in this situation, a sweaty forehead that is peeking out from underneath a blue tie pressing against his neck. There are arms loosely wrapped around his torso, laced together by the fingers. The grip is so light that Victor holds the man to keep him upright, practically holding onto him more than he is holding onto Victor.

He’s not laughing anymore.

(But there’s something exploding in his chest and he doesn’t care what it is because it’s an emotion and it’s a supernova and it’s overwhelming and it makes his breath hitch and he feels, he feels, he feels so much and so hard that it floors him, it ruins him, it enlightens him.)

And yet the feeling is nothing compared to the way that Yuuri’s lips feel when they shift against his skin, the way that Yuuri’s hair skitters across his chin, soft and dark. Victor experimentally moves a hand to his back to support him and the man underneath and in front of him just hums contentedly. Briefly, Victor wonders if he’s already asleep.

But then he hears a voice, and he knows: Yuuri is awake.

Yuuri Katsuki.

Yuuri Katsuki from Japan.

He replays his name in his head over and over again until it’s etched there, until he couldn’t possibly forget it, because this name is associated with this feeling and he’d give anything to live in this, to live like this for as long as he can. His hand on Yuuri’s back shifts to help the man stand in a more comfortable position, and his eyes search for Yuuri’s own, but instead he’s just met with the top of his head.

“Do you have a room key?” he asks gently, and realizes that his voice quivers on the first syllable. He clears his throat, reassembling himself. “In your pocket, maybe?”

If Yuuri replies, Victor misses it.

Christophe appears to see Victor’s dilemma and gestures vaguely towards Yuuri’s abandoned pants. Victor understands, makes his way over there with Yuuri and picks up the discarded clothing, sorting through the pockets. Sure enough, there’s a keycard and cell phone. He puts them in his own pockets, careful not to confuse Yuuri’s keycard with his own, and then drapes the pants over his shoulder as well.

Victor says goodbye to some people, explains that he’s planning to take Yuuri back to his room, and then steers him out through the main doors of the banquet hall. His white, unbuttoned shirt sways as they walk together, his arm now lazily wrapped around Victor’s shoulders and his face still turned inwards, now reaching Victor’s chest instead of his neck.

It’s an awkward position, but Victor simply focuses on making sure that Yuuri can support himself on his own two legs.

Occasionally, he’ll mumble something, but it’s either in Japanese or too quiet to hear. What’s significant is the change in him—just a few minutes ago he’d been stripping and standing on Christophe’s thighs, the stench of champagne thick in the air and the eyes of dozens latched onto him, mesmerized.

Now, he’s almost childlike, an innocence in the way that he hides his face in Victor’s body and clings to him, occasionally sniffling or uttering a few syllables. The unfamiliar emotion from before hasn’t gone away, it’s still deep in Victor’s chest, latching onto his heart and only growing stronger with each time Yuuri’s leg brushes against his or each time his breath is hot on Victor’s neck.

They make their way into the elevator and Yuuri yawns. When he does, he cuddles closer to Victor while standing, quietly humming with content as he turns ninety degrees, their chests now flush with each other. His hands, which had previously been wrapped around Victor’s waist, now snake upwards so that they’re thrown over his shoulders and his fingers are laced behind his neck. Victor isn’t exactly sure how to walk with Yuuri draped around him like this.

He angles them so that Yuuri’s back faces the entrance to the elevator. When it opens again on floor four, he steps forward, forcing Yuuri to step backwards. However, Yuuri doesn’t comply, simply staying where he is, his feet dragging a bit.

“Yuuri, can you walk with me?” Victor whispers gently, and uses a free hand to tuck a lock of Yuuri’s hair behind his ear.

No response.

In a split-second decision, Victor scoops him up with both arms. Yuuri doesn’t have to readjust much, arms staying where they are and his lips remaining pressed against the small, exposed strip of Victor’s neck. He sighs a little, but doesn’t react other than that, so Victor reasons with himself that Yuuri’s hotel room is just down the hall.

He finds the door, then awkwardly supports Yuuri with one arm and one knee while swiping the card. Propping the door open with his foot, he carries the skater inside, still unable to ignore the throbbing feeling in his heart, in his mind, exploding across his body like he had been deprived of something for years and had finally gotten hold of it.

When they enter the hotel room, Victor shuts the door behind them. As he does, he hears Yuuri mumble seemingly-coherent words. He freezes, stares down at him. “What’d you say?”

Yuuri moves away from his chest for the first time since he’d asked him to be his coach, then stares up into his eyes. His irises are sparkling underneath the dim hotel room lights and he winces a little, unadjusted. Victor holds him closer instinctively and Yuuri continues to meet his gaze, his expression unsheltered, fragile.

“Victor,” he realizes, then yawns again and returns to his earlier position.

The t is softer than how most people say it.

The hotel room is relatively small. There’s one double bed, a not-half-bad view of the city, a nightstand, a small bathroom. Nothing fancy, but nothing shabby either. Victor approaches the bed and sets Yuuri down on it so that he’s sitting. Yuuri’s arms don’t move from around his neck, so Victor awkwardly works around him as he pulls the covers down.

“It was nice to meet you, Yuuri,” he says, and means it, because that feeling in his chest is back and it’s stronger now and overwhelming as he meets Yuuri’s eyes again because there’s so much there, so much there even though he’s drunk and delusional and Victor realizes that he wants to see them sober because he’s high off of this, high off of this feeling and this sensation and this night and he doesn’t want it to end but—

Yuuri smacks his lips together, seems to understand what’s happening and finally lets go of Victor, falling backwards until he hits the pillow beneath him. His eyes remain shut, expression remains open, lips parted, cheeks flushed, tie loose around his head now. Victor sets down his pants, which had been draped over his shoulders, on the nightstand. He folds them.

Then, he takes the blanket with both hands and pulls it up and onto Yuuri’s shoulders. He watches as the younger man rolls onto his side, shifting his legs and letting out another quiet murmur.

Victor almost leaves.

(Almost.)

(Almost. And it’s selfish.)

He knows that it’s selfish, but he stands there.

After a second, he leans forward and lets his fingers rest against the tie that is wrapped around Yuuri’s head. He finds the knot and tugs on it gently until the fabric falls away. Then, with one hand, he lifts up his head and uses the other hand to remove the tie from underneath him. He folds that and places it on top of the pants.

His hair falls free. Victor licks his lips, remembers the sound of his voice, remembers the be my coach, be my coach, remembers the way that it had felt, tries hard, so hard to remember.

(Because he has spent many a night trying to recall that exact same feeling from his childhood, from before he’d been locked away in the darkest recesses of his own mind. But now it’s here, now it’s present, and he won’t let go, not if he doesn’t have to, and it’s selfish, but he doesn’t care, can’t bring himself to care.)

“Victor?” Yuuri asks with that same soft t that makes Victor’s heart skip a beat. His voice is groggy and his hair clings to his forehead and neck with sweat. He still reeks of champagne and occasionally shifts his legs, probably trying to swipe his too-high socks off with his toes.

