#sucks all they do is allow hair to clog the drain

[rocketkart95]

I take back everything I said baths are sooo nice

[khaleesiofalicante]

I'm willing to pay cash to see Anjali's reaction upon receiving the "complaint" letter from Arthur. Also, the conversation with Rafael about deciding to fund the tech for his school.

Something I've noticed so far In the new LBAF timeline is, that Max has become so much similar in character to Alec's. The way he's parenting and communicating with the kids.. its very much like Alec. It's hot. It's mature. It's beautiful.

I accept payments in the form of Lewis Hamilton Thirst Traps :)

PS - Your observation about Max's parenting is >>>

“Are you in there?”

“Yeah!”

She leaned into Cami’s bathroom and sighed. “Rafael. I’ve told you to let her handle it.”

Her husband, who was leaning into the tub and wiping at it furiously, didn’t even bother to turn around to answer. “The drain got clogged again. How much hair does she lose when she showers?”

“She can unclog her own drain next time,” Anjali rolled her eyes. “Can you come out for a minute? I need to talk to you.”

“Just a second, amor, I need to let the baking soda sit for a minute-”

“It’s about the New York Institute.”

The blue latex gloves came off immediately as the man rushed to wash his hands and came out of the bathroom. “What happened?”

Anjali pressed a soft kiss to his lips first. Just because she wanted to. Just because he deserved it. He deserved all the love and appreciation. He needed to know that. Especially with everything going on. 

Anjali sat on the edge of her daughter’s bed and held out the fire message. “This came in earlier today.”

Rafael’s brown eyes scanned the contents the letter carefully. 

She’d been at a meeting with the auditors when the fire message appeared in front of her, thankfully she was always glamoured at office. 

She read it twice and then spent the next ten minutes wondering if it was a prank. A quick chat with one of her colleagues in admin revealed that mundanes did indeed cut up open frogs in biology class. 

She almost felt as if nephilim were better. 

Then she remembered that nephilim used to do that to downworlders not very long ago, and so no, nephilim weren’t any better. 

Maybe everyone just sucked. Except for her Rafael.

“Well,” Rafael said when he finished reading, and neatly folded the letter. “What do you think?”

“He spelt positively as paw-sitively,” Anjali pointed out. “This school obviously needs all the help it can get.”

Rafael chuckled tiredly, pulling the edges of the letter which had traces of glitter. “Do you think Max knows about this?”

“Honestly?” She asked and shook her head. “I don’t think he would’ve allowed it.”

“He’s a proud man,” Rafael mumbled. 

“He’s a pig,” Anjali replied, still a little hurting because Max didn’t attend Arjun’s rune ceremony. Even after Anjali has specifically asked him to. “A stubborn pig we love.”

“He used to be like this,” Rafael said, chuckling softly again, unfolding the letter. “He was always kind to animals.”

“He never got a pet?” Anjali asked, wondering why she had never asked that question before.

Rafael chuckled properly and shook his head. “Chairman Meow likes being an only child.”

Anjali smiled at that and touched the man’s arm. “I’m thinking of helping him out. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Some of our donors are interested in working with private schools.”

“Okay,” Rafael nodded quietly. 

“Are you okay?” she asked him carefully. 

“He’s in high school,” Rafael said, clutching the fire message tightly. “I’ve missed a lot, haven’t I?”

“They’ve missed a lot too, Rafael,” she reminded him gently.

“I just hope the next time we’re all in the same room isn’t at a funeral,” Rafael sighed. 

“Whose funeral?”

“Does it matter?" Rafael sighed again and managed a smile. For her. The way he often did even when he was hurting. He’s gotten a lot better at it over the last few years. “Thanks for sorting this out. I’m gonna finish cleaning up.”

“Rafael?” Anjali called. “Should we tell Max about this?”

“The donation?”

“Yes.”

Rafael exhaled and shook his head. “He doesn’t have to know.”

“Maybe it would help to know.”

“I don’t want him to think I’m trying to cosy up to him with money, Anjali,” Rafael said in frustration. 

“From what I hear, your brother is doing just fine making his own money,” Anjali hummed. 

“Don’t listen to Clave gossip.”

“Even if it’s from your father?”

Rafael pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t tell Max.”

“Is it because you don’t want him to know you’re helping him or is it because you want him to reach out to you first?” Anjali asked. 

Rafael opened his mouth and closed it. “This bath tub is not going to clean itself.”

“You’re a proud pig too, you know!” She called out after him. 

“Well, you married this proud pig,” he yelled back from the bathroom.

He still cared a lot. She knew that. He always will. 

He didn’t give back the fire message to her after all. 

+ Bonus - Arthur’s Letter to Anjali. 

Dear Aunt Anjali,

I wanted to talk to you about something that's hopping around my heart like a little bunny. You see, in my freshmen biology class, we're about to do a frog dissection. Apparently, it's part of the curriculum. That’s not very nice, is it? I’m sure you agree with me. My daddy and papa say you are very smart! 

I was thinking about Devlin Corp and the super cool 4D technology you have. Wouldn't it be pawsitively amazing if we could use that cool tech to explore the mysteries of life without hurting any innocent animals? 

Everyone keeps saying it doesn’t matter because they’re already dead. But if we can’t even be nice to dead things, then that’s very scary. 

I totally get that this is a tadpole of an idea, but if you could consider it, it would mean the world to me and, hopefully, to all the little froggies out there.

Love,  Arthur x 

[purocleanpembroke01]

Sewage Backup Causes and What You Can Do

When sewer lines become obstructed, whereby preventing wastewater from flowing through drainage pipes, blockage occurs. The thick, black water that forms as sewage is a potential hazard, as it contains contaminants and viruses that can present a risk of severe illness if exposed to humans or animals. If you have a sewage backup in your basement, you will need to fix it quickly. However, knowing what causes sewer backups can help you prevent a hazardous situation in your basement or home. Here’s how to prevent and handle sewage backups in your pipes:

Causes for a Sewage Backup in the Basement

Clogs – Sewage can back up into your home when either your home’s drain pipes or main sewer line becomes clogged. For example, if one toilet creates a sewage backup, the drain connected to that toilet will likely be clogged. But if all toilets or bathtubs in your home create backflows, then there may be a clog in the main sewer line or the sump pump failed. Clogs can consist of hair, grease, or other solid materials that end up in the drains.

Tree Roots – Trees can grow really long roots that intertwine with your sewer line. Roots can grow into a pipe and cause holes or crush the sewer line by growing around it. Even if the roots in your yard are not the problem, roots from nearby trees can reach your sewer line and damage it.

Damaged Sewer Lines – In the past, pipes were made of cast iron and clay piping which don’t last very long. Aging sewage systems can break down and crack, causing sewage backups and flooded basements. Plastic sewer lines have now become the norm.

Heavy Rainfall – Can heavy rain cause sewer backup?  Yes, large amounts of rain can overburden your city’s sewer lines. If the public sewer can’t handle excess rainfall, the water can make its way into connected sewer lines. This puts your home at risk of water backflows.

How to Prevent a Sewage Backup in the Basement

Don’t pour grease down the drain. Cooking oil can harden within your pipes; it gradually stops debris from draining, creating a clog. To properly dispose of grease or fat, pour it into a heat-resistant container and throw it in the trash after it cools off.

Dispose of paper products properly. Flushing hygiene products such as paper towels, diapers, or feminine products down the toilet can easily clog your sewer line. Save yourself some trouble and discard paper products in the trash.

Install a new plastic pipe or cut tree roots. To prevent tree roots from damaging your sewer lateral (the line buried in your yard),replace it with a new plastic pipe. If tree roots still grow in your sewer lateral, cut the roots occasionally.

Install a backwater prevention valve. This fixture allows sewage to leave but prevents it from backing up into your home. Backwater valves are typically installed into a sewer line and sometimes into a drain line in the basement.

Sewage pump maintenance. Ensure your sump pump doesn’t sit on debris such as silt or gravel, which could be sucked up into the pump, ruining the motor. Instead, place it on a steady flat brick. Also, ensure the sump basin has a filter fabric around it to stop debris from coming in.

What You Can Do If You Have a Sewage Backup in the Basement

Calling a professional restoration company is the best way to deal with sewage backup in the basement. However, here’s what you can do to mitigate the damage in your home before the restoration team arrives:

Evacuate the flooded area. Sewage contaminants are hazardous to pets as well.

Turn off electrical power in the flooded area. Electrical wires or appliances might come in contact with standing water or wet materials.

If the main circuit breaker is in the basement, be careful. If you can’t safely turn off the power, don’t go near electrical devices.

Wear protective clothing like a facemask, eyeglasses, gloves, and rubber boots before walking through sewage water.

Shut off the valve for the main water line of your home. Check out how to shut off utilities during a disaster.

Notify your insurance company about the sewage backup. Remember that sewer backups are not covered by standard homeowners insurance, unless you’ve purchased extra endorsements for sewers and drains. Learn more about homeowners insurance and water damage.

Notify your municipal authority or sewer department if your home is connected to a public sewer.

Don’t use the water supply system in your home until the backup problem is fixed – don’t flush toilets or drain tubs and sinks.

Open windows or doors to let fresh air in and ventilate the area.

Add some chlorine bleach to the standing water to help disinfect.

For Professional Sewage Cleanup, Call the PuroClean Water Damage Restoration Experts

If you have a sewage backup in the basement, call a restoration professional right away to remediate the black water damage. Handling the contaminated water yourself can put you at risk of contracting diseases. Contact PuroClean for water damage repair and mold remediation services.

[leviackermanscleaningbuddy]

BTS DRABBLE-OT7

It's not easy dating a member of the mafia-let alone seven of them at once. And honestly, living life constantly on edge is starting to drain you-wondering who will get hurt next, who will disappear on what mission, or god forbid won't come home at all. But, luckily, the same seven men who keep you perpetually worried, are also the same seven men who always manage to take those worries way.

Tags: BTS, Bangtan Boys, Bangtan Seonyendan, Bulletproof Boy Scouts, Beyond the Scene, BTS Drabble, Angst, Fluff, Bts imagines, Bts reactions, Bts scenarios, OT7, Poly!BTS, BTS x you, BTS x reader, Kim Seokjin, Min yoongi, Jung Hoseok, Kim Namjoon, Park Jimin, Kim Taehyung, Jeon jungkook, Mafia AU

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Title: Unconditionally

"You promised! You promised me you wouldn't get hurt!"

Namjoon's hands close around your upper arms, his broad chest and shoulders blocking your view of the injured man who struggles to hold himself upright between two of his brothers, his expression stern as his eyebrows draw down over dark eyes.

"(Y/N), why don't you take a walk-" He starts to say, tone low and serious, before you interrupt him with another shriek of your own.

"Take a walk? Are you serious, Namjoon?" Your words are harsh and angry as they spit past your lips, and you wrench your arms from his grasp, his fingers reluctantly peeling away from your skin as you focus back on the other men in the room with a dagger laced glare. "I can't just pretend this didn't happen! Look at Jungkook!"

You wave a fierce hand in the direction of said boy, growing paler by the moment, slouched between Yoongi and Hoseok, dark crimson dotting the edge of his rib cage through the fine, white material of his dress shirt.

You feel the anger start to fade, and the bitter feeling of tears begin to choke your throat as Jungkook manages a weak smile in your direction.

"Really, noona. I'm fine. It's just a-" He stops to take in a hissing breath, as the older men holding him up jostle him slightly while readjusting his weight. "It's just a scratch." He finishes lamely, voice nothing more than a whisper now.

Namjoon glances over his shoulder to Jungkook, and seeing the state he's in, gives a curt nod to the older men. "Get him outta here. The doctor's waiting for you."

You resist the urge to reach out and touch Jungkook gently as the men half carry, half drag his weakened body past you and out the door of the study, but only because you're worried about hurting him.

Yoongi-Jungkook's left arm slung around his shoulders-grunts with the effort of carrying the heavy boy, eyes dark, and barely gives you a nod as they pass you, while Hoseok-glancing across Jungkook's body to you-manages half of his normally bright smile, as if to reassure you, before they disappear from the room.

There is silence in the room, the only sound the departing footsteps, and then Jin, leaning against Namjoon's large, wooden desk on the other side of the room, lets out a heavy sigh and reaches up to push long fingers through tangled brown hair as he glances at the leader, still standing in front of you.

"Namjoon, I'm sorry. When we heard Jungkook was in trouble we tried to get back to his position as quickly as we could-" Jin's words drop off, and he glances at the other two men still left in the room, silently watching their leader with guarded expressions.

Namjoon takes in a sharp breath and pinches the bridge of his nose, stepping away from you to cross the room and stand behind his desk, palms planted flat on the oak in front of him, as he stares down at nothing, before he says firmly, "We'll discuss what went wrong tomorrow. For now-" He glances up, and the dark, warning hint of his eyes has you feeling like he's sucked the breath from your lungs. "Get out. I have some phone calls to make."

The remaining men all nod and bow their heads respectfully, Jin ghosting past you with a brief hand on your shoulder, before he leaves the study.

Taehyung and Jimin appear on either side of you, and though Jimin's large, dark eyes hold a hint of worry to them, he offers you the start of a soft smile, before his fingers close around your wrist and pull you toward the exit.

"Come on, baby girl. Let's leave Namjoon alone for now."