It’s then that an inevitable and unforgettable epiphany reaches Victor Nikiforov’s mind.

He’s lost.

He’s hopelessly lost.

“Yes?” he asks, not quite wanting to sit on the edge of the bed but not quite wanting to hover here either.

There’s no response.

Victor waits.

Waits long after he knows that Yuuri is asleep, just on the off chance that he might be proven wrong. Eventually, though, he takes a step away from the bed, taking one long last look at the man before him.

Yuuri Katsuki.

Yuuri Katsuki from Japan.

Victor takes a deep breath in, then out. He steps over to the small desk in the corner and finds a standard hotel pen. After uncapping it, he approaches Yuuri once again, gently removes his right arm from underneath the covers.

It’s bare, and so he writes his phone number on it, careful to only press gently with the tool. The writing is messy, but after reading it over a few times he’s certain Yuuri will be able to discern each number.

He leans down and presses a kiss to the back of his palm.

Then, he returns the pen to its rightful place and forces himself to leave.

In the morning, Yuuri rolls out of bed and takes a shower, more zombie than human. Underneath his feet, some of the water runs black with ink.

#i was gonna put a read more on this but it's?? not that long tbf??#anonymous #yoi #yuri on ice #victuuri #maddie answers #prompt #sorry if u think this needs a read more i can add one but JALSDFADFS i know somebody replied and said the read more didn't work on my last #long post

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alphagaymerw0lf · 7 years ago

Text

Saints Life: Mission 3

Gayness...implied gayness is all I can warn you guys about. Yes, a bit early to introduce Matt Miller but hey, when your walking around you got nothing better to do but admire some cyberpunk fashion...so why not lol.

Once again I only own Vincent and Vitor Wolfe, everything else goes toe creators of the game Saint Row. First time typing something with Matt Miller in a long while so sorry if he's not on point with his character, I do write these early in the morning.

DO NOT STEAL.