You allow him to pull you from the study and into the dim quiet of the hallway-darkened by the night outside-before you can manage to take a breath and feel like you are no longer drowning.

Well, not as much as before.

Taehyung's long arm slips around your waist, and a look of surprise flashes across his handsome features, as he pulls both you-and consequently Jimin-to a stop in the hall.

"You're trembling, sweetheart." He cocks his head, expression grave, eyes dark and unreadable. "Did seeing Jungkookie really get you that worked up?"

"Of course it did." You snap back, trying to soften your tone slightly, as you bite your lip and think over your next words carefully, Jimin's fingers still looped around your wrist, Taehyung's arm idly hanging from your waist. "You promised me that none of you would get hurt."

Jimin's eyes are soft as he pulls you to him and presses a gentle kiss against your forehead. "We tried, baby girl. We really did." You feel his gaze drift to that of Taehyung's over the top of your head, and you can feel the worry tense his body once more as he admits, "Kookie was just in the wrong place at the wrong time this go around."

The reminder of Jungkook-shirt crimson with blood, wide doe eyes narrowed with pain, lips sucked between his teeth-sends your body into another shivering fit, muscles tense and aching from the emotional trembling.

Jimin, still standing close to you, must feel the sudden violent shaking of your body where it comes into contact with your own, because his fingers tighten around your wrist and when you look up at him, his normally full lips are pressed into a thin line of worry.

Taehyung reads the two of you like an open book.

"C'mon, sweetheart." He says gently as he starts to pull you down the hallway once more. "Let's get you into bed."

******

You disappear beneath the covers, and you don't come back out.

You cannot see Jungkook-he's still with the doctor and apparently resting-and the thought of doing anything other than burrowing beneath your blankets sounds mentally and emotionally exhausting when you can think of nothing but holding back your tears while you worry for the youngest boy.

It's dark now-the deeper dark of the middle of the night-and you can tell by the soft glow outside the blankets that someone has turned on the lamps in your room.

The men have tried to leave you alone, but you know they've been flitting in and out of the room silently, checking on you periodically as they too wait and worry in silence.

"She's really upset, hyung."

Your ears perk as you hear Jimin's voice from just the other side of your cracked door, followed by a heavy sigh, and then Namjoon's deeper tone responding quietly.

"Has she eaten anything?"

You can almost imagine Jimin shaking his head. "No. She won't talk to any of us." There is a pause, and then, "What do we do?"

You pull the blanket to your chest as you wait for Namjoon's reply, and you can picture the way his brow furrows in thought when he's thinking over his words carefully. Finally he states firmly, seriously, "Get Yoongi-hyung."

There is no more conversation as the sound of footsteps fade down the hallway, and you are left alone once more, and once more, as soon as you know they no longer watch over you, your muscles-of their own accord-begin to tremble.

You reach up and swipe at your eyes with the backs of your hands as the hot tears press more insistently, breath coming in panicked, emotional gasps, filling up the cocoon you have made beneath the blankets with hot, moist air.

You feel like you're suffocating, and not because of the heavy layer of blankets over your head.

The door creaks and the pad of heavy footsteps sound, coming in a pointed direction toward the bed, and then the corner of the blanket lifts, just enough for you to get a brief glimpse of the lamplight, before the glow is swallowed up in the mass of a dark body sliding beneath the sheets beside you.

"You need to eat, you know." Yoongi mumbles gruffly as he pulls the blanket over his head, successfully trapping the two of you once more in the cave you have created.

You can barely make out the almond shape of his dark eyes and the line of the bandanna pushing back his bangs in the dim, warm atmosphere of the blanket cocoon, before he slides closer to you and pulls you against his chest, arms encircling your frame.

Instantly, the smell of his cologne in your nose makes you feel a little less crazy than you had a few moments before.

But the tears are still pooling at the corners of your eyes, and the damn trembling in your body still persists, even as you bury your face into the strong planes of Yoongi's chest.

"I can't." You whisper back, and your words choke in your throat, as if they're stuck there, held back by clogged tears. You shake your head against him. "I'm too worried."

"About Jungkook?" Yoongi asks, and when you nod, he scoffs, but in a gentle, nonjudgmental way. A way that is just purely Yoongi. "He'll be fine. He's young, unlike most of us, and his body can take a beating. This is nothing. You'll see."

His words trigger the waterfall you have been holding back and suddenly, your chest is tight, as tears cascade down your face, dampening the material of Yoongi's shirtfront.

"You promised me." You cry out, fingers twisting into his shirt, as you bite down hard on your bottom lip and taste copper, trying to quell the shaking of your body, which is now verging on violent. "You promised me that none of you would get hurt. I can't, Yoongi. I can't lose any of you." Your breath is coming in hard gasps, and you feel like you're drowning again. The thought of losing them-any of them-is like a hot knife in the middle of your chest. "I don't want to live without any of you."

Yoongi's long fingers splay out across your back, as he tucks you beneath his chin, the length of his body curled to yours, and the warmth and solidity of his muscles against your own seems to calm the trembling-if just a bit.

"Hey, baby, stop, okay?" He murmurs out, breath warm as it washes across the top of your head, lips a cool contrast as they press to the edge of your forehead. "Stop."

One of his hands comes up to the back of your head, pressing your cheek more firmly against his chest, moving evenly with his breaths, before he asks softly, "Can you hear my heartbeat?"

You force yourself to take a couple of calming breaths and listen, and the sound of his heartbeat-loud and steady and rhythmic-beneath your ear, has your own heart calming slightly as you nod against him.

Yoongi's chin rests on the top of your head, as you listen to his heart, and the shivering subsides even more, the tears drying on your cheeks. "Good. Just focus on that." His long fingers move to stroke down your back, over and over, in a comforting pattern.

Your eyes grow heavy as you realize you cannot do anything for Jungkook now. Maybe, if you sleep, they will let you see him first thing in the morning.

And so, listening to the steady pound of Yoongi's heart, you allow yourself to give into the darkness of sleep.

*******

When you wake up the next morning, Yoongi is no longer beside you, but Hoseok is sitting in the armchair beside your bed, reading something that looks eerily similar to a Jane Austen novel.

"Good morning, sunshine!" He greets when he sees you awake, setting aside his book to jump up and give you one of his radiant smiles. You note, briefly, that his hair is tousled as if he-unlike you-didn't sleep the night before.

"Hobi." You breathe out, sitting up so suddenly your head spins, the blankets still clutched to your chest. "Can I-"

"Yes. You can see Jungkookie." He grins, finishing your sentence, eyes bright, as if he knew what you'd want to ask as soon as your eyes opened. "Namjoon's with him now."

You are out of the bed before your feet can catch up with what your brain is doing, and Hoseok catches you as you almost stumble into him.

"Okay, okay. Slow down there. Jungkook isn't going anywhere." He laughs, and takes you by the arm, dragging you from the room behind him, and even though his words state patience, the way his body bounces as he walks indicates he's just as excited as you are.

The walk down the hallway and up the stairs to the back of the house-and consequently Jungkook's room-seems to take an eternity.

Hoseok opens the door after a soft knock, and you instantly feel the breath whoosh back into your lungs, a sigh of relief leaving your lips, as you see Jungkook sitting up-propped among pillows-in the middle of the large bed.

He's still pale, but he's alive.

"Dammit, Jungkook." You exclaim breathily, unable to breathe properly with the weight of relief that is now sitting heavily on your chest as you rush toward him and take his face in your hands, inspecting him sternly. "You scared the shit out of me."

"I'm fine, noona." The younger boy manages a weak chuckle, as you continue to keep his face firmly between your palms, not wiling to let go of him, the feeling of warmth, breathing flesh making up for the agonizing twenty four hours of uncertainty before.

Jungkook grimaces slightly as your fingers dig a little bit too deep into his skin. "Really." He reaches up to pry your hands from his cheeks, lacing your fingers between his own, as you finally let yourself sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him. He tilts his head and his large doe eyes crinkle as he smiles at you. "I'm sorry I worried you. The hyungs said you were pretty upset."

"Upset is an understatement." You chide back, your fingers stroking across the smooth skin that covers his knuckles, as you glance over to Hoseok, who stands beside Namjoon's tall frame silhouetted by the window. You direct your gaze back to Jungkook, and your face softens slightly, as you free a hand to reach up and push long dark curls back from his forehead. "The thought of losing you-any of you-is enough to turn me into someone insane."

Jungkook leans into your touch, like a cat looking for affection, and manages another smile in your direction, though his big eyes have gone more serious and less jovial now. "I know, (Y/N). I'm really sorry."

"Jungkookie." Hoseok breaks the silent tension between the two of you with a bright smile that rivals sunshine as he plops down in the chair beside the bed and you wonder briefly, how many times the boys switched their vigil over their wounded brother last night. "What do you wanna eat? I'll have the kitchen make you anything you want. On the house." He winks at the younger man playfully.

You stand, as the two men begin discussing their breakfast orders, and wander to the large window to stand beside Namjoon, who has been silent since you entered, eyes brooding as he stares out at the length of garden and courtyards below you framed by the glass.

It is a rainy and gloomy sort of morning, the sky blocked out with plump, gray clouds, the window pane streaked and distorted with patterns of cold water, and your warm breath fogs the glass as you sigh, the outside world reflecting the somber feeling that has blanketed the house ever since last night.

Your eyes are drawn to Namjoon as he makes a subtle movement in the edge of your vision, reaching up to rub at one of his shoulders with idle, distracted fingers, as he continues to stare down at the courtyard in deep, solemn thought.

You remember that one. You remember it clearly. And even now, it sends a cold shiver down your spine to bring back the memory.

The mission that had gone wrong, the frantic, unhinged, uncharacteristic panic of the other six men as they had dragged their unconscious leader-bleeding profusely from a gunshot wound to the shoulder-into the foyer, dripping with rain and defeat.

The way Jungkook had cried as you'd held him and the other boys close as the doctor whisked away the still barely breathing Namjoon, the way the crimson streak of fresh blood had looked so stark and bright against the black and white tiles at your feet, the absolute cold feeling of terror settling into the pit of your stomach as trembling had overcome your body.

No, that time-and all the other times-would never go away. Ever. The memories were here to stay.

Without thinking, you reach out and place your hand over Namjoon's fingers where they still massage the sore tissue beneath his shirt, and he startles slightly, as if just now realizing you're standing beside him, as you jerk him abruptly from his thoughts.

He glances down at your fingers covering his own. "It still aches when it rains." He offers quietly, as if this is an explanation, and because you know him, it is.

"I know." You say simply, as you move to wrap your arms around his narrow waist and rest your chin on one of his broad, firm shoulders, following his distant gaze back out to the rain chilled landscape before you.

And you do know, because you know all of them-inside and out. Absolutely, incredibly, deeply.

And in just the same way, they all know you. Completely, essentially, openly.

And you wouldn't change it. Not any of it.

Because the same seven men who make you go feral with worry-day and night-are also the only seven men who can soothe those fears beyond the shadow of a doubt.

Wholly, unconditionally, perfectly.

[bartletforamerica]

How the Bartlet Administration Reacts to COVID-19

Abbey: is not taking any chances. After losing the fight to get the President to retreat to the farm or Camp David, she gets him to agree to limit himself to the oval office and the residence, with as few in person meetings as possible. Even before they’ve pulled together a White House task force, she’s made sure that everything is being disinfected and that her entire schedule is either canceled or made virtual. Her staff is the first to be working from home (and oh boy does she scold if she finds out any of them did something she thinks is foolish), with most of the rest of the White House staff following shortly after. She makes it her mission to do PSAs on what people should be doing and even does a virtual Sesame Street collaboration to teach kids how to wash their hands.

Zoey: Is not super pleased to be stuck in the Residence 24/7. She’s doing classes from her bedroom, so yay to not having to get out of bed early, but she can tell people are super disappointed that her camera is set up so that she has only a blank wall behind her [it turns out the secret service is very touchy about where you take video calls]. She also gets officially hired and given a security clearance for the sole fact that she’s one of the only people allowed to be near her dad who is tech-literate. She ends up doing some of her reading on the couch in his office so that she's on hand for when he's supposed to be skyping with the senior staff and can't figure out what link to click. She spends a lot of time worrying about Ellie, who helping do research about the virus, and texting her friends.

The President: is not happy to be closed up away from people. He also thinks that Abbey is overreacting where he's concerned. He misses actually getting to be around the younger staff. He and Zoey do a cooking from home video at C.J.'s suggestion, so that the country can see he's alive and to encourage people to not go out. They make chili and fight over whether it needs more cumin or oregano while Abbey records it and pipes in from behind the camera. The country is treated to a history of chili and a diplomatic incident nearly happens because apparently Mexicans deny having any association with it, even though most food historians say it has Mexican roots. The flaming debate doesn't stop a second episode at Thanksgiving where the country is treated to the history of the yam and all the secret spices that go into the President's stuffing. A large portion of the country gives him flack for putting Oysters in his stuffing. [In a small bedroom in an Illinois apartment a woman finally figures out why Joe Bethersonsen sounded so familiar.]