And as usual, enjoy <3

~~~~~~~

“In God's Domain”

The streets glistened in the shimmery water that collected in every nook and uneven cranny, lights reflecting their bright neon lights to grab attentions of the city tourists and citizens. Sky hours ago scintillated with million plus stars were now covered with a curtain of dark clouds, providing the dirt of the city a chance to get a free shower, which the city seemed to accept eagerly like the beggars in the alleyways...yet as if the city never slept its citizens ran around like blood pumping through a heart. To Victor, this was already being considered his home, as he walked around every part of Steelport. From the soul of downtown the outskirts near some power plant, one would consider the brain of Steelport.

There was no exact location he had in mind, once a restaurant was found to provide cheap food and a place to stay dry for a while Victor found himself buying a Professor Genki hoodie next door. Odd as it would sound to see a silver haired male walking around with a hoodie that looked like Cheshire cats insane brother in law, pink and purple stripes with those psycho green eyes on the hood as well as the ears, heck if he was that lucky the hoodie would have had a tail.

Despite the odd looks, it was well worth the $20 he spent; it was light, warm, and kept him dry underneath. Plus it was another merchandise to his Professor Genki collection.

Yet what really caught his eye was when he stumbled into a part of the city with men and women decked out in neon blue. Now that (to him) was almost as odd as the guys in wrestling masks south from there. Occasionally he would find himself staring at the men before shaking his head or looking off to the side quickly when they took notice.

They didn't seem a threat, nor did they really look like it...if it weren’t for those giant swords on their backs or scythe looking weapons for the women, needless to say, the fact they were walking around with their guns showing...literally. Regardless of where he wondered they were holding their guns either with both hands before them or lazily dragging it to their side.

“Try to avoid contact with any other gang...”

Shaundi’s voice rang in his head, causing the young Saint to sigh heavily...wait a minute.

“...and don’t mention your a Saint”

If these guys didn’t know he was a Saint maybe bending the first rule wouldn’t be too bad. So Victor turned to the next punk and tapped his shoulder, catching the mans attention easily.

“What do you need mate?” Asked the stranger, in an accent, Victor could easily pinpoint as British. Oh how badly he wanted to mimic the accent, but held his tongue for a moment and offered a small smile.

“Sorry to disturb you, just curious where I could get a sweet jacket like that?” Victor asked, gesturing to what he could tell was leather with neon blue.

The Brit shook his head and rested his gun on his shoulder. “Sorry, only Deckers get this kind of gear” he replied

“Alright, how would I get one without being a Decker?” Victor questioned, hands in his jacket pockets.

“Doubt you could, but you can try talking to our boss into giving you one...for a price”

“And you’d take me to see this boss of yours?”

The Decker looked around, tapping his chin in thought before looking at Victor again. “Maybe, but you’ll have to give up your phone and any weapons before you go in” he warned

Victor smiled and moved his hands to open his arms wide “Fine by me, lead the way mate” he gestured to the road. The Decker didn’t look too amused by his mocking tone but lead the way anyways, right into the depths of the Decker HQ.

Now, most Saints would take this option to blow the whole place up right off the bat, but not Victor, oh no as soon as the doors opened up he was in a whole new world. One of techno music, and a shit ton of neon blue lights...and it was paradise to him.

“Damn! You guys must have rave parties like every night here! The place looks bitchin!” He called over the loud music, following the Decker close til he was stopped by two women, patting him down and took his phone, pocket knife, and a small pistol he had.

“We will be keeping these until you're done” one replied, yet Victor wasn’t entirely paying attention. Just gave a short nod with his eyes taking in the scene, he could be standing there for hours awestruck but the Decker he met on the streets grabbed him by the arm and lead him up to the middle platform, which was surrounded by TVs, computer screens, wires running in collected tangles of snakes. This was just a technology jungle of tangled vines of red, blue, black and occasionally yellow wiring. Within the middle of the circle was a large chair, also connected with cords and a young man dressed in the similar fashion as the rest sitting in it.

“Who the bloody hell is this?”

“He wants to purchase something” replied the Decker holding Victor's arm, nudging him forward. Lights were blinding Victor and making seeing the mystery man a bit difficult for him. Least til he was given permission to step closer, up the final stair and onto the platform itself...and damn what a sight it was.

“Who are you?” Demanded the teen in the chair, a bored almost tired look was on his face. Painted lips seeming to not budge from its expression while blue eyes shrouded in black makeup looked up to him lazily.

“Can ask you the same thing handsome” Victor blurted out before tensing and quickly tried to fix the damage already done. “I-I mean handsome as in a...no...homo...way?”

The teen huffed. “Sure you do, if you must know I am the Decker King as well as a Cyber God,”

“Can I get a name, your majesty?” Victor asked, bowing of course. Glancing up he saw blue lips twitch in an amused smile, the ‘Decker King’ sat up in his chair to look at Victor more closely

“State yours first, as well as your business”

‘That accents gonna kill me,’ Victor thought, smiling as he replied with “The names Victor Wolfe, a mere mortal to a god such as yourself. I ask to hopefully get my hands on a jacket or some kind of merchandise of yours oh greatness” yes he was being sarcastic, yes he was trying to make a joke out of the situation but when the ‘greatness’ smirked in amusement he felt his body temperature rise a few degrees.

It was no secret Victor had a thing for guys over women...at least to himself, Vincent probably freak out if he found out his younger sibling was gay and never bothered to test any theory he had planned out if he were to tell him.

“What exactly are you wanting?”

“Merely a jacket, shirt, phone case maybe? Heck, I’d be chill with a selfie with you at this point” Vic replied honestly.

Again, the Decker King smirked ever so faintly but this time gave a light chuckle. “Alright, I suppose I’ll be willing to give up a shirt for a price” he answered

“Name it and I’ll make it happen” Victor replied.

“$50 bucks” was his answered, and it nearly made his mood drop

“Jeez, that much? Why?” He asked a bit disappointed. That was his dinner money no way was he going to waste it on some shirt, he already lost $20 because of a damn hoodie.

“I...uhm….need it for something?” Now the King was looking nervous, as if hiding some secret...and the Wolfe had to know.

“What something? Maybe I can get that for you instead?” Victor asked, he may not be the best Saint but when it came to negotiating pricing, he was a master at it.

Glancing off to the side the Cyber God finally gave in and responded with “Nyteblade tickets” softly, hardly over a whisper. Victor had to lean in to hear

“I'm sorry what did you say?”

With a heavy, annoyed sigh the god glared up at the man “I said Nyteblade tickets you twat” he repeated more harshly, causing the Saint to take a step back with his hands up in defense

“Alright alright, how about a trade? I’ll get you these...Nyteblade tickets in exchange for a shirt?” He suggested, that turned the teen's mood around quickly. Sitting up the Decker King looked up to Victor hopefully

“Really? Would you? How? They are exclusive and beyond expensive and-”

“I’m friends with the actor, Josh Birk. I’m sure he’ll cut a deal with me if I ask him to, and for a fan such as yourself how could I possibly say no?” Victor smiled, stuffing his hands in his pockets again.

“If you do this, I’ll see about adding something with your shirt”

“How about a dinner with the king?” Victor purred with a smirk. The teen rolled his eyes and looked off to the side, tapping his arm rest in thought.

“Maybe, we will see if these tickets are real or not first”

“I’ll have them signed by the man himself to prove it my Lord”

“Matt,”

Victor tilted his head in question

“My name is Matt Miller, you asked earlier and I never answered. When will I be expecting your arrival again?”

Victor smiled, oddly enough he felt honored to know this mans name. “Tomorrow afternoon, and not a minute later”

Matt chuckled again, waving him off. “Very well, you have your mission” he replied as if this whole thing was some role-playing scenario...and if that's how he saw it Victor was going to play along. Taking hold of Matt’s hand gently he kissed his knuckles like any knight would to a king