Leo: moved into the Residence because there was no way he was going to talk the President off ledges via skype for however long this lasted. He can only do so much. Zoey helps him learn to use Skype and he finds himself missing Margaret desperately even when he spends most of the day with a computer dedicated to having her on Skype so he can turn to it and ask her questions. She insists he get exercise and eat healthy (something he thinks she’s collaborating with the first lady on behind his back—they say very similar things much of the time). He skypes with Mallory on Sunday mornings over breakfast in his room and they pretend they’re at a hotel having a fancy brunch.

Charlie: is not particularly happy. He got sent home with everyone else because he’s not particularly necessary to have on hand if the president isn’t going anywhere. He’s still getting paid and he does do some work (the most important bit being hanging out on the phone with the president so he can ramble about history so Zoey can get her own reading done, Leo can browbeat the staff, and the first lady can do her own job) but he’s been ordered by the president and first lady to focus on getting extra school done while he can.

Donna: started freaking out the first day there was a rumor of a new disease in China. Then the White House shut down and even senior staff got sent home unless they absolutely needed to be in the building (basically just C.J. and some of her staff). And her roommate (not the one she'd really liked, who had a cat, but one she hopes is only temporary) works for a GOP congressman who thinks the whole thing is a hoax and bans masks in his office, so Donna is not at all happy and spends time she should be working cleaning things her roommate touches and that's sixty percent of how she ends up living with Josh.

Josh: is struggling with not being allowed to leave the house on pain of the first lady taking him to task (something about his lungs and the bullet). Even when he was putting his nose to the grindstone to make it through college and law school, he liked being around people while he studied, so he was usually in the library or a cafe rather than his room. He works best when he can bounce ideas off people and take in new ideas. When he was grounded after surgery it absolutely sucked and that was why he drove everyone crazy calling them all the time. Yeah he was bored, but he was also lonely. Plus he's not the best with technology. He very nearly went on national tv with his boxers showing, if not for Donna skyping him beforehand and making sure he fixed the camera. Between needing not to be alone and needing his assistant to be able to actually help him, the invite for Donna to stay with him slips out when she's complaining about her roommate. She shows up two hours later with two suitcases of clothes and two suitcases with pasta, toilet paper, and flour.

Donna and Josh: are handling the pandemic much better now that they're together. Josh can bounce ideas off Donna without it tying up his phone line. And she can listen in on his calls to the various members of congress about the stimulus package that they're working on. It's an even better look at Josh's job than she had before, and while it makes some of her work harder to focus on, she feels like she understands some things better than she ever has before. Josh even starts listening to her about how to sway certain congressmembers to their side. When they're not working, Donna forces Josh to cook with her so they're not entirely subsisting on delivery. They tried making bread and managed to spill half a bag of flour on the floor in the process but they ate all of it, even though it tasted pretty bland. Josh finally got Donna into baseball when it came back. Toby spit out his beer when he was on speakerphone with them and he heard Donna accurately yelling at the Mets for screwing up. Donna wears Josh's clothes more than her own, since she doesn't have to be on camera most of the time. They're platonically sharing a bed because they haven't found a convertible sofa for his living room that they like, they say, and it doesn't make sense for one of them to sleep on the couch, which they say has a spring that makes it uncomfortable to sleep on, even though Donna lounges on it all day with no problem. They are absolutely not dating and so they tell all their friends.

C.J.: spends five minutes laughing every time she gets off the phone with Josh or Donna. She loves her friends but god they're so completely in denial. It does, however, give her a much needed break. Her job has always involved a lot of people and knowing what venue to meet them in to ensure that she gets or passes on the information she needs. COVID protocols mean no more one-on-one meetings with journalists in her office, no more gaggles following her through the halls. The press corps were not happy when they moved all briefings outside and insisted on face masks and shields in addition to everyone sitting six feet apart. She gets asked about the president's health at least once a day and they start doing weekly waving from the balconies just so the press corps can get footage of him, healthy and shouting down to Danny and some of the others. Someone makes a cartoon of the president in the tower, with Abbey as his dragon keeper and though no one is willing to justify a cartoon with a comment, privately C.J. thinks it's accurate. She's always admired Abbey's fierce protectiveness of her family, even when she doesn't agree with every way it expresses itself or when it interferes with C.J.'s job. She has to come up with new ways to push the White House agenda (keep the economy afloat, stay home, no, don't listen to the GOP governors or those running for the primary, those ideas are not good, go the fuck home and stop having parties) and while some work, others bomb. It would help if everyone would stay on message and not screw up.

Sam: would like to make it clear that he did not know how many people would be at that gathering. He thought he was going for an outdoor meal with just a few old friends who could help raise money for the democratic party, not a fifty-person birthday party. The media fallout nearly gets him fired. Instead he gets yelled at by C.J., then by the First Lady. Mallory even sends him a card about how stupid he was. He's pretty sure that having Donna around is the only reason that Josh hasn't made the same mistake by now. It had to have been a toss up as to which of the two of them would screw up. Sam just isn't lucky enough to have a Donna (Sam is very happy that Josh has a Donna, Sam just wants Josh to realize that he talks about Donna the same way most men talk about their wives, because it's really hard not to respond to "why do I put up with finding her hair clogging the shower drain" with "because you love her and can't live without her, stupid"). He instead has adopted a cat for company. It tries to scratch him every time he tries to pet it. Sam spends his days trying to find a way to say "fuck the economy until we've beaten the virus" in a way that is palatable to the American people while trying to remind Toby that they can't actually say that outright. This is not an easy task.

Toby: would like to tell most of the American public to shut up, stay indoors for two months, pretty much nobody excepted, and if you don't, then you get tossed out to sea. He's come within an inch of telling anti-mask people they deserve to get sick on the record and is strongly advocating that the federal government figure out a way to mandate that every person in the country, minus those with legitimate medical exceptions, get the vaccine as soon as possible. He is also about to get evicted because it turns out his neighbors do not appreciate having rubber balls bounced against the walls for hours on end. Apparently, the thud is rather annoying. He worries about everyone, though this is delivered brusquely. Out of everyone he's taking the new work from home situation the best. No one can pop in to distract him, or comment on his eating habits. And if he doesn't want to talk to someone, he can always turn his phone to silent and pretend not to have seen they called. He's not pleased the Yankees lost to the Rays (necessitating rooting for either the Dodgers or the Rays, one of which beat his team and the other which betrayed New York), but he can at least take solace in the fact that the Mets didn't even make the playoffs.

[bandaigaeru]

comfort place - yang jeongin

→genre: friends to lovers →synopsis: comfort can manifest itself in many forms. some find it in the fantastical world of the arts. others find it in sports. but, for you, comfort is a person.  →word count: 6.5k →pairing: jeongin x gender neutral reader →warnings: drunk jeongin, mentions of puking

i. 

“Why are you doing that?” 

“Doing what?” 

“That,” your eyes go wide as you nod at his stature. He’s hunched over your trash can. Blue gloves shield his hands as he digs. 

“Oh. I think I lost my earring or something.” 

“And your first instinct was to search my trash can?” you quirk an eyebrow. Perhaps you should mention that this isn’t just any trash can, it’s your kitchen one. Full of discarded, burnt ramen and your roommate’s weird protein shakes that will clog your drain otherwise. 

He nods, as though this is the most normal first step to a lost earring. Yang Jeongin is many things, but being questionable is one of his strongest traits. 

You slip behind him to get to the fridge. Water bottles line the right half, more commonly known as your roommate’s side. You reach for one. 

“What are you doing on March twenty-fifth?” he asks, arms deep in your trashcan. He’s really going to endure this conversation without a single shred of his pride disappearing. 

You try not to look at him as you glance at the calendar. Two weeks away, the small square for that Saturday reads “NATIONALS” in large red letters. 

You hum to yourself. “Dog sitting.” 

“What?” he looks at you, eyes squinted in confusion, “Why?” 

“Danceracha’s going out of town for the dance contest. I told you this.” 

He exhales a deep, surrendering sigh as he straightens his back and plucks the gloves off. He shakes his hands in the cool air before starting for your sink. The calm stream of water trickles out. “Man. That sucks.” 

“Why?” you question. Your fingertips draw marks of condensation along the plastic. 

“I was gonna invite you to a party,” he mutters. A pout comes to his lips. For a moment, your heart drops. He looks the same as when you met him. All those years, long with memories but short in quantity, whizz past you. 

“Party?” you repeat. 

“Yeah,” he nudges the water stream off. 

Parties and Jeongin don’t mix well. History has proven this. 

“Whose party is it?” you start for the living room, knowing he’ll follow. 

“You don’t know him,” he says, his voice never once fading because, indeed, he’s on your tail. 

“Okay, but what’s his name?” 

“Chan. Actually,” he hesitates, “you might know him.” 

As you sink into the couch, chipped leather scratching your legs, you glance at him. His eyebrows are scrunched into his thinking stance. Then, his features light up once he finds the answer. “Do you remember sophomore year’s biology class?” 

You nod. 

“Remember when that senior came in to make fun of Mr. Lee?” 

Again, you nod. 

“His best friend is Chan. You probably saw them in our freshman yearbook for spirit week. They dressed up as Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum for Twins Day.” 

Your mouth forms into an acknowledging part. “Got it.” In fact, the recurring image instantly pops into your head. You can thank all the hours spent staring at it with stifled laughter for that. 

“So what’s the party for?” 

He shrugs, “Some college achievement shit.” 

“And you got invited?” you laugh. Jeongin barely made it out of high school. He took one harrowed glance at the local campus and nearly cried. You don’t blame him, though. That place is stressful. Even as a freshman you can say this. 

He rolls his eyes. “I’m cool, you know? I don’t need to be in academics for them to know that.” 

“Sure,” you nod. 

“I’m serious!” His lips quirk up in a defensive manner that sends a spark through your chest. 

Among other things, Jeongin is confusing. Questionable and confusing. These are the words you say when someone asks you what he’s like. Because seriously, why does he always do things so infuriating yet endearing? 

He runs a hand through his hair as he unlocks his phone. His thumb works quickly to swipe through a message log before he tilts the phone so you can see. “See?” 

The conversation in question is short, a maximum of four texts. The details blur as he snatches his phone back as quickly as he showed it. Again, infuriating. 

“Are you planning on going alone, then?” 

This question makes him freeze. He stares at the wall wielding a mounted TV, whose black screen reflects the image of him by your side, shoulder to shoulder. A small smile tilts his lips. “I guess. People want me there. So I’ll find my niche.” 

See? Endearing. 

You have no doubts that he can find a place to fit in. He did it in high school and he’ll proceed to do it in the future. That’s just how he is. Plus, maybe he can allow someone else to feel safe too. Like he did for you. 

ii.

High school is a demon with a comforting smile. When you’re forced to transition, they tell you it’s all fun. Sunshine and rainbows, if you will. What they don’t tell you is that luck will always make it so you don’t get any of your friends in your classes. And this, with your contradicting lunch shifts, will slowly force you out of the friend group you had stuck with since elementary school. 

Perpetual tears are stocked behind your eyes. Waiting for the perfect moment to fall because let’s be honest, any minor inconvenience could push you over the edge. Stress does that to you. 

In third period of your second week, your math teacher announces that she’s decided on her seating chart. She makes you line up against the walls as she grabs her reference sheet, lined with the images of desks, names scribbled atop them. “Jeongin,” she says, pointing to a desk in the front row. 

A boy a few feet away from you steps out from the crowd to claim his desk. He’s wearing an oversized maroon hoodie whose back is marked “Yang” in white letters. 

Your teacher stops at the seat next to him. She glances at you and your heart drops. “Y/N,” she points to a desk. 

Sitting up front is worse than the incessant plagues of high school drama. All eyes permanently burn into the back of your head, even when not a single soul acknowledges you. 

As you try to settle into your seat, back a little stiff from trying to shrink yourself into a tiny marble, the boy beside you leans over. “Hey, you okay?” 

For the first time, your eyes lock. His remind you of the innocence of childhood, that blank yet full gaze. You nearly melt, but instead, your back loosens. 

“Yeah. I just don’t like sitting in the front,” you chuckle awkwardly. 

He smiles. Not one of the pity ones, but a real toothy smile. “Aww. Me neither, I always feel like everyone’s watching me.” 

Finally, a person who gets it. 

“But I just have to trick myself into not caring,” he says, glancing at the whiteboard. Shadows of poorly erased marker line the corners. 

Abruptly, after his serene gaze, he jumps back to you. “Do you like coffee by any chance?” 

Despite the initial shock of the question, you say, “Yeah, I do.” 

As it turns out, his family owns this huge coffee shop right next to the bookstore you used to frequent. His mom was rather happy to see a new face. On that day, she accepted you as family. 

And math didn’t turn out to be so hard that year. 

iii.

The apartment grows quiet after Jeongin inevitably has to leave. Your roommate’s dog comes trotting out from his room. His nose is upturned, scouting for a soul to give him attention. 

“Come here, Kkami,” you pat the empty spot on the couch beside you. He runs the rest of the way. Instead of resting on the couch cushion, he prefers your lap. This pickiness he obtained from his owner. 

Hyunjin’s anything but a bad roommate. He does the dishes, sweeps when he finds a large puff of Kkami’s fur traveling your hardwood like a tumbleweed, even brings home coffee when you have a huge study night ahead of you. However, when it comes to you and Jeongin, your mutual hangouts on weekends, he has a very specific need. And that’s to be around you two as little as possible. 