“I will not let you down your grace” he replied, on one knee as if he was to be knighted before getting up and walked towards the exit….did he faintly see a light shade of pink in those pale features? Nah just the lighting.

Once he got his phone and weapons back it was buzzing wildly with his brother's number and name.

“Yeah?” He answered

“Finally! Damn, I've been trying to get ahold of you for an hour now! Where the hell are you?” Vincent's voice rang in his ears

“Oh you know, walking around, making friends, getting minor shit”

“Victor nobody is a friend in this city, be careful. Also, I got a place for us, Shaundi should be sending you the address, meet there alright? Hungry for pizza?”

“Sure, I’m on my way now”

“Who did you meet by the way?”

“Huh?”

“You said you were meeting some people….was it a hot chick?”

Victor smiled weakly “Oh they were hot alright…”

“Shit you sly dog, gimme details when you get here, gotta go….Pierce get in the damn car!”

Victor held the phone away from his ear and rolled his eyes once the phone call ended. The walk to the new place was long and dreadfully silent if it weren't for his mind coming up with how he would explain what happened to his brother.

Eventually, it left the young Saint gripping his cat ears and groaned to the sky. “How am I going to explain I met God to my atheist brother?!”

#saint row 3 #matt miller saint row #m!boss #implied gayness?#Fanfiction

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lnnocently · 7 years ago

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--- as a way to dip a bit more into kit’s backstory and also to kinda flesh him out as i go, i’m going to ( occasionally ) drop a drabble or two from his memories onto the blog for those that might be interested in reading about it? that being said, here’s memory #2 , addressing how he got the engraving on his arm. promise that there’ll be more light-hearted ones in the future, but for now :

you can find memory #1 right ( here ) .

&&. POTENTIALLY TRIGGERING CONTENT BENEATH READ MORE.

Kit’s breath escapes them in the form of a choked out snarl that tears its way past gnashed teeth when pain blossoms outwards from their upper arm. There’s a moment of shock before he realizes that the pressure-based machine they were usually placed underneath during these less-intensive tests has something sharp attached to it this time ‘round, one that cuts through bone like a knife through butter, dragging harshly downwards &&. then up &&. then over and then again again again, ensuring the new cuts are carved in clean, and in that moment he’s too taken aback to scream. He’s used to this machine, used to the mechanics, knows how much time it takes for these tests to end, learned to simply grit his teeth to the pain that he’s become accustomed to, but this---

THIS WAS SO. VERY. DIFFERENT.

It feels like his magic is burning underneath the demonstration---the place where sculptor meets sculpture, blue essence racing yet completely still all the while and he genuinely thinks might pass out because it’s already dug up enough dust as it is but the machine is pressing down again and everything is fuzzy around the edges everything is fading &&. his mouth is open and he’s sure that he’s screaming but there’s not a single ounce of sound that leaves him and the world speeds up and slows down simultaneously and he’s

f a l l i n g a p a r t .

It’s ripping him, tearing him up into tiny bits, the once velvety surface of ivory shredding much like rice paper through a strainer. When the tug at his consciousness beckons him away from the shell left strapped down to remain still endure, he lets himself slip away willingly. The machine draws new shapes---letters into their surface as easily as a child with a pen on walls, sharp and jagged horizontal and vertical lines coming together to form things their mind can’t quite comprehend at the moment. Some part of him is disgusted with the fact that he’d had to cut his consciousness away from his being, some part is concerned that his pain has dulled so much, and thinks that the pitiful thing on the lab table might be in shock.

When the scratching into the surface of bone is over and done with, when the item that’s marred him finally pulls out of the newlyfound, dust-ridden wound in his arm and white-clad shadows round the operating table to inspect the damage, he knows that he should feel something. He’s not really sure what exactly that feeling was supposed to be, but he knew that it was supposed to be there. Knows that he should be concerned that it isn’t, but he can’t help but do much more than observe, notice rather than be. The purpose, the value, the very essence of being seems to have slipped away from him, leisurely, fleeting. As leisurely as the machine is unplugged &&. cleaned before tucked away, he observes the exact position of every single particle of dust and hint of smudged blue as it’scollected on the cloth that wipes his arm without an ounce of tenderness in order to get a better look at the letter and number etched into his person.

And then they’re gone, and he’s left alone in his containment cell. He can’t bring himself to care either way, but he does note idly that the feeling has started to return to his body, &&. that he’s able to move just enough to drag himself into an upright position. Unable to ignore the burning feeling in his arm, he’s almost certain that he’s been in enough pain to be in shock right now. Shuffling just enough to lean awkwardly against the wall on the arm that doesn’t scald him with every subtle shift of balance, he stares into the near-empty space of his room for a while.

It’s been so long since he was in here, he thinks. He’d tried counting the seconds that’d passed after he left this little cube of white walls and silence, but he’d lost count after two-thousand, three hundred and sixty-two. That was a long time, right? That also meant that it’d been a long time since he’d last seen his brother. That wasn’t good. Although he’d probably never admit it, he was always anxious when Kit took too long to seek him out again or vice-versa. It wasn’t good to keep others waiting. He’d visit soon. What time was it? Maybe the next time one of the more skittish monsters that came in to clean at night when they thought he’d be sleeping comes in, he’d ask them to bring him a clock.

His arm’s really beginning to burn like hell, and he realizes a few moments off that he’s just spent the last few minutes (if not hours, stars knows he loses track of time so easily when he’s in here) just staring at a wall, and he’s not exactly positive why. So he gets up, walking on legs still trying to get accustomed to standing again to shuffle over to the array of buttons that belong to an intercom; index finger tracing the smooth surface of each one individually as he racks his mind for the meaning behind each one before finally reaching the one that’ll call Dad. Or, well, Dad’s office. Click.

Click click click.

And then he sits next to the door. And waits. And waits and waits and waits and waits and waits and---then the door opens, &&. Dad’s there and there’s the gentleness that the hands at the table had missed that lead him to stand and turn to face the elder monster that’s given him life. When had he moved to sit in a corner, he wonders? He also wonders why Dad’s looking at him like that. Dad’s saying something but Kit’s too tired to really listen so he’ll apologize &&. just ask from him to relay what he said later on, and instead allows careful fingers to guide him out of his room and towards the cleaning block that’s precisely two hallways down and to the left, the one with the chip on the doorknob from his last breach. He remembers. He remembers because it’s the same doorknob that one of the scientists hit her head on when she’d threatened to have “DII” terminated during one of his breaches, remembers because he’d watched her hit the doorknob and seen the way her eyes went all clear and glassy like his look in the recordings he’d seen on display once a long time ago before she went all limp and quiet and he’d felt something click in him that wasn’t there before with each particle of dust that began to fleck off of her. ( LOVE )

Dad’s careful when he sits him down on a bench inside of the new room, leaving him just long enough to step out and lock the door behind him upon excusing himself. That handful of minutes he’s gone is long enough for the younger skeleton to chance a glance behind them at the expansive mirror that takes up the back wall and oh, oh oh oh they marked him with that it, that ugly, disgusting little combination of letter &&. number that’d followed him since creation and in that moment he’s paler than pale and looks worse than awful. His nose cavity flares and he can feel his jaw tighten to an almost painful degree so he turns away from the mirror and away from the angry; blue-inflamed ‘D1′ written into his arm so crudely, unwilling to get emotional about it.

O h .

Oh. Oh, they’d wrote on him like he was nothing. How was he supposed to deal with this? How was he supposed to feel? Had the intention behind the new mark simply a reminder that he wasn’t supposed to? Weapons weren’t supposed to have emotions, after all, he reminded himself. Weapons aren’t supposed to get angry when they’re handled a little roughly. Weapons aren’t supposed to feel so disgusted when they’re branded by the things that have created them. Are a weapon’s hands supposed to shake like this? Because his are---he thinks they’re his---they’re shaking hard and he tries to stop them but he he’s panicking again. Everything but his stupid hands are frozen in place, sockets void of light and there’s a heaviness on his SOUL that he can’t shake off and he’s so tired again like he always is once these kinds of experiments are over and then---Dad’s there again, and so is Papyrus this time. Dad doesn’t move from the doorway, doesn’t look up from the clipboard in his hand that’s bound so tightly that the white of his knuckles look strained, but Papyrus does.

Papyrus doesn’t approach him like a cornered animal like most do. Doesn’t apprehensively second-guess what he’s doing, never does, just makes a beeline to him before arms are thrown around him like it’s the most natural thing in the world and he feels so small and, yet, safe.

( When was the last time he felt like that? )

It takes him a while to remember how his arms work. But when they do, slowly, ever-so-slowly, do they come up to wrap around his brother; hands fisting in the flimsy thing titled a shirt that the other wears while burying his face into his collarbone. He doesn’t know how long they stand there holding onto eachother---he doesn’t have a clock, but he doesn’t want time to pull them apart &&. so he doesn’t count the seconds like he usually does. He just clings; fingers grazing the similarly engraved marking on the younger monster’s arm while bony fingers trace his own.

DI, DII. D1. D2. DI. DII.

#[ &&. Drabble ]#[ &&. Headcanon ]#[ &&. IC ]#long post #dissociation cw #torture cw #murder cw #forewarning #this is pretty bad

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letsprayitwritesitself · 8 years ago

Text

how jack and davey accidentally (and then not) ended up spending all their valentines days together

February 14th 2014

davey

will u hate me if i ask if ur free rn

why would i hate you

i dont want to assume

happy v day

wow jack

i’m actually on two dates right now

mrs doubtfire style

what’s up

she dumped me

on the phone

half an hour ago

come over

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Davey led Jack through to the living room, glancing cautiously over his shoulder to try and gauge his friend’s mood.

‘No. Yeah. Not really.’ Jack slumped on the couch, clutching his paper grocery bag to his chest. Davey perched on the armrest. ‘I just. Like, I knew it wasn’t serious, whatever. But you can have a fun valentines with someone you’re not serious about! I did it all the time in middle school!’

‘Maybe she thought it was a bigger deal than it was?’

‘That’s what I tried to tell her! But you can’t try and convince a girl to go out with you when she doesn’t want to. Learnt that in middle school, too.’

‘So it’s over?’

‘I think so. She said that she got the impression we were moving too fast - which we weren’t - and she wanted to cool off.’

‘That’s not the end of the world, right?’

‘Nah. I don’t know. How many good relationships start like that?’

‘I think valentines must have just freaked her out, Jack. Happens to a lot of people.’

‘We’ll see. I’m thinking I’m maybe just a little infatuated with her, right? Talk to me in a few days and I’ll be back to normal.’

‘So tonight isn’t an I-hate-girls-bros-before-hos thing?’

‘Almost. Still want you to indulge me.’ Jack tipped up the bag on to the couch. A pint of ice cream, a six pack of beer, and a thing of chips ahoy bounced out.

‘I actually found my copy of Mrs. Doubtfire. Thought it might help.’

‘God damn it. It’s perfect.’ He grabbed the DVD from Davey and started setting it up while Davey headed into the kitchen. He called through. ‘And Dave?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Anyone asks, we both had smoking hot dates for tonight, alright? And not with each other.’

‘Got it.’

‘Stop hogging it, oh my god.’

‘Shut up, you’re making me miss it!’

‘You know what happens, Dave! Gimme.’ Jack grabbed the tub and triumphantly started digging out some cookie dough. Davey let him have it. They had sunk down into the couch under Davey’s comforter with a million pillows for company. Orange street light filtered through the blinds. It was only nine o clock.

‘Forgot to ask the most important question, Davey Jacobs.’ Jack poked him with the end of his spoon. ‘Why don’t you have plans tonight?’

‘Ah. Like, I kind of... I don’t know. Don’t wanna force plans just cause of the day, you know? If I had a person, that’d be great. But I don’t, so. Just another Friday!’

‘No-one caught your eye?’

‘Not really? I mean. The guy who gets my coffee at Starbucks every morning, like, we’re on semi-first name terms. But then, he wears a name badge, so. Yeah, no-one. But I don’t mind!’

‘You don’t wanna be set up or anything, right?’

‘God, no. What happens, happens. What doesn’t doesn’t.’

‘So fricken mature, Jacobs. Shame we can’t all be Race and Spot.’

‘What, fall in love after making eye contact but pretend to be casual?’

‘You know Spot made them a reservation for tonight? He made it in October.’

‘Oh, my heart. See, that’s the thing. If I found someone the way those two did, then I’d do the Valentines thing. ‘Til then I’m saving all the stress of... trying to romance someone.’

‘And you get to hang out with me.’

‘Oh yeah. How much am I getting paid for babysitting again?’

‘Funny guy, Davey. Now, listen, cuz this is important.’

‘Shoot.’

‘Do you have Aladdin?’

‘Of course I have Aladdin.’

February 14th 2015

‘And he said that going out on Valentines day felt too much like forcing something to happen. I swear to god. Can’t make eye contact with anyone whole month of February or they’ll think you’re trying to marry ‘em.’

‘So you’re not going out at all?’

‘We’re going out tomorrow. I mean. One day different! Same bar, same drink, same Jack Kelly trying to get into his pants. Just twenty four hours difference.’

‘It’s nice that you didn’t let this quirk stop you from trying to get laid.’

‘He’s still pretty much the hottest guy I know.’

‘Do you know what he’s doing tonight?’

‘I bet you anything he’s doing that kind of... the thing where you burn your ex’s underwear. Polaroids.’

‘Way less cliche than our Valentines day spent scarfing ice cream and pretending we weren’t crying over Robin Williams.’

‘God. Palentine’s day 2014. That should be a thing.’

‘That should be a thing!’

‘I mean. It’s slightly becoming a thing.’ Jack tipped out his backpack to reveal an exact duplicate of their snacks from the year before. ‘Can’t lie, Dave, I’m starting to wonder if this is better than doing real Valentines.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Not that, you know, I’m triumphant that you’ve been abandoned or anything.’

‘Oh, of course not. Your cheer on the other end of the phone said that much.’

‘When’s he back?’

‘Tomorrow.’

Davey’s Starbucks barista had turned into Davey’s something else, asking him out the day he quit the coffee shop to put his marketing degree to use. Davey, shocked that his idle daydreams about this guy who made his coffee could actually be manifested in real life, said yes.

Well, it was before his coffee, so he had actually said something like uhhwhatyeahsureyes.

And that had been eight months previous. Evan had slotted effortlessly into Davey’s life, doing the date thing, meeting his parents, weekends away, only kind of slightly stealing Davey from Jack (like that was the kind of thing Jack would notice anyway.)

Because Jack had, since the last Valentine’s day, well - he had almost become involved with a number of people. Unsure what he wanted, he went on dates, slept with people, not always in that order, flirted with girls and guys on a daily basis and even started tipping his baristas more after seeing Davey’s success - but he hadn’t found his person. That was okay, he didn’t mind. He was still a kid, in his head. He had forever to be tied down. Did miss hanging out with Davey, though.

So when Davey had phoned to say that Evan had been called away last minute for an overnight conference, it took Jack roughly two seconds to get excited about reprising their bittersweet Robin Williams carb fest from the year before. He, of course, waited before posing it, listening to Davey whine just a little about how he was going to miss Evan, before picking the right moment to tell Davey about the guy he’d asked out - the one who told him any day but Valentine’s. And so they found themselves again on Davey’s couch, illuminated by the TV, slumped in onesies, digging into some Ben and Jerry’s.

‘Got him anything good?’

‘I got him this gin he likes. Some socks. I’m... I’m thinking about giving him a key.’

‘A key?’

‘I mean, like, to my apartment. Not just a random key.’

‘You’re so fuckin... grown up.’

‘I know!’ Davey looked over at Jack, grinning. Jack was enraptured by the TV. The lion was chasing the kids through the house.

‘I really hate this part. Terrified me when I was a kid.’