He claims it’s because he can’t stand third-wheeling. Jeongin refuses to understand this concept. “If we’re not dating, it’s not third-wheeling?” he’d said, numerous times. 

Hyunjin won’t budge on the subject. 

The tune set as Jeongin’s ringtone, chosen by him, plagues the air. You reach for your phone, placing a protective hand on Kkami’s side to prevent him from falling. 

“Hello?”

“Problem: What would you do if your brother told you he got a girlfriend?” 

You squint at your reflection in the TV between scene transitions. It looks odd without him beside you. “Which brother?” 

“Guess which one would make me more dumbfounded. Hint, it’s not the older one.” 

“Your younger brother got someone before you?” you snicker. Jeongin holds his pride in his individuality. Losing to a younger brother with something like this is hilarious. 

“This isn’t funny! Should I be a serious big brother and talk to him or should I just seethe in silence?” 

“Neither. Leave him alone.” 

He does something akin to a whine. “But-”

You stick up a finger, though he can’t see you as you interrupt, “C’mon, Jeongin. He’s a teenager. Let him be.” 

Sometimes, it feels like he’s the outsider and you’re the true, reasonable sibling. 

He sighs. You imagine him pushing his hair out of his eyes and staring up at his ceiling. All lost in the possibilities that lay before him, since you and him both know he won’t listen to you. 

“Can I hang up now?” you ask, glancing at the front door. 

“Are you gonna abandon me for your significant other too?” 

You scoff as the front door opens. “You’re ridiculous.” 

Hyunjin steps into the apartment. His hair is damp with sweat and lays jagged in front of his eyes. You raise a hand to wave. 

“It’s a real question, though. You know whoever it is will be jealous of me.” Now, you know, he’s just prodding for a reaction. You can practically hear the smirk in his voice. 

“Yes, Jeongin. I would one hundred percent drop you for some person who offers emotional stimulation,” you monotonously chide. 

Hyunjin gives you a curious look as he passes. You would think he’d be used to this by now. 

“Okay but,” Jeongin’s voice grows low as he settles onto his bed, “would you really? Tell me you won’t.” 

“I won’t,” you press your back deeper into the couch. It’s not like you’ve had many romantic opportunities since meeting him. Jeongin, though also needy, is more interesting than anyone else you’ve met. He’s a shiny emerald among a sea of charcoal. 

“Good,” he says, and you can tell he’s smiling. The image of his little dimple indenting makes you mirror the sentiment. 

“Now can I hang up?” 

“Fine,” he sighs.

Through a laugh, you manage, “Goodnight. Love you.” 

“Love you too.” And then the line goes dead. 

iv.

“Are you sure you don’t like him?” must be a trendy replacement for ‘good morning.’ 

“Who?” you ask, rubbing your eye as you start for the cereal cabinet. 

“Jeongin. Who else?” Hyunjin says. He sits at the kitchen table. A plate of freshly heated blueberry waffles sits before him. 

Without turning to him, you say, “I’m sure.” 

It’s a reflex, really. 

He exhales in the most exaggerated way possible to grab your attention. His eyes are cold with the hunger for an answer. A real one. 

“I don’t like him,” you say slowly, allowing each word time to sink into the air. 

The thought has surely crossed your mind. It’d be unrealistic to say you’ve never pondered the great possibility of being in love with your best friend. But ultimately, you don’t think you are. Sure, you’d take a bullet for Jeongin. Just not in the ‘wow I’m madly in love with you’ kind of way. You tell yourself it’s in the ‘you’re going to do so much good for the world’ kind of way. 

“Fine,” Hyunjin admits, picking up one of his waffles and taking a caveman bite. 

Most of breakfast is quiet as you sit opposite him, staring into your bowl. Your milky reflection takes you off guard a few times. 

“You know,” Hyunjin says after a while, his voice raw and a little croaky. He has to bring a hand to cover his mouth as he clears his throat. “You should get him to stay with you while I’m away.” 

As you look back up at him, he adds defensively, “I’m not trying to play Cupid.”

You shrug, “He probably has other plans.” 

Yet when you text him a few hours later, he jumps on it. “It’ll be like a sleepover! Don’t you miss when we did those?” 

You did, but you don’t admit it. 

v.

The week of nationals arrives too quickly for your mind to process. One minute, you’re studying for an upcoming exam and the next there’s a knock on your bedroom door. It doesn’t wait for a sound before opening. 

“Hey, I’m leaving.” 

Hyunjin’s dressed in black sweatpants and a black hoodie, which covers his messy hair. Perfect for his night of sleeping on the bus. A duffel bag packed and puffy hangs off his shoulder. 

“Good luck,” you smile up at him. 

“Thanks. Don’t try sneaking into the venue with your rat like you did last year,” he returns the smile. 

“Hey, it wasn’t my idea,” you rush to defend yourself. 

He scoffs. “Yeah, right. You still played into it.” 

“And we got to support you as your lovely friends.” 

“You were the only people cheering during the contemporary dance,” he mumbles, stepping back into the hall. 

“To be fair, we couldn’t realize because we were so involved!” you shout to match the increasing distance. 

“Right!” he calls, a laugh shaking his words. 

Studying is now a failed mission. Every time you glance at the words printed on the textbook’s glossed pages, they just blur together until your mind drifts to Jeongin. When is he coming over? He said he’d be here by seven. It’s roughly a quarter past. He has a key, so it’s not like you have to be free when he gets here.

When you succumb and close the textbook, you hear shuffling in the living room. Shortly followed by Kkami’s familiar barking, which he only pursues when someone’s here. 

The feeling of a generously excited puppy fills you as you follow the source. 

“Hi,” you smile. 

Jeongin has treated himself to a coffee. He must have just worked a shift. 

“Hi,” he hands you the paper cup. 

“Oh, is this for me?” you take it. It’s hot against your palms. 

“Yeah. It’s hot chocolate. Thought you might want it.” 

He drops his backpack, likely stuffed with potential party outfits, by the couch. He stands and scans your face as you take the first sip of the drink. The sweetness takes over and makes you shiver, but the warmth minimizes the shiver to nothing. Surely enough, this is his mother’s hot chocolate. 

“Thank you,” you say, looking into his eyes. The living room light has speckled his eyes with stars.

“Of course.” 

A moment passes of just looking at each other. Not a single word. You’re not even sure if you’re remembering to breathe. 

It breaks when he glances at the TV. “Movie time?” 

Settling on the couch doesn’t take long. He sits close enough to you, resting his head on your shoulder. He’s done this for as long as you remember, but why does it feel so close all of a sudden? 

He chooses the movie. A tradition you’ve established ever since you accidentally chose a movie so repulsively awful you had to take a break from watching movies at all. The teasing was barely bearable. 

Even now, when someone says something similar to that movie, you shiver. 

“Are we feeling sci-fi?” he asks. 

You almost shrug until you remember where his head is. “I don’t care,” you say instead. 

He chooses a romance movie, his safe pick. 

And he falls asleep not even ten minutes in. 

Hyunjin’s question returns to you in neon lights. Certainly, this tight feeling in your chest couldn’t be akin to liking someone. When you like someone, there’s always a telltale sign. There’s a bright moment of realization. That’s never come for you. Even now, all you can do is question. Question. Question. Question. 

vi.

Jeongin’s party outfit is the most conspicuous thing ever. A light blue tee from middle school that has all his classmate’s signatures on the back. Black jeans with holes at the knees. You can’t tell if he’s going to a child’s party or not. 

He catches your tilted gaze, matched with the furrowed eyebrows, and huffs. “Would you rather I get puke on a good shirt?” 

You blink. “I’d rather you not puke on yourself.” 

A noise close to laughter bursts past his lips. “Ha. Funny. I won’t reach that point. I’m thinking people puking on me.” 

You nod. Jeongin’s a lightweight, from what you know. But hey, if it helps him sleep at night. 

He departs after a long phone call with Chan. He offers a little wave as he opens the door. “I’ll give you live updates.” 

“You don’t have to.” 

“But I will.” 

And indeed, he follows through. Selfies bombard your phone every three minutes. One is taken with Chan, but it’s so shaky and dark that they look like blobs with highlighted cheeks. 

These only make you more confused. Maybe Hyunjin was right. But you don’t want him to be. Nothing makes you feel more foolish than catching feelings for a friend who is just that. Friend. That painful, heartbreaking word. 

You open Hyunjin’s message log, prepared to reach out and ask if he can help you break down what you’re feeling, but his contact transitions to consuming your entire screen—perfect timing, he’s calling. 

“Hello?” 

“Guess what?” His voice is drowned out by external shouts. 

“What?” 

“We took second place!”

“Congrats,” you smile to yourself, leaning against the couch arm. 

“It’s all thanks to Felix’s freestyle. That surprise category threw us off, but he really came through,” he rambles. He tells you about all his points and each error, which ultimately seem mundane but apparently make a difference in his detail loving mind. 

“Anyway, I just wanted to call. See how you’re doing, you know.”

“I’m doing good,” you nod as though to convince yourself. 

“How’s Jeongin?” 

“At a party,” you say as your phone buzzes again. Another selfie. This time, he’s in a lonesome bathroom and posing in the mirror. A peace sign that surrounds his eye. That stupid dimple makes your heart jump. 

Hyunjin giggles at something on his end and says something not aimed at you. He quickly returns to his serious tone with, “How are you really feeling? Don’t bullshit me.” 

You stifle a laugh. Resting your head on the back of the couch, you glare at the ceiling, “Confused.” 

“About Jeongin?” 

He slips into a quieter place. You sigh. Why are your hands shaking all of a sudden? “Yeah.” 

“Well,” he starts, “I pushed you into thinking about it for a reason.” 

“He doesn’t like me like that.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Because friends don’t like friends like that.” 

“But you like him like that, so doesn’t that ruin your statement?” 

You sit in the silence for a minute. “I guess so.” 

His breath is amplified and you can hear each inhale and exhale. “You’ll probably just brush this off, but I think you have a shot.” 

You nod. “Sure. A shot at going to the moon maybe. A shot at Jeongin liking me? No way.” 

“Look, pessimism isn’t gonna get you anywhere. If you’re too much of a pussy to talk to him, I will. But not because I want to, because it’s terrible seeing you sulk,” he mutters. 

A round of applause for your roommate. 

“Just give me some time. I still don’t know if I like him,” you glance at the dog, who’s cuddled up on a pile of blankets. Why can’t your life be that simple? 

“Not trying to force you or anything, but I think you know the answer to that.” 

He’s probably right. It’s not like you can retaliate anyway. There’s a distant knock before he says, “Sorry. I gotta go. I’ll be home tomorrow.” 

The following silence is truly suffocating. 

vii.

That party changes everything. 

Jeongin stumbles home, each step a potential path to faceplanting. It’s this exact stumble that forces him to trip over a box. 

The noise draws you from sleep. Through squinted eyes, you stare at him as he tries to regain his balance. His arms are splayed out, searching for a stable support beam. 

“Jeongin?” you whisper, though you know it’s him. Who else would be drunkenly returning home at, you glance at your phone, three in the morning?

“Y/N,” he gasps. Your voice prompts him to follow it. 

As you stand, he finds his way through the narrow path between couch and coffee table. He throws his arms around you. 

“I missed you,” he mumbles, words meshing together. 

“I missed you too?” It’s only been six hours. 

He holds you at arms length, palms resting on your shoulders. “I love you,” he slurs, eyes drunkenly taking a long blink. 

“I love you too?” 

“No, like, I really love you. ‘The moon is beautiful’ type of stuff,” he nods. 

You’re not sure what he means by this. But it doesn’t matter if you try to question him, because he continues. 

“I think about the future a lot,” he says, hands falling to his sides before he falls onto the couch. “Nothing’s ever consistent. But you’re always there.” 

“That’s-” you begin. 

He wasn’t finished. “I think our wedding would be nice.” 

Now, he goes silent as you stand there in shock. He thinks about that? How often? 

The moment your lips part to ask these things, a light snore escapes his lips. You grab a blanket from your room, the Totoro one he loves, and you gently cover him. You lean over his face. His cheeks are a little swollen, as are his lips. You push his hair away from his eyes before going to your room. You’re careful not to make a noise as you shut the door. 

He’s gone by the time you wake up. For the first twenty-four hours, you shrug it off as a painful hangover he’s just sleeping through. 

Most hangovers don’t last a week, though. 

One time, sitting beneath a sky littered with stars, Jeongin released a deep breath. “Do you think we’ll ever stop being friends?” 

Jeongin’s not insecure about many things, as his philosophy is that if one person finds something unattractive, there’s a hoard who will think otherwise. But this topic is an exception. 

“Unless you do something unthinkably terrible, no,” you mumble. And you truly meant it. 

So, Jeongin: You haven’t done anything unthinkable.Why have you disappeared? 

Life without Jeongin has been incredibly boring. It’s prompted an imminent heartache. Attending class is a lame option considering your bed is so much more comfortable. You never knew missing someone could form a black hole in your body, consuming each grain of energy. 

Hyunjin’s the only reason you’re eating. Since he knows you’re not up for any meal, he brings you snacks and another bottle of water—to add to the mountain of empty bottles on your desk. 

“Do I need to go break his ankles?” Hyunjin asks one day, nearly a month after his tournament. 