‘Me too.’ Davey turned back to the screen. Between them somewhere on the comforter, his phone lit up, drawing both their attentions.

Evan Abrams facetime.

Davey looked up at Jack, who was staring at the phone. ‘Sorry, Jack. I’ll be quick, okay?’

‘Ah, you crazy kids.’ Jack picked up the cookies and paused the movie as Davey picked up the call, hurrying into the kitchen.

Things that weren’t weird: getting annoyed when your best friend’s boyfriend interrupted your Valentine’s bro date.

Even as he thought this, he had trouble believing it.

February 14th 2016

Wait -

January 20th 2016

Jack’s place. Wednesday night. Home from work. Long day. Roommate out. Slippers and Mad Men. Around nine, a knock on the door.

Davey stood, leaning against the wall, eyes red rimmed, staring into space. Jack watched him bite his lip, blink, open his mouth.

‘He’s been sleeping with his boss. For about a year, now.’ He looked up and into Jack’s eyes. ‘It’s over.’

It was freezing cold and it had been dark for hours. Jack opened his arms and Davey swayed forward into them, hiding his face in Jack’s neck, leaning on him as Jack squeezed him tight. Jack realised, as he stared out into the street and thought about the hollow, manic look in Davey’s eyes, he’d never seen his best friend cry. Davey felt almost horrible in his arms, stiff and shuddering.

‘Come on, you’re freezing.’

Davey followed him in silently, collapsing heavily on the couch when Jack gestured for him to sit.

‘Do you wanna talk about it? You don’t have to.’

He knew Evan was a shit. Well. He didn’t really. But he had definitely thought that Evan’s whole thing reeked of too-good-to-be-true - a marketing exec who wore fitted suits and didn’t believe in lazy Sundays. And he combed his hair every single day, like, what was that? That is to say that he could see why Davey had fallen for him, but from the outside looking in? Davey could do better. Evan wasn’t... real. That was it. Evan’s demeanour was always so practised and so perfect that it made total sense he would be hiding something huge. Not that Jack would tell Davey this.

‘We went out tonight. To the bar on Elizabeth Street. And, um.’ Davey rubbed his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. ‘We had like five or six rounds. I think maybe he wanted to be drunk. I am. Shit. So drunk.’ He squinted out into the room. Jack was sitting next to him on the couch, watching him sink into the cushions. ‘And then he just came out with it. We must have been in this bar talking like everything was okay for two hours before he said it. The conferences. Like, they were real. But his boss was there too. I feel like such a...’ Davey covered his face with his hands. ‘I can’t believe I thought I was enough for him.’

February 14th 2016

‘So I’ve got Hook, Dead Poet’s Society, and Night at the Museum,’ Davey announced as he walked in. ‘We thinking chronological, alphabetical?’

‘Reverse alphabetical. I need to warm up with Night at the Museum before I can even think about those fricken dead poets.’

Over the last twelve months Jack had enjoyed a number of romantic encounters. He’d gone steady with one girl for two months and even enjoyed a couple of fourth dates with different people before the inevitable fizzling started. Still not desperate he’d tried to focus on his art and maybe finding a better job than his restaurant gig, sure that when a person that was right for him came along, he’d know about it.

Over the last twelve months Davey had been going from strength to strength with Evan. They had moved in together, merged DVD collections, all that good stuff. This had given Jack a lot of time to think about why he just... didn’t love Evan, and he had come up with a fair few reasons. The most troubling of these came as a slow realisation that Davey was too good for him. Way too good.

He started measuring up potential dates next to Davey. Started to get these little twinges in his stomach when Davey entered the room. And it felt good to indulge so he started to let himself stare a little at Davey’s mouth when he talked, his hands when he wrote or held a beer or just kind of anything, his face just all the time but especially when he got excited about stuff.

That’s to say that Jack had been harbouring a very minor, very unimportant... crush for about eight or nine months now. But it was fine. Because Davey was with someone. And their friendship was important to him. It made way more sense for them to stay friends while they dated and had sex with and broke up with other people - Relationships were messy.

He wasn’t happy per se when Davey and Evan ended things, but he knew that Davey was better off out of it. And he hated that as he sat consoling Davey the night it happened, he was trying to make sense of his feelings for him.

He kept Valentine’s free on purpose, excited that it was theirs, with or without romantic complications.

Valentine’s day fell about three weeks after Davey broke up with Evan. Evan’s stuff was gone from his apartment, selfies deleted from his phone, new hangout spots found that wouldn’t remind him of their time together. It was hard trying to get used to being single so quickly - he noticed the lack of welcoming kisses to come home to, and the casual lingering touches. He missed them, even if he knew that most of their relationship had been built on lies. But Jack was an excellent ally in single life, and having their newfound Valentine’s day tradition definitely helped take the sting out.

‘You’re so smart.' He put the movie in and took his seat next to Jack. Jack handed him a beer. Easy, reliable, comfortable silence.

Or it was comfortable silence, until an hour into the movie when Jack realised Davey had barely made a noise - not even a quiet huff of laughter. He looked across to see Davey focused on his drink, silently tapping a fingertip against the neck of the bottle, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

‘Dave?’

‘Mmm?’

‘What’s up?’

‘What? Nothing. Sorry.’

‘Come on.’

‘I just. I miss him. And I know I shouldn’t. I know he was an asshole. Still.’

‘That’s natural. It takes time, right?’

‘Right. Right. It’s just - crazy how you can be with someone. And then just. Not.’

Jack had tried so hard to tell Davey how the problem wasn’t with him - it was with Evan not knowing what a good thing he had. And yet dumb Davey kept thinking that if he had done something differently, been someone else, Evan wouldn’t have cheated on him. Jack just... wanted Davey to understand how perfect he was.

‘I’m sorry. I know I’m being really boring.’

Because the thing was that Davey would always carry this little flame of self-doubt, if Jack didn’t try his hardest to extinguish it. He’d always think that he needed to be more than he was, instead of being able to trust that the other person liked him anyway. How to let Davey know without pushing it?

‘Hey now. Shut up. You’re allowed to be emo, Dave.’ Jack paused the movie and stood up. ‘Come on. Get up.’

‘What?’

‘Up! We’re going out.’

‘Out where?’

‘Just outside for five minutes, Davey. Trust me, come on.’

Davey stared up at him from the couch, intrigued, sceptical, and aware that Jack was a stubborn asshole and thus inclined to co-operate.

They walked around the block, Jack leading Davey through comically exaggerated breathing exercises that sounded like they’d come from a second-rate birthing instructor.

‘Breathe out that negative energy and low self-esteem and bullshit... Breathe in the potential of the city, and the - the romance in the air, and I don’t fuckin know, the moonlight.’

Davey snorted. ‘The moonlight?’

‘I’m tryin’ my best!’

The smile was foreign and amazing on Davey’s face. They were standing outside his front door. Jack in front of him, lit up from behind by a streetlight, took Davey’s shoulders in his hands.

‘Davey, listen up. You’re the best guy I know. It really hurts to see you so cut up about this. But I know it won’t be long ‘til you meet someone better, who sees how important and special you are, alright? ‘Til then you’re stuck with me, of course, but beggars can’t be choosers.’ He watched Davey for his reaction. Had he gone too far?

Davey pulled him into a hug. He wrapped his arms around Jack and squeezed tight, sagging into him when Jack hugged back. He kept kept kept holding Jack for a couple of minutes, like he was trying to figure something out about the way their chests were pressed together. The longer they stood there together the more Jack started to wonder if he was really on to something, and if Davey was beginning to understand. He would never try to push his best friend into anything he wasn’t ready for and hell, maybe didn’t even want - but this closeness, it said something. Their breathing synced up. Jack could feel warmth radiating from Davey’s skin.

Davey took half a step back, like he was thinking about maybe preparing to end the hug. Their faces next to each other, heads in woolly hats connected temple to temple, Jack’s scratchy stubble on his cheek. He spoke into Jack’s ear.

‘Thanks, Jack.’

Jack smiled bittersweet, thinking that he’d stay in this embrace as long as Davey would let him. Davey inched back, just a little, and all Jack could comprehend was how their mouths were mere inches apart, centimetres even. Was Davey - could they -?

Davey didn’t know what he was doing. He was fizzing inside from Jack’s words and had hugged him to say thank you, but there was something in how Jack’s arms effortlessly held him so tight and for so long, that made him want to stay forever. Jack’s skin against his, Jack’s breath on his ear, his familiar smell. He had always been there.

He rested their foreheads together and Jack didn’t stop him. ‘Jack.’

Jack’s eyes were trained on Davey’s mouth. This was new. They were edging out of friend territory. He barely had the presence of mind to wonder if Davey should even be thinking about kissing him - he was too busy hoping that he was.

When they finally kissed it was sweet and searching and only lasted a couple of seconds. Jack didn’t want to push and Davey was still unsure. It was sublime. A moment of tentatively pressing their lips together followed by another of Davey chasing the sensation, bringing one hand round to cup Jack’s cheek, check he was real. When Jack pulled back, his breath hitched at Davey’s shining eyes. He dared to touch Davey’s face, run his fingertips down his cheek and over his lips.

‘Now you know.’ It came out a whisper. Davey nodded, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath in.

‘We should get inside.’ They finally stepped away from each other, but before leading Jack back in Davey reached out, picking up his hand and holding it tight.

February 14th 2017

Jack combed his fingers through Davey’s hair, grinning at the sated, sleepy expression on his face. Davey blushed under the gaze of his gross, sweaty boyfriend, pulling him down for a long kiss.

They had woken up the morning of February 15th 2016 the way they always did, tangled up in a comforter on Davey’s couch, sun struggling through the curtains to land on their faces. Usually, however, they weren’t tangled up in each other at the same time. The night before had seen them muddle through their emotions in a halting conversation which saw Davey admitting that being close to Jack felt right, and natural, and normal. This admittance led to Jack readily opening his arms again and letting a confused Davey lay his head on his chest. In the twilight nothing seemed solid. They could deal with it all later.

Davey, off to work at eight thirty, left Jack sound asleep, texting him instead of waking him.

can we hang out later? ok if you’re busy. let me know when you finish work.

Three hundred and sixty five days of taking it slow later and Jack was still trying to show Davey how their leap of faith was worth it, a fact Davey well knew, but he wasn’t about to stifle Jack’s enthusiasm. Having Jack Kelly as a boyfriend was like having a cheerleader and a lover all rolled into one best-friend-shaped package and yes, Davey had been reticent at the start, so soon after breaking up with Evan, but Jack had been patient, and sincere, and suddenly it was already their first anniversary.

It was only 10pm when they got home from their meal, Jack having beaten even Spot in booking them a table months in advance, and around midnight when they collapsed on to Davey’s bed, exhausted, thrilled, and very naked.

‘I love you so god damn much.’ How good it felt to finally say those words out loud instead of screaming them in his head!

‘I love you too, you giant nerd.’ Davey gripped Jack’s hand to his chest. ‘I’m really glad we started that Valentine’s thing three years ago, too. I keep thinking how happy I am that girl dumped you.’

‘You sweet talker, Dave. I actually keep thinking about how we never finished that movie last year.’

‘Night at the Museum?’

‘That’s the one.’ Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘Seems a shame to discard our old traditions just ‘cause we’ve found some new activities.’

‘You’re serious? Naked Palentine’s day?’

‘Yes! Get your ass up!’ Jack jumped up, whisking away the comforter from where it had been kicked to the foot of the bed. He reached out to pull Davey up. ‘Come on, those nights were almost perfect, right?’

‘Almost perfect?’

‘Too many clothes.’ He wrapped the comforter around their shoulders and they padded as one into the living room.

#newsies #javid #newsies fic #jack kelly #davey jacobs #cant believe how long this fuckin took me to write #like its not even v day where i live anymore but its ok because it still is in new york

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movietvtechgeeks · 8 years ago

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Latest story from https://movietvtechgeeks.com/donald-trump-supporters-watching-next-four-years-closely/

Donald Trump supporters watching next four years closely

One thing we learned from Donald Trump becoming the 45th president of the United States was that many people who had voted for Barack Obama voted against Hillary Clinton. They wanted change, and they haven’t forgotten all the promises that Trump made to them.

There are actually many who take him at his word even though he has trained his press secretary Sean Spicer to create many versions of what he did say. These voters aren’t stupid, and as their stories show, they’re watching, and if Trump doesn’t deliver in his four years, they’re open to another change.

She tugged 13 envelopes from a cabinet above the stove, each one labeled with a different debt: the house payment, the student loans, the vacuum cleaner she bought on credit.

Lydia Holt and her husband tuck money into these envelopes with each paycheck to whittle away at what they owe. They both earn about $10 an hour and, with two kids, there are usually some they can’t fill. She did the math; at this rate, they’ll be paying these same bills for 87 years.

In 2012, Holt voted for Barack Obama because he promised her change, but she feels that change hasn’t reached her here. So last year she chose a presidential candidate unlike any she’d ever seen, the billionaire businessman who promised to help America, and people like her, win again.

Many of her neighbors did, too – so many that for the first time in more than 30 years, Crawford County, Wisconsin, a sturdy brick in the once-mighty Big Blue Wall, abandoned the Democratic Party and that wall crumbled. The rural county lent Donald Trump 3,844 votes toward his win. More came from formerly blue counties to the north and to the south, and on and on. Some 50 counties stretching 300 miles down the Mississippi River – through Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa and Illinois – transformed in one election season into Trump Country.

They voted for Trump for an array of reasons, and the list of grievances they hope he now corrects is long and exacting: stagnant wages, the cost of health care, a hard-to-define feeling that things are not getting better, at least not for people like them.

Here in Crawford County, residents often recite two facts about their hometown, the first one proudly: It is the second-oldest community in the state. The next is that it’s also one of the poorest.

There are no rusted-out factories to embody this discontent. The main street of Prairie du Chien butts up to the Mississippi River and bustles with tourists come summer. Pickup trucks crowd parking lots at the 3M plant and Cabela’s distribution center where hundreds work. Just a few vacant storefronts hint at the seething resentment that life still seems harder here than it should.

In this place that astonished America when it helped hand Trump the White House, many of those who chose him greeted the frenetic opening acts of his presidency with a shrug. Immigration is not their top concern, and so they watched with some trepidation as Trump signed orders to build a wall on the Mexican border and bar immigrants from seven Muslim countries, sowing chaos around the world.

Among them is a woman who works for $10.50 an hour in a sewing factory, who still admires Obama, bristles at Trump’s bluster, but can’t afford health insurance. And the dairy farmer who thinks Trump is a jerk – “somebody needs to get some Gorilla Glue and glue his lips shut” – but has watched his profits plummet and was willing to take the risk.

There’s a man who owns an engine repair shop and struggles to keep the lights on, and a bartender who cringes when he sees “Made in China” printed on American goods.

There’s also Holt, who makes $400 a week as a lawyer’s assistant and whose husband doesn’t do much better at a car parts store. She is enthusiastic that Trump started quickly doing the things he said he would, because she worries that by the time their sons grow up there will be nothing left for them here.

In this corner of middle America, in this one, small slice of the nation that sent Trump to Washington, they are watching and they are waiting, their hopes pinned on his promised economic renaissance. And if four years from now the change he pledged hasn’t found them here, the people of Crawford County said they might change again to someone else.

—

Katherine Cramer, a political science professor at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, coined a name for what’s happened in her state’s rural pockets: the politics of resentment.