You shrug. You know he’s joking, but laughter doesn’t seem to bubble up. It’s lost in the dark cave that is this confusing state. 

“I texted him today. No response yet,” Hyunjin adds. 

You nod. You got the same treatment, but you stopped trying a while ago. 

“Have you gone to the coffee shop? To see his mom or something?” 

You shake your head. “No point in it. He doesn’t tell her much. Plus I don’t want to pin her against him or anything.” 

Hyunjin sighs. He doesn’t know what else to say, or offer, or do to help you. Not that you’re a lost cause, but he’s starting to lose the ounce of hope he had. To him, you’re too good for this. Telling and convincing you of that is a difficult task. 

When he leaves you alone, you cry again. At this point, your eyes hurt when you aren’t crying. But hey, at least you’re sleeping nice. The desperate need to escape can do that to you. 

viii.

You tell Hyunjin your conclusion at dinner—something he’s finally tricked you into eating. “I think I love him.” 

He nods. “Yeah. Didn’t we already establish that?” 

You push the noodles around. “I didn’t want to admit it.” 

“Why?” 

Averted gaze set to the ramen, though his remains scalding. “I don’t know.”

He reaches across the table to regain your focus. He knows the noodles aren’t that interesting. “That’s okay. Look, we can go beat his ass if you want. Or we can hunt him down and hold him hostage-”

He stops when he sees the small hint of a smile turning your lips up. One of his own appears, and in his mind, he’s breaking into a congratulatory dance. The crack in the sadness is exposed, and it’s slowly breaking further. All that’s next is revealing the ravine of happiness. 

After dinner, you sit on the couch and decide to watch a movie. Unlike Jeongin, he gives you movie pick. It reminds you of the bitter taste that’s overcome your mouth since he up and left. 

Halfway through the movie, some shitty one Jeongin and you watched a few months ago, Kkami barks at the couch. He looks between you and the crack behind it as if to say, “Hello? Get my bone!” 

You glance at Hyunjin, who also waits for you to get up and retrieve the dog’s lost bone. Normally you take turns with this task, but he seems to have forgotten it’s been his turn for the last five times. 

With a muted sigh, you pull yourself off the couch. Hyunjin doesn’t even bother to pause the movie. Jeongin wouldn’t do that.  

You lower yourself to look into the dark tunnel. With a blind hand you swipe against the floor. A small object connects with the palm of your hand. You drag it out. A small metal earring glares back at you. You drop it in the pocket of your hoodie—which was a gift from Jeongin as you drifted into adulthood. You return to the bone search with a sting in your eyes. 

ix.

Happiness is a fragile object. 

At the same hour that Jeongin had said the unthinkable, your phone buzzes loudly against your side. Ultimately, this brings you back to the post-sleep daze as you trudge to answer it. Looking at the contact is the last of your concerns. 

“Hello?” Your voice is raw. A long gulp of water would be kindly appreciated. 

“Hey, Y/N, right?” This is a voice you’ve never heard before. You pull back to look at the contact and, unsurprisingly, there isn’t one. All that stares back is a string of numbers, unique to this person. 

“Yeah?” 

“Hi, sorry for the late call. I’m Chan-” you nearly hang up out of defensive instinct, but you let him finish. “I kind of need a favor right now.” 

“What kind of favor?” 

In the background, there’s a loud retching noise. “Um, so Jeongin, right?” Chan nervously laughs. 

“We’re not really-” you start. 

He interrupts, “I know. But he’s been talking about you nonstop. He’s really a wimp, you know. Actually, I guess I’m not really asking for a favor. I’m doing you a favor.” 

You know where he’s going with this. “I’m sorry, Chan, but I don’t think that’s a-”

“Hush,” he says before his voice distances. 

“Y/N? It’s Y/N?” the familiar, slurred voice asks. 

He wasn’t going to give you an option. Deep down, you’re kind of grateful for that. 

When Chan returns to the phone, he says, “I can send you the address. We’re on the first floor, so it shouldn’t be too bad. I would offer to come pick you up, but I’m babysitting.” At these final words, he laughs. 

You consider waking up Hyunjin to take you—he’s the one with the car—but you think against it when you realize it’s only a five minute walk. 

Despite the daytime weather that is clear sky and sun that hugs your skin, the nighttime 

version is a little less welcoming. Indeed the air is breezeless, but it’s a bitter cold. Grabbing a hoodie would have been smart, but alas. 

Chan opens the door with a smile. “Hi, come on in.” 

He points to a closed door, “Jeongin’s in there. He should be decent. Just a little pukey.” 

You follow his directions, while he starts for the couch. At least he’s allowing privacy, you think. You knock lightly on the door. After a long trial of waiting with no response, you slowly push the door open. 

His cheek is resting on the cold porcelain of the bathtub. Through dazed and squinted eyes, he looks at you. “Hi?” 

“Hey,” you say, stepping into his space for the first time in over a month. Despite the stain of puke on his shirt, you realize that he hasn’t changed much. What physical changes can someone go through in a month? Well. Everything. 

You appreciate your mind for allowing his appearance to never leave. Otherwise, you might have looked at him just now and been disgusted. Because it’s Jeongin, and because of this weird tugging feeling in your chest, you don’t. In its place, you look at him as though he holds the world’s most valuable object. 

He tries to sit up, nearly falls on his face, but manages. “Do you hate me?” 

“No. I don’t think so,” you squat next to him. The familiar weight of his head meets with your shoulder. 

“I shouldn’t say this,” he laughs. His mind is going a mile a minute, but his lips refuse to go at an accompanying speed. “I love you.” 

You stare at the top of his head. “I love you too.” 

“Really?” he lifts his head. He seems to search your eyes for the similar sparkle his hold. 

“Yeah,” you nod. You decide to save your cheesy comments until the morning. No point in wasting them if he won’t remember this when he wakes up. 

“Did you know that I,” he says, trying to lift himself to his feet. He leans a little too far on a foot, prompting you to rush and steady him. “thought you and Hyunjin were dating for the longest time.” He laughs again. 

You squint at him, “Is that why you disappeared?” 

A drunk smile finds his lips and his cheeks glow beneath the bathroom light. “Guilty.” 

“You’re stupid for thinking it’d ever be anyone but you,” you whisper, glancing anywhere but him. You could say this to the mirror too. Stupid for thinking it could be anyone but him. 

He’s ridiculous. Ridiculous enough to allow his smile to drop a little as he leans closer to your face. “I’m going to kiss you,” he whispers. 

You watch as he leans a little bit closer. Bit by bit. You even close your eyes at one point. At the last minute, when his breath begins to mingle with yours, he pulls away. “No. Let me brush my teeth first.” 

You watch in a stunned silence as he stumbles to the living room. “Do you have a spare toothbrush I could use?” he asks Chan. 

Chan responds quietly with, “Yeah, under the sink.” 

You beat Jeongin to it, offering him the packaged toothbrush. 

“Thanks, love,” he says. 

Questionable Jeongin who calls you pet names. You like it, though you’ll try your hardest not to admit it. That’d only feed into his questionable choices. 

Minty Jeongin has sobered up a little bit. Instead of kissing you immediately after rinsing his mouth, he stares. 

“What?” you prompt. 

“Nothing.” 

And then he leans in and kisses you. In all honesty, it’s exactly how you imagined kissing him. There’s no stereotypical sparks. It’s just Jeongin, whose lips happen to be on yours. That’s enough. Afterward, though, you acknowledge that Cloud 9 is beneath your feet. 

x.

Chan drives you and Jeongin back to your apartment after a difficult talk and one final puke. (The puker looks at you when he feels it coming and asks, “Can you hold my hair back?”)

As you’re helping Jeongin out of the car, Chan leans back in the driver seat and glares a strong eye at Jeonign, “Run away again and I will beat your ass.” 

Jeongin chuckles. “Right. Catch me first.” As he says this, he throws his arm over your shoulder for stability. Though, he’s sober enough to walk on his own now. The occasional stumble, sure, but he’s not in dire need of someone to guide him. 

You take it as his way of saying he plans on staying. 

However, when you make it into the apartment, you don’t bear right to the couch. 

Keeping him close will prevent him sneaking out and running away again. That’s a thing of the past, and you’ll make sure of it. 

He doesn’t even complain. 

“Don’t puke on me, please,” you whisper as you climb into bed. He follows shortly after. Arms naturally find your waist as he pulls you closer to him. 

He hums. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

Dreamless sleep takes over you, but the entire time you’re aware of his arms and his proximity. In a way, it’s better than dreaming. 

It’s even better when you wake up before him. His lips are a pretty shade of pink and for a moment you forget about his eventful night. You press a light kiss to his cheek. 

His eyes don’t open, nor does he stir. He’s in that beautiful, drunken sleep. You try not to laugh at the thought of his hangover to come. God, he’s going to be so whiny. 

You try to slip out of his arms, but the death grip only becomes tighter. He whines a little, mutters something like, “Don’t go.” 

After a few more minutes of just staring at the sleeping boy, boredom takes over. Yeah, staring is nice and all, whatever, but it reaches a certain intolerable point. Ten minutes is that point. 

You nudge him, “Jeongin, let go. I need to go to the bathroom.” 

“No,” he mutters, burying his face deeper into the pillow. 

“Jeongin.” 

“What?” 

“Let go.” 

His eyes finally open. They hold a small sense of surprise, which prompts you to tease, “What? Do you need a breakdown of what happened? Were you seriously that out of it?” 

“No. Well, a little,” he stumbles over the words. 

“What do you remember?” 

“Puking,” he winces as he laughs. There’s that signature headache. 

“You don’t remember kissing me?” 

Wide eyes stare back at you. His lip shakes as he tries to force words out. “What?” 

You laugh quietly. “Yeah. You did that.” 

“I’m sorry,” he sits up. His vacant arms feel cold. 

“No it’s okay. You only kissed me because I told you I loved you,” you sit up to match him. 

His head turns to look at you. Tufts of hair stick up in an oddly symmetrical way. “Really? Since when?” 

You nod. “Yeah. Time frame is unknown, but I think the feeling might have always been there. So you wasted a month of your life hiding.” 

He tips his head, “Hey now, I had a valid reason.” 

Your eyes squint at him. “It could have been avoided if you answered my texts. Or Hyunjin’s. Or if you checked your voicemail. Or-”

“Okay, I get it,” he nods, leaning in to shut you up. He presses a quick kiss to your lips. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t say how weird it feels to kiss his best friend—but he’s incredibly excited to get used to it. 

“It’s fine. I think. My grades kind of tanked,” you comment, glancing at your desk. The tower of water bottles still stands. Somewhere buried beneath them are your abandoned papers. 

“Because of me?” his voice is soft, as are his eyes as he fights back the sting of tears. Of all his intentions, this wasn’t one of them. 

This look pains you. “Kinda. I thought I had lost my comfort place.” 

In order to disguise his tears, he pulls you into a tight hug. “I’m so sorry. I’ll be good to you. We can make latte art together at the shop and stargaze at stupid hours. Whatever you want.” 

You laugh into his shoulder. “Is that a promise?” 

He sniffles. “Yes. I love you. That’s the second promise.” 

xi.

Hyunjin’s reaction is lackluster. A forced gasp as he waves his hands in surprise. “Wow. I totally didn’t give Chan your number or anything,” he says. 

“Are you serious?” 

“Yeah. He called me trying to drop him,” he points at Jeongin, “on me.”

“And you didn’t want to get out of bed?” Jeongin asks, bringing his mug of freshly brewed coffee to his lips. 

“No,” Hyunjin sticks a finger up in defense. “Kkami wouldn’t let me move.” 

What he means is: Yes, I didn’t want to get up but allow me to use my dog as a ploy. 

You and Jeongin share a glance to confirm this thought. You burst out laughing. 

“Do not tell me you’ve developed a couple's telepathy already,” Hyunjin whines, throwing his head back as he begins to pace the kitchen. 

Jeongin begs your stare again. He wiggles his eyebrows to pseudo-communicate. 

“I’m going to retail therapy,” Hyunjin sighs, dragging his keys off the counter before starting for the door. 

A loud fit of laughter fills the air as the door shakes in its frame. 

“He’s so overdramatic,” Jeongin manages, wiping a stray tear away from his eye. 

You allow this time to watch him intently. All of his details flood over you with definitive clarity. His skin has gotten its first film of tan now that spring is in full swing. A change of season which you had missed out on together. It’s okay, he’ll take you to see the cherry blossoms next year. 

“Oh, I found your earring, by the way,” you say when he catches you staring. 

“Really? Where was it?” On instinct, he brings his hand up to his right ear. The lobes are not blinged, but it’s still worth checking. 

“Behind the couch.” 

He gapes at you. “How’d it get back there?” 

“How would I know?” 

You allow a silence to lay upon you as his face twists to think. All at once, it lights up again, “Ah. It was probably when we had that wrestling match. I didn’t have the back on because my ear was itchy or something.” 

Interesting Jeongin. Questionable Jeongin. 

Yang Jeongin is many things. Home. Comfort. Love. Above all else, he’s a friend. Who you happen to kiss from time to time. 

[yoongs-yoongi]

Or Was It?

Jungkook x reader

Summary: Jungkook getting head. Das it. Das the story.

Warning: cursing, smut, mouthfucking. adorable Jungkook.

A/N:I don’t think I’m cut out for smut but I keep trying lol. Happy 🎂 Jungkook!I hope you never find this!

Jungkook was having himself yet another sleepless night. He tossed and he turned, he even tried laying at the bottom of the bed. Nothing worked. Tonight was especially worse because Jungkook was sporting a hard-on.

He decided to rely on some good old fashion porn to allow himself some peace tonight, but in the midst of it all, the power went out. A thunderstorm no one knew was coming happened and knocked the power out, leaving poor Kook with a hard dick and his frustration.

He tried jerking off to memories and other pornos he’d seen, but that didn’t work, only made it worse.

“Ugh!” Jungkook hopped out of bed. Maybe a cold shower will help, he thought. He peeled his boxers off him and threw them in his dirty clothes hamper. Usually Jungkook would never walk around the house completely naked out of respect for you, his roommate. But you’re in your room sleep.

Jungkook was only going down the hall. He’ll be in and out, you won’t know a thing.

“Well good morning to you too.” Jungkook turned his head to see you at the kitchen table. You were eating a bowl of what he assumed to be cereal, you had your phone’s flashlight as your source of light.

“____!” He exclaimed.

“Jungkook.” You said simply, smiling.

“Wh-what are you doing up?”

“I could ask you and your friend the same question.” You cocked your head to the side. Jungkook gasped seeing as he still had his dick showing. He grabbed a nearby pillow to cover it up.

“Oh yeah, that’ll do the trick.” You giggled.

Jungkook paled, “What are you doing up!”

“I got hungry so I got up to get some cereal. You know the powers out?”

“Yeah I was made aware already.” Jungkook scoffed at the cruel memory of the storm blue balling him.

“You didn’t think to tell me? I ran into a freaking chair and crushed my pinky toe.”

“I was a little busy at the moment, and besides most people would have woken up when that big ass crackle of thunder sounded and shook the whole complex.”

“I think we’ve both figured out I’m not like most people.” You grabbed your bowl and finished of your milk.

“Well if you excuse me I’ll be in the shower... bathing.” Jungkook tried to ease towards the bathrooms.

“I could help you.” Jungkook turned back around with big eyes, “You know with your ‘bathing.’” You shrugged.

“I’m sorry what?”

“Did I stutter? I said I could help you with your dick.”

If it’s even possible Jungkook got paler. This situation was so bizarre that he didn’t know what to say. He just stood there looking at you. You sat there looking back, waiting for him to say something. When you realized he wouldn’t you spoke up. “A mouth is way better than cold water, plus I can’t have you stopping the drain up again.”

The light jab caused Jungkook to jab back, it was a reflex. You two are always bickering. “Like you’re hair doesn’t clog both sinks-what are you doing?” You were now on your knees in front of him.

“What you don’t want me to?”

“It-but-you…” Jungkook didn’t know what to say. If someone had told him his roommate of four years would be on her knees for him he wouldn’t believe it. Jungkook always assumed you thought of him as some bratty, little kid, you showed no interest in Jungkook at all. Which is why it was so normal for him to walk around the house ALMOST completely naked and the same for you.

“I can see the wheels turning in your head.” You laughed. “Relax, don’t think about too much.”

“Easy for you to say.” Jungkook scoffed.

“Just look at it as friends helping each other out.”

“How am I helping you out?”

“I’ve been so busy with school and work, I found myself in sexual drought. I need to see if I’m still the pro that I am.”

“So you wanna test that out on me? What if you’re not this pro you claim to be? What if you nip me with your teeth.”

Jungkook has had that happen before, he shivers randomly sometimes still thinking about it.

“Only one way to find out, right?” You removed the pillow from his hand, “Unless you don’t want me too..”

Your face was so close to his dick he could feel your breath on his tip. “I feel like I should be telling you no or something.”

“Are you telling me no?”

“No. I don’t know, I just don’t want this to be awkward, once we cross this line we can’t go back.”

“Then we won’t go back. I’ll just suck your dick from now on when you want me to, unless I’m not in the mood then your fucked.”

“You can’t say things like that to me. We’re roommates!”

“We share rent not solemn vows! Now do you want your dick in my mouth or not?”

Jungkook racked his brain. He looked back and forth between you and his dick. The tip began to drip precum, you watched it drop to the floor. “Tick tick, am I gonna suck your cock?”

Hesitantly, he nodded. Your lips broke into a twisted smirk. What has Jungkook got himself into? “Since you waited so long to decide I’m just gonna get to the point of this. You can enjoy my mouth some other time. We’ve got class in a couple of hours.”

You grabbed Jungkook dick and began to suck on the tip. Jungkook hips bucked forward making his deep go down your throat by accident. “S-sorry-oh fuck!” Jungkook tried to remove some of himself from your mouth but you kept him in place. Forcing his dick deeper down your throat. You’ve seen you’re share in dicks, but Jungkook takes the cake. Who knew this shy dork was harboring a package like this. He was well groomed, pink all over with delicious looking veins appearing around it, big and thick as shit. You’d gladly suck him dry.

You continued to take his dick into your mouth until your nose was pressed against his stomach. The fun didn’t stop there, you began to shake your head back and forth while swallowing around him.

“Fuck! Oh shit!” Jungkook grabbed the back of your head for some support. You pulled back just to the tip, and twirled your tongue around it. You popped your lips off him, “Fuck my mouth.” You held your hands behind your back, Jungkook grabbed your head, too far gone to care anymore, and shoved his dick back into your mouth and began thrusting. He started to twitch.

“I’m close! Fuck I’m so close! Yes- oh my god yes!” You took him all the way again and kept yourself pressed to his stomach. To speed up the process you began to hum around him, not a second later you could feel him shooting down your throat. Jungkook was panting heavily, he felt light headed.

“Jungkook?” Your voice was faint as darkness surrounded him.

The next morning Jungkook woke up in his bed. He wondered how he got back in he sure doesn’t remember putting himself to bed. Unless, what he thought happened last didn’t really happen and he just dreamt it. He looked under the covers, and realized it had been a dream. There on him were the same boxers he thought he took off last night.

He rubbed his face, “Damn it felt so real.”

He caught himself chuckling, “Of course it wasn’t real you idiot. Stuff like that only happens in the pornos.”

“Kook!” You barged in. “Wake up, I’ve got to be in class in 45 minutes. If you wanna ride, get up!”

“Alright, alright.” He peeled the covers back and got up. He looked all over his room for something clean to wear. “What’s up with your voice this morning?” He yawned picking up a shirt and some sweats. “You sound hoarse.”

“You fucked my throat raw last night, remember? Then you passed out on me. I had to help you back to bed. I guess I’m still a pro.” You winked . “Now hurry up!” You left out, closing the door. Jungkook was left standing there dumbfounded and horny all over again.

You came back in, “Oh and I made eggs.”

[yellowsugarwords]

Walking Dead Game FanFiction - “Deep Fault”

Title: Deep Fault Characters: Clementine, Omid, Christa Summary: Despite their efforts, eleven-year-old Clementine still believes the deaths of Ben, Kenny and Lee are caused by her, and Omid and Christa can clearly tell. After brushing off that she’s "fine" for months, the couple finally witness her break and are exposed to the physical harm she’s inflicted upon herself, and they are then left to comfort the child who has lost everything. Author's Note: tw; self harm, blood Requested By: Anonymous support me with ko-fi ♡ ---------♥️♥️♥️----------

“I’m fine.”

The two of them hated that phrase.

“Clementine,” Omid said, reaching out to the child. She was looking away, arms crossed, tense and hostile given their questions. “We know that something’s wrong, and if that’s the case, it’s you.”

He settled a hand on the child’s shoulder, but the moment it made contact, she flinched away. “I’m fine. I’m telling the truth.” Then, bristling at the sight of Christa’s worried gaze, she started for her make-shift ‘room’.

The trio had taken refuge in an abandoned highway gas station/restaurant pit stop. It wasn’t in the best shape — which was to be expected — but had walls, doors, and some food. It was more than they could’ve asked for, so they seized the opportunity and claimed it as their own.

But the longer they stayed, the longer they felt as though something was up with Clementine. Something worse than they initially thought.

It started with her eating less. Then, it turned into sleeping less; roaming the lot at odd hours of the night and asking for more supervising shifts. It developed into her taking more risks — unnecessary ones that resulted in more harm than gain — and communicating less. Way less.

That night was a prime example.

Omid turned to Christa, eyes weak and defeated. He lifted his arms and slapped them back to his sides, frustrated. “I don’t know what else to do.”

Christa sighed through her nose, arms crossed and resting atop her swollen belly. Feeling her feet grow tired, she set a hand on his shoulder and guided him toward their kitchen. “There isn't anything more we can do.”

Omid scoffed, as though offended, and stood in front of her as she eased herself into her seat. “So, what, we just do nothing?”

“We can’t do anything if she doesn’t let us.” Christa offered back, somewhat irritated by his forcefulness. “We can’t force her to talk.”

“So, we just give up?”

“No.” Christa said, brows furrowed and frustrated. “We ease off.”

Omid studied the woman, noting the bags under her eyes and the way she stuck her swollen feet out in front of her. She was tired, and sore, and her body was ready to give out thanks to the additional weight of their child.

She was exhausted — her body language practically screamed it — and Omid could do nothing for her either.

Feeling frustrated with himself, he turned and marched to the front of the store, glancing out one of their half-boarded windows, studying the barren highway.

How was he supposed to be a father to his biological child if he could barely father a child that had been under his care for what felt like years? If he couldn’t ask her the simplest of questions — how she was doing — and get an answer, how was he to be a good father? A good husband? A good anything?

He was sucking at everything, and needed to change it before it was too late.

He stared for the back of the lot. It was where their rooms were with a separate closed off space just for Clementine; allowing her some privacy. But today, right now, the last thing she needed was privacy. She needed support, someone to talk to, something. She needed more than what they were currently offering.

Omid knocked on the wall beside the flap of fabric that acted as her door. Then, without hesitation, he peeled it back. “Clementine, I really just--”

He froze.

She froze, mid stroke, a blade pressed to her wrist. Terrifyingly slow, she removed it and fumbled with it as it fell to the floor.

Omid stood, jaw agape, colour immediately draining from his face. “Clem.”

“I can explain,” her voice wavered as she stood, her opposing arm extended to him, pleading for him to not stir chaos and draw Christa closer.

Given his sudden stiffness, and the way he pulled the sheet closed behind him — despite it not making a difference — she assumed he agreed. Christa needed to stay out of it, for her sake and Clementine’s. “Clem, what are you doing,” he said as a statement rather than a question, hands panicked and extended before him.

She stood idle, eyes wide with panicked tears gathering on their rims. “Please don’t be mad.” She pleaded, a single tear spilling over and trailing down her face. She brushed it away. “Please, please.”

Omid frowned, feeling his heart clench and freeze. She was terrified. She wasn’t being rebellious, she wasn’t trying to scare him, she was hurting. She was bleeding.

Right before his eyes, he was losing her. He couldn’t be angry at her. That wasn’t going to get him anywhere. If anything, it was only going to make her disappear faster. “Clem,” he started gently, watching as her gaze snapped to the floor, too scared to meet his. “What’s hurting you so bad?”

Clementine turned around, eyeing the damaged drawings scattering her walls.

“Clementine.” Omid pushed, wanting an immediate answer.

“It’s them.” She finally said. Her voice sounded strained, as though it was wedging it’s way through withheld tears. She sniffled and jabbed her fingernails into her palm, hoping to stifle the emotional pain. “I miss them.”

Omid eyed the drawings scattering her walls; of Lee, of Kenny, Christa, and Duck, of Ben, all of them tear-stained, pinned up over and over again. He struggled to understand — to fully understand — and allowed his gaze to flitter back down to the back of her head. “You miss them?”

“Yeah,” she mumbled. She squeezed her arms nervously, too worried to turn around and face him head-on. “Because I caused them to die.”

Omid felt as though he’d been physically smacked by the words; so untrue, but spoken with such conviction he couldn’t help but stumble. “What?”

Clementine flinched, but didn’t turn around.

“Clem, that’s not true.”

“How do you know?” She said, finally turning, feeling as though she was starting to break through the tear-blockade. “You weren’t there when some of them died. You don’t know everything I did that got them killed.”

There was such anger; such pain and such determination. Omid felt as though his heart was wringing itself of any emotions, desperate to appeal to her. “Clem, it doesn’t matter what you did and didn’t do. You didn’t ask for them to be killed. You can’t blame that on yourself.”

“But I do.” Her voice cracked on the last word. Finally, she let her hands settle against her chest, feeling her heartbeat, feeling as though it didn’t deserve to be there. “And it’ll never stop hurting me.” Omid blinked back his own tears and, seeing that she had generated them, she turned around again. “See? I’m even making you upset just by being me.”

“I’m not upset, Clementine.” Omid offered, feeling his chest ache. How tragic that she couldn’t see compassion for what it was. How damaged was she that every time someone cried for her, she saw it as an act of violence rather than of care? “I care about you. I’m worried about you.”

Clementine didn’t budge, her stare still facing the back wall of drawings. Tears began to swell above and beyond their boundary, distorting her view.

“I want to be able to help you.” Omid furthered, taking a slow step closer.

Clementine closed her eyes, allowing tears to fall freely. She turned, her eyes still sealed, but to allow herself to hear him better.

“I’m not crying because you’ve hurt me,” he assured, a hand extended in pleading. Only at that phrase did Clementine open her eyes. “I’m crying because I love you.”

‘I love you.’

That was it. That’s what got her.

Suddenly, just as her emotions reached a boiling point, she bubbled over. Unable to control herself, she collapsed to the floor, a desperate wail rippling from her throat, her knees crashing into the ground. “I’m sorry!”

Omid instinctively flinched back before reaching out, praying he could catch the child before she crashed. He wasn’t so lucky. “Clem--”

“I’m trying! I swear!” She screamed. Her throat was so hoarse from crying, and her body so weak from her pain, that it came out strangled and muffled.

“We know, Clem, we know.” Omid assured, fumbling to pull the wailing child into his jittery arms. He couldn’t lose her. He needed to hold her. He needed to ensure she was safe, and held, and reassured as much as he could offer.

There was an urgent slapping of footsteps, resonating off the walls as nothing more than blurred background noise. Suddenly, Christa fumbled into the room, a hand clutched to her stomach, throwing the thin sheet to the side to see what was unfolding. All she could spot was Clementine on the ground, Omid frantically wrapping his arms around her. She saw blood on the floor, a used blade tossed to the side, and Omid’s frantic gaze settling on her.

Christa’s stomach curled, rolling into her throat, threatening to make her sick with worry. She had never seen Clementine in such a paralyzing, traumatized state, and she had never seen Omid so pale, so terrified, so desperate. He flickered his gaze toward one of her walls, hoping to provide Christa with a clue. Christa obeyed.

As her eyes landed, she spotted the drawings scattering her walls. Then, it all made sense, even though it made her feel even sicker to think of the trauma such a young child had faced.

She dropped everything, collapsing to her knees and wrapping the duo in her arms. “Clementine,” she whispered, already feeling tears clogging her throat. “Clem, it’s okay.” She breathed into the child’s hair, feeling as the sobs shook her body.

And she was okay. She was going to be. With the two of them at her side, even if nothing else was going to be, they were. ---------♥️♥️♥️----------

[katiebees-creations]

SCULPTURE WORKSHOP 

I made three plaster casts of my mould 

FINISHING: There are endless ways in which to finish a plaster sculpture. The main one being to seal the plaster cast as any moisture will be sucked up like a sponge as the plaster is porous. To seal a plaster cast, the best thing to use is shellac. A good couple of coats of shellac will allow the cast to be protected for a very long time. If you are wanting to keep your cast white in its purest form the best thing to use is PVA. Before I sealed my 1st head I used a sculpting tool to scratch a wood like effect onto the "skin" surface areas. I then used shellac and painted on top of the shellac in gouache paints. For my 2nd head cast i wanted to keep it white so i used PVA and then used gold leaf, which is very tricky and fiddly to use on the oak leaf hair part of the cast. Other finishing techniques can come from; oxidised metal filings inks stamps zip polishes and more to create varied amazing effects. 

REFLECTION: Looking back I think my own thoughts would be that I really wish I had experimented with the metal filings as a finish. The process itself from start to finish was some of the most fun I have ever had and i loved every second of it. I watched another student used dyes in the plaster mixture before pouring into the mould. which would be something i would enjoy doing myself at some point going forward. I've loved this process so much that I have it stashed away to use for perhaps "paint your own" kits to sell in my business.

ETHICAL: In the sculpture room there are endless amounts of materials that have been reclaimed from the skip on campus used by the builders. Through the process of creating our heads, I believe that there is very little waste from anything we used. The only possible thing that could be considered waste is if you created too much plaster mixture for your mould. With this in mind though our lecturer made sure to have several people at a time needing to fill their moulds so as to make sure none of the plaster was to be wasted. As a practice on your own however I think it best to perhaps measure accurately the amount of liquid you need for your mould or to have small moulds of embellishments perhaps to use any excess mixture. The sustainability of this process is immense due to only one mould of latex and mod roc being needed and then being used repeatedly over and over again almost endlessly and could last years. The layout of the room and desks allowed for a more communal atmosphere and it was wonderful and inspirational to see each others work as they all progressed. We were also given instruction on not cleaning plaster dust or mixture containers in the sink as the mixture would then dry and clog the drains but also would disperse plaster particles into the water system. 

One down, two to go!! Nearly finished on my sculpture workshop heads. Had to bring everything home yesterday to crack on with things as not in college today and didn’t want to waste anymore time. See @brokensharkcage i promised I'd be working lol 😊 #strodecollege #strodecollegeartdepartment #maturestudent #strodefad #sculpture #greekmythology #plaster (at Street, Somerset) https://www.instagram.com/p/CGR2caaFd3g/?igshid=qsnfbv4iig1g

[thesmalltowngal]

COC Snowbaz 2- In My Shoes (Literally)

COC #2: Role Swap

Simon messes up a spell once again but in a... more drastic way. Can Simon and Baz set aside and maybe appreciate each other’s differences to overcome this, or will they be stuck forever?

~ This one is dedicated to Baz, who is most certainly not a monster 😂 ~

*Simon’s POV*

“Godfuckingdamnit!” I yell in frustration as a spell I try to cast fails again. It’s a simple spell, really; one designed to have two objects switch places. Even the name of the spell is simple! It is designed so that first years can literally not ever pronounce it wrong, yet I’ve been trying to execute it for the past hour, failing each time. Every single time I try it, the objects stay exactly the same. Except for when I tried it on a banana and a scone; the scone started to taste like a banana and the banana a scone. 

Just as I shout the spell for the umpteenth time, Baz walks in. “Swap Places, God Damnit!” All of the words come out as magic instead of just the first two words. Baz falls to the floor and just as I’m rushing to him, I fall, too. 

                                                        …

I feel cold all over and my back aches from being on the floor. As I move to get up, I stumble over my legs; it’s as if they grew three inches all of the sudden. I shake my head and move to get up again, going to see if Baz is okay. 

Only, when I look around the room, I’m not where I fell. And in front of me is most certainly not the graceful and handsome git of a roommate Baz. Instead it’s… well it’s me. I take in an audible breath as I look down and see that I am… somehow… stuffed inside Baz’s body. His long hair (my long hair?) brushes against my neck, and my gums hurt for some reason. I run to our en suite as fast I can, just to be sure. 

Sure enough, looking back at me in the mirror (I wasn’t sure if it would work; I thought maybe Baz couldn’t see himself in the mirror) is the arsehole himself. His slightly crooked nose, high cheekbones, long hair and cold gray eyes. Instead of feeling how I usually do (like I’m constantly on the verge of outwardly exploding), it feels like everything is caving in on me. I feel a panic in my chest, and I can hardly see straight.

Just as I feel like things could not possibly get bloody worse, I hear a scream from our room. “WHAT IN THE BLOODY FUCKING HELL DID YOU DO THIS TIME, SNOW?!” I run out to see Baz (in my body) whipping around to face me. (Face himself?) He looks angry, except it doesn’t quite work on my features. His normal Baz-sneer looks more like me trying to do a Baz sneer. In short, it looks wildly hilarious and I can’t help but let out a laugh. “What. The fuck. Is so. Bloody. Funny?” Hearing his menacing tone come out in my voice is disorienting. My face falls into what feels like the authentic Baz sneer that I’m on the receiving end of so often. 

The room is turning red and hot, and I can feel myself start sweating. The room is pulsing and my mouth is sticky with what feels like… magic. My magic. (Baz’s magic, now?) I feel… scared? Is this how Baz feels when I normally go off? He’s breathing fast and hard, and he looks scared, too. I can see it in his eyes. I slowly start to walk toward him, guiding him to sit on my bed as I squat in front of him. 

*Baz’s POV*

I feel like a chimney clogged up with smoke. Like a kettle with too much steam, a glass with too much water and a star with too much energy.

I am likely to burst.

I don’t know exactly how I got to feel this way. One second I was just walking in the door, hearing Simon shout something, and then I was on the floor. Then, when I woke up, I was stuck in his body. I could feel the absence of my hair on my neck and I could no longer feel where my fangs were held in my gums. As soon as I woke up, I knew- I knew that Simon had something to do with this. He can’t even spell his bloody laces tied.

And then he came out, looking like me and fucking laughing of all the goddamn things, and sneering at me with my face and I-

I can only see red. I’m overflowing, magic hot and thick on my tongue and rising to the surface of my skin. I’m sweating and panting, and all I can feel and all I can hear and all I can smell is smoke, smoke, smoke. This is what it feels like to be a star. I can feel Simon’s hand (my body’s hand???) rubbing on my back as I cough through the smoke filling my lungs. No, I revise my earlier statement. This is what it feels like to be an exploding star. 

“Baz?” I feel a hand take mine. “Baz. Hey, it’s okay. It’s alright. You’re here in Mummers, with me, Simon. Just draw it back. Try to calm down and let the magic come back in.” How the hell am I supposed to keep all of the overflowing magic in one single person? “Hey, it’ll all be alright. I do this all the time.” He lets out a small laugh. I once again revise my statement. This is what it feels like to be Simon Snow. I try to take in deep breaths and calm myself down. I feel the magic start to recede; like it’s all being sucked back in. I’m just trying to focus on the feel of Simon’s hand in mine. (Even though it’s through my body, it still feels like him. Just colder. I could never be capable of such a gentle touch.) He squeezes a little, and the world comes into focus. Simon/my face is in view, looking concerned (concern should most certainly not be allowed to be on my face), but smiling. 

I let out one more breath and say, “Thank you, Simon.” His mouth drops a little but he nods. 

“Of course,” He hesitates for a second before continuing. “Baz, I fucked a spell up.”

“Obviously,” I scoff, which sounds weird coming out in his voice.

He rolls his eyes. “I just… I don’t know how to fix it.”

“What spell was it?” I’m hyper aware that he’s still holding my hand. 

“Swap Places.” It comes out with magic, but he doesn’t have my wand, so it doesn’t do anything. 

“Merlin, that is a children’s spell, Snow!” He looks away bashfully. (Also a foreign look on my face.)

“Yeah I know…” We both sigh and I move to get up, (reluctantly) letting go of his hand. 

“Well, lucky for you, Chosen, I happen to listen in class, so I know that there is a way to reverse this.” His face looks hopeful despite just being insulted. I hesitate for a moment, not knowing whether or not I should tell him what the solution is.

“Well?” He prompts me. I look away as he gets up and moves closer to me. (Simon Snow should never be allowed to be taller than me- this is a downright bloody sin.)

“We have to learn,” I roll my eyes and sigh. “How to get along.” I spit. What I wouldn’t give to get along with Simon Snow. Unfortunately, that seems damn near impossible, so we’ll probably be stuck like this for the rest of our lives. When I look back up at him, he looks like this is just a minor inconvenience; not like this may as well be the end of our lives. 

“Well, fine then.”

“Fine then?” 

“Well, I s’pose we have to figure it out if we want to get back to normal. Besides, aren’t you tired of fighting, Baz?” He speaks much more eloquently out of my mouth, whereas I begin to sound like a bumbling oaf. 

“Well, I, er… I mean I guess, but- argh, fine. But Snow. We despise each other. We’re meant to kill each other one day; there’s no overcoming that.” He thinks for a moment, but I suppose his thoughts are interrupted by something because his eyes widen in fear. I know that look. 

When I was first turned… that was the look I had when I was first hungry.

*Simon’s POV*

My gums are aching right above where my canines are. “Baz-” I start. He cuts me off.

“I know, Snow.”

“No, Baz. I’m starving. And I know you’re going to say, ‘well you’re always starving, Snow’ and then I’d tell you to sod off, but I’m so thirsty. So hungry. But I don’t know what I’m hungry for.”

He looks impatient but sympathetic as he whispers, “Blood, Simon. You’re hungry for blood. I haven’t fed in… a long while.” I should be shocked at the fact that he’s admitted to being a vampire. I should be scared. But right now I’m him, so I’m the vampire, and I’m more scared to be one than to live with one. 

“Well I… do you have any anywhere?” I gulp while asking. I can hear his (my body’s) heartbeat from all the way across the room. The flowing of his blood sloshing around. I’m feeling lightheaded. 

“No, I don’t have a freezer full of blood bags, Snow,” I ignore the fact that he called me Simon before. “We… we have to go down to the catacombs,” I breathe a little harder. The catacombs are terrifying. They’re dark and cold and full of rats.

Rats. I’ll have to eat rats. “We?” I ask him. He blushes as he moves around to get shoes on. I follow suit.

“Well yes, you wanker. I’m assuming you don’t already know how to drain a rat?” I stay quiet. “I… I can help you, I guess. I, er-” He sighs. “You shouldn’t be doing this alone.” 

“Like you had to?” He stays quiet, fumbling nervously and ungracefully around the room. I’m tempted to reach out to him. I don’t.

                                                           …

Everything is heightened. I feel like I’m seeing, feeling and hearing everything in 100D. Quiet sounds are loud, smells are worse or better (the sour cherry scones from the kitchen are begging for me to eat them) and I can see in the dark, so that’s pretty cool. But now we’re down in the catacombs and it’s cold and Baz is teaching me how to catch rats. 

“I’m not fast enough anymore, but you are now. Just smell for them and listen. Then just reach out. You’ll catch one soon,” He promises. It takes ten minutes, but I finally catch one and it squirms around in my hands. Despite the sight of it makes me want to puke, my/Baz’s fangs pop out of his gums. They make my cheeks feel bigger and I have to move my lips around them to talk, lisping a little bit. 

“Baz, I don’t think I can do this. I can’t…” I trail off, thinking for a moment. “I can’t kill this rat and eat it. I can’t drink it’s blood, Baz. I just feel like-” I turn to face him and I think I see him wipe a tear away. 

“A monster. I know.” He responds quietly, looking away. I don’t complain about eating again. 

*Baz’s POV*

When we finally get out of the catacombs, Simon’s/my face is a bloody mess. It reminds me of the first time I ate. Sloppy and full of shame and guilt. I wish he hadn’t had to do that. But now we walk in silence back to Mummers, both of us afraid to talk about my being a vampire. 

“Listen, Simon, I’m sorry you had to do that. I know that it’s, er… uncomfortable.” He just shakes his head and looks at me.

“S’okay.” He pauses and I think he’s done talking, but he continues thoughtfully. “You know, you’re not a monster, Baz.” I scoff. 

“It’s alright, Snow. I’ve made my peace with it. I know what I am.” He frowns at me and bumps into my arm with his own. I still feel magick threatening to spill over- it’s ever present. 

“That’s what you think you are. You’re not… that. Not to me.” I smile at him but he looks away bashfully. For a second, I don’t see Simon with my face. I just see Simon. 

There’s a long pause until we’re just two minutes away from our room. “And I’m… well, er. I’m sorry for, you know. What you have to deal with with the magic and stuff. I um. I didn’t know it was that… bad.” He smiles brightly at me, but I can still see some sadness in his eyes. 

“S’okay. I’ve made my peace with it.” He mocks me in a much posher voice than I think I have. I can’t help but laugh. Just as I reach out to grab his hand, as our fingers brush, I feel sparks. 

Simon falls to the ground. 

I fall next. 

Progress.

[theangrypokemaniac]

Contests Part 2/2

6. Loser Jessie

Screechy harpie Jessay has even more of a raw deal than Mavis and Dawn of the Dead.

From the outset I knew she'd never be champion, but she ought to rise above the tiresome berks clogging up procedure.

Sufficient popularity at Pokémon Towers ensured the girls were allotted coverage of all their award ceremonies. They had a moment in the sun.

What has Jessie in comparison?

I can't recall Hoenn, but I don't expect it was much.

Sinnoh however carried naught but a single paltry episode.

This for a main character.

This for someone there from the beginning.

This for an ardent fan favourite.

This for a wench who, should we include all her various mutations, has featured in more installments than either of 'em.

But no, treat Jesseee as worthless, even lower than Dawn's groupies. It's not like anyone watches it for her.

Looking back, it's obvious what they were intending to do come Unova.

What's the score then?

• One paltry Contest on screen.

• A couple happen elsewhere, marked by a few seconds per mention when the script oh-so generously moves away from the thrilling main plot.

It's gotta be the small-town concerns for Jessuhleenuh, nothing major. She deserves no better.

• One won by James, so not hers. Press her inadequacy upon us!

• One obtained as a gesture of pity from Kate Middleton.

And how did that work? What's the good of allowing 'Dawn' entry again?

She'd already qualified. If winning here, that gives her six, therefore there aren't enough Co-ordinators for the culmination.

And when Jessie showed up with a Ribbon recorded as belonging to Dawn, how was she taken as fulfilling the quota?

The slapdash way these Contests are run!

God forbid Jess should be shown as excelling at anything. It must be scraping into the final undeservedly.

Bitch gotta know her place.

7. Bumpkin Jessie

...

Ain't no description I can give that don't rhyme with 'hit', or variations of the theme.

You thought the shafting Jessica got coverage wise was bad enough? Yer ain't heard the 'alf of it.

Sinnoh was a period of peak Moron Team Rocket, where the one surprise was how stupid they could be.

You may remember an early episode when James designed her clothes for the catwalk. She thought it'd complement his work by applying lipstick all across her mug.

Obviously Jessie would do that, clueless as to how make-up functions.

Come on kids, she's thick!

Even at that numskull nadir it's difficult to comprehend anyone choosing this get up without severe duress.

Picture the scene: you debut on stage, before an audience of thousands and television cameras, in an event preoccupied with superficiality.

What do you wear?

• Giant, oversized glasses out of fashion since the Seventies.

• Bootlace tie last worn in the nineteenth century Wild West by a barman serving sarsaparillas.

• Colour scheme of brown and orange, the nation's favourite hues.

• A man's old shirt fraying at the cuffs.

• Voluminous apron dress.

• Massive yellow bows last seen decorating an Easter Egg. Always a winner.

• Heavy, clod-hopping boots.

• PIGTAILS!!!

Even the name is unattractive.

Ah yes, very common for those under six. Unheard of later.

You have reached puberty haven't yer Jessie? I can't tell anymore.

They couldn't get enough of that combination in Cosmo, which is why it's no longer in print.

Not only is Jessie denied success, she's deprived of the chance to be pretty in a realm where nothing but that carries weight.

Worse, given how her face disintegrated, this is the best she's been for five generations.

Yeah, because the inbred milkmaid style is such a good look, eh?

SEXAY!!!

8. So Long, Tsundere

Remember tsunderes? What happened to 'em?

The curse of Pokémon was draining the well of inspiration too quickly, throwing away interesting characters as mere guests.

This is particularly noticeable regarding the ladies. Back then, we got Misty, Jessie, Jessibelle, Cassidy, Aya, Giselle, Tyra, Sabrina, assorted crones Brutella, Nastina and Lacy, plus Joy, Jenny and Dame Ketchum provided parental authority.

How did a series that began with ball-breaking birds like that end up with insipid, glassy-eyed dullards like Zuhreena, Banana Lana, Marsh Mallow and Lilliput?

Ooh, Zuhreena is a pwincess!

Ooh, Banana Lana bwows big bwubbles!

Ooh, Marsh Mallow wuvs phallic waddishes!

Ooh, Lilliput won't pwet wanimals bwecause of Secwet Pain!

Can you imagine such weak specimens finding any place in the anarchic atmosphere of the classics?

It's SO boring!

Where's the punch? Where's the human spirit?

Where's the entertainment gone?

This squishy attitude began in Hoenn. Misty left, Jessie's hair symbolically changed from volcanic red to pink, and Contests introduced a cuddly theme where glitter glue and sequins are top priority.

Every sharp corner, every jagged point has been filed smooth. Now its substance hasn't the hardness to even develop edges, not when it's all cushions and candyfloss, where catching Pokémon rests on them deigning to grant permission, rather than 'avin it out.

Tsunderes, exuding untamed charisma and independence, besides a soupçon of danger, simply don't fit the cardboard box we habit now.

Nor do yanderes, kuuderes, tsuntsuns, or even derederes. It's just nothing but smiley-smiley creeps.

I wouldn't mind any of these tropes as long as there was some sign of colour to be had.

9. The Sacrifice of Misty

Misty bid farewell under the feeble justification that the lack of a longterm goal made her vulnerable to sacking.

Such a line uttered as if her own choice, being beyond them as writers to invent a purpose.

This implied her replacement would have an exciting quest aiming for excellence, something just beyond Misty's capabilities.

What did we get?

Dressing up and collecting Ribbons!

Is that...is that it? Is that the great idea? Is that all the girls are worth?

I lost Misty for THIS?!

Perhaps it makes no difference. By Hoenn they'd rendered her a leaden blandness sucked dry of all that made her special.

Going by the greasy-toothed bastardisation that swanned up in Alola, Misty was simply too wild for the safe, stifling atmosphere of today.

Her departure ensued she remains frozen as a funny, beloved presence, unlike those she left behind.

Now there was a lucky escape, as once the fanny-flapping starts, the bints have it on the brain.

May had Max to beat on the side, but Dawn developed monomania.

Hardly an episode went by without some reference to Contests, or how today's plot spurred her on to the next opportunity.

Yer need help, love!

Rather than Ash's new friend being a fascinating person who so happened to enter vanity projects, the competition defined them to the exclusion of life.

It is but moths drawn to the candle flame waiting to engulf them.

Contests are this world's version of Tom Riddle's diary: they promise sympathy and validation, but they eat your soul.

Like Tumblr.

10. Completely Unoriginal

Seems to me it wasn't so much Misty had no goal, it was more that Contests were the supposedly hot concept wedged into an existing property.

If earlier aspects failed to accommodate the invader, the onus certainly wasn't on the new kid to change. Oh no, stuff it in and chop off whatever gets in the way.

In the eyes of the post-Shudo regime, Misty was too volatile to last, and so had to go.

What idiots.

She's a tsundere. The softer, more feminine side is a defining component.

Would it really have been so problematic to retain her as an entrant? If Jessie can, why not?

Even if failing to fit, so what? Since when was established characterisation a barrier?

Isn't twisting likeable folk into unrecognisable pods the modus operandi of the writers?

That canon is immaterial, and must always give in to whatever fancy they currently have?

Well then, what's the big deal in infantilising Misty to promote it rather than pensioning her off?

Viewers will be more invested in the challenges awaiting a familiar face rather than a stranger.

What reduces the above to the risible is the original Misty and Jessie both participated in the Princess Festival.

All Contests are is that very scenario on repeat and robbed of all meaning.

Think about it:

• Beauty round

• Battle round

• Jessie loses

Same bloody thing.

Not only have I got to suffer this draining spectacle, it's got the nerve to possess not one iota of fresh ideas!

Contests are a low rent rip-off. The Princess Festival had a worthy reward in the shape of one-of-a-kind Dolls.

It'd already been revealed that ordinary Princess Dolls were ruinously expensive, therefore the special Pokémon edition have to be priceless.

What d'yer get for the trouble of a Contest but a bit of plastic tat taped to bargain basement frippery?

And they demand you get five of 'em!

Contests themselves were then resurrected as Showcases, although mercifully slimmed down to only three, with the emptiness ramped up in compensation.

Perhaps ironically, Princess Versus Princess is one of my favourite episodes. I love its critique of female avarice and accurate portrayal of clothing sales as reminiscent of the zombie apocalypse.

I don't mind the Festival as a single adventure, but I may have felt less favourable had it been a constant presence.

Except it isn't the competition at stake. This is a framework to explore Jessie and Misty as people.

Through its device we learn their history and therefore how they came to develop as the girls we know.

The setting serves as an opportunity for both to confront the misery and isolation of their childhoods, with the promise of overcoming that old torment with the balm of victory.

In the final, they aren't so much battling an opponent as fighting to be free of the past.

The tragedy is only one can be granted that reprieve. The other must remain unhappy in the ruins of memory.

It matters, unlike vapid Contests, where posturing is king. What depth can they provide in comparison?

Despite identical content, they are inverse counterparts, with the Festival presented as merely a light affair concealing a rather dark tale of neglect.

Contests however are paraded as this worthy nourishment for body and mind, a major point in one's journey towards enlightenment, when all they really amount to is an organ grinder and his monkey arsing about for the slack-gobbed plebs.

Bread and circuses.

Best of all, Misty won, not some side twat, as it should be.

Note how Jessie dressed: in delicate, vivid robes and golden decoration. The boys thought her beautiful.

Not as a gormless dweeb you'd cross the street to avoid!

And why the need to disguise herself anyway?

The Twerps had no issue with Jessie of Team Rocket joining the fun back then, so what happened?

At least she received the consolation of gaining Lickitung as a friend, with James and Meowth desperate to comfort her.

What do Contests bring? Sod all!

[virmillion]

Coffee’s for Closers

alternative title: lab has absolutely no chill when airing out their dirty laundry

Summary: Virgil is a barista. Logan is a barista. Everyone is gay—it's just that this gayness only occurs at Logan's cafe. Warnings: cursing, rude customers and coworkers, let me know if you think of any more Ships: romantic analogical, romantic royality, platonic LAMP+Remy Words: 22,222

Check it out on ao3!

    Grande white mocha latte. Steam milk to the third line, four pumps of syrup, two shots of espresso, put on a sleeve, pour the milk, whipped cream, lid, hand it off, next. Kid’s hot chocolate. Steam milk to the bottom line at one-twenty seven degrees, two pumps mocha, one pump vanilla, pour the milk, whipped cream, lid, hand it off, next. Venti iced caramel macchiato upside down with coconut milk and an extra shot. Pull two shots of espresso into each teacup, six hits of vanilla in the cup, espresso over the vanilla, coconut milk to the top line, ice to the rim, caramel drizzle of seven vertical, seven horizontal, two circles, lid, hand it off, next. This is literally the only thing running through Virgil’s mind anymore.

    Alright, maybe not the only thing. There is the odd customer who gets annoyed at receiving a small cup when they asked for a tall, because ‘I thought tall meant large!’ and Virgil has had just about enough of people not understanding the price difference. There’s also a regular here and there that hands off their reusable cup with a grin, so he can fill it with caramel and decaf and nonfat milk for the regular’s wife, and the guy can get a tall pike place roast with caramel syrup in a grande cup, and Virgil can hand it off and feel proud of himself for knowing a regular