She spent years traveling to small towns and talking to people at diners and gas stations. And when she asked which political party best represented them, their answers almost always sounded something like, “Are you crazy lady? Neither party is representing people around here.”

“People have been looking for a politician who is going to change that, going to listen to them, do it differently,” she said. “People a lot of times don’t have specifics about what that means. They just know that however government is operating currently is not working for them.”

In Crawford County, with just 16,000 residents, that dissatisfaction stems from feeling left behind as other places prospered.

There are plenty of jobs in retail or on factory floors, but it’s hard to find one that pays more than $12 an hour. Ambitious young people leave and don’t come back. Rural schools are dwindling and with them a sense of pride and purpose.

Still, much of the economic anxiety is based not on measurable decay, but rather a perception that life is decaying, said Jim Bowman, director of the county’s Economic Development Corporation.

There are higher-paying jobs – in welding, for example – but companies can’t find enough workers with the right training, Bowman said. The county’s $44,000-a-year median household income is $9,000 less than the state’s, but the cost of living is lower, too.

Just 15 percent of adults have college degrees, half the national average, and yet the ratio of people living in poverty is below the country as a whole.

Crawford County and all the other places in the county cluster along the Mississippi River that switched from Obama to Trump rank roughly in the middle on a scale of American comfort in one economic think tank’s county-by-county appraisal of community distress.

Yet for many here, it doesn’t feel that way.

“If you ask anybody here, we’ll all tell you the same thing: We’re tired of living like this. We’ve been railroaded, run over by the politicians and run over by laws,” said Mark Berns, leaning through the service window in the small-engine repair shop downtown that he can barely keep open anymore. He drives a 14-year-old truck with 207,000 miles on it because he doesn’t make enough profit to buy a new one.

Berns watched Trump’s first days in office half-hopeful, half-frightened.

“He jumps on every bandwagon there is. It’s a mess,” he said, bemoaning what he described as a quantity-over-quality, “sign, sign, sign” approach to governing. “I just hope we get the jobs back and the economy on its feet, so everybody can get a decent job and make a decent living, and have that chance at the American dream that’s gone away over the past eight or 10 years.

“I’m still optimistic,” he said, sighing. “I hope I’m not wrong.”

—

Marlene Kramer gets to work before the sun comes up and spends her days sitting at a sewing machine, stitching sports uniforms for $10.50 an hour.

Kramer, who voted twice for Obama, used to watch Trump on “Celebrity Apprentice.” ”I said to myself, ‘Ugh, I can’t stand him.'” When he announced his candidacy, she thought it was a joke. “Then my husband said to me, ‘Just think, everything he touches seems to turn to money.'” And she changed her mind.

She’s 54, and she’s worked since she was 14, all hard jobs: feeding cows, pulling weeds, standing all day on factory floors. Now it’s the sewing shop, where she’s happy and gets to sit. But there’s no health insurance.

Her bosses, brothers Todd and Scott Yeomans, opened the factory 12 years ago. They said they’re trying to do the right thing by making sportswear with American-made fabrics and American labor. But they compete against factories overseas.

They’d like to offer insurance. The other day, a trusted worker quit for a job with benefits. But they’ve run the numbers, and it would cost $200,000 a year – far more than they can spend.

Kramer said she’s glad the Affordable Care Act has helped millions get insurance. But it hasn’t helped her.

She and her husband were stunned to find premiums over $1,000 a month. Her daughter recently moved into their house with her five children, so there’s no money to spare. They opted to pay the penalty of $2,000, and pray they don’t get sick until Trump, she hopes, keeps his promise to replace the law with something better.

Kramer thinks Obama did as good a job as he could in the time he had. She admires him, still, but went with Trump. That doesn’t seem incongruous to her, just a simple calculation of results.

“His things aren’t going the way we want them here,” she said, “so we needed to go in another direction.”

Across town, Robbo Coleman leaned over the bar he tends and described a similar political about-face. He held up an ink pen, wrapped in plastic stamped “Made in China.”

“I don’t see why we can’t make pens in Prairie du Chien or in Louisville, Kentucky, or in Alabama or wherever,” said Coleman. “Trump brought something to the table that I haven’t heard or seen before. And if it doesn’t turn out, then, hey, at least we tried.”

Coleman doesn’t love Trump’s moves to build a wall or ban certain immigrants – all Americans descended from immigrants, he said, including his own relatives, who migrated from Germany too many generations ago to count. But he’s frustrated that other politicians stopped listening to working people like him.

“We’ve got to give him some time,” he said of Trump. “He’s not Houdini.”

Even some rural Wisconsin Democrats agreed with Coleman’s assessment, and think their party’s leaders are among those who stopped paying attention to those just trying to get by. On the same day that Trump took the oath of office, a group of them huddled in the back room of a tavern, still trying to grasp how the election went awry.

Bob Welsh met Hillary Clinton at a rope line in Iowa and asked her to visit Wisconsin. But she didn’t come a single time during her campaign against Trump, and Welsh thinks that confirmed in the minds of many that Democrats are disinterested in white working people.

Welsh wears flannel shirts and suspenders. He grew up on a farm, worked as a herdsman, and drove a school bus until he was 76 years old. He’s 78 now, and knows his neighbors as kind, hard-working people, and could barely believe they voted for a man he finds reprehensible. But the left-right, blue-red vitriol that has cleaved apart the country has not left the same scars here, where wives reported not knowing how their own husbands voted and husbands said they never asked their wives.

Welsh said he hopes Trump finds a way to keep his promise to build his friends better lives.

“If he does that then he’ll change my mind,” he said. “And I’ll be the first to admit it.”

—

Bernard Moravits hosed the mud and cow dung off the boots pulled up over his jeans and headed for his truck, to drive to town to talk to a banker about keeping his farm afloat.

Moravits – everyone calls him Tinker – works on his farm outside of town at least 12 hours every day, and usually a lot longer. He diversified to minimize risk and has dairy and beef cows, and acre after acre of corn, beans, alfalfa.

“You don’t hit a home run that way, but you don’t get your ass kicked either,” he said. “But this year could be the ass-kicking year.”

The price of milk and agricultural goods has plummeted, and it’s hard to keep things running.

Change is what he looked to Obama for and now expects from Trump. He wants the president to reduce red tape and renegotiate trade deals to benefit American farmers. And he hopes people make more money and spend more money, which eventually trickles down to him.

“I think he’s a shrewd businessman,” he said. “He’s been broke several times. He keeps bouncing back, and he knows how big business works.”

He has several choice words for Trump’s move to build “his stupid wall.” Moravits employs Hispanic workers who have been with him 15 years. He built them apartments. He trusts them to do a dirty, difficult job that he says white people aren’t willing to do.

“A lot of people don’t treat them like people,” he grumbled.

Unlike many transfixed by Trump’s presidency, Moravits doesn’t stay up-to-the-minute on the news. In the morning, he checks the agriculture prices and the weather. As protests over Trump’s immigration ban raged for days, Moravits wasn’t paying attention.

“The play-by-play don’t mean bullshit,” he said. “It’s like watching the Super Bowl. What counts is how it ends.”

He took over this farm at 18 years old, when his father died of an aneurysm while milking cows. He said he plans to die here, too. He’ll retire when “they close the casket lid.”

But if nothing changes and changes soon he might have to borrow against his equity.

Moravits isn’t sure Trump is going to “Make America Great Again” for farmers. But he feels he had to take the gamble.

“He might have us in a war in two weeks,” he said. “We’ll come back here in six months, drink a 30-pack of Busch Light and talk, because no one knows now what’s gonna happen.”

He laughed, then shrugged and pantomimed rolling the dice.

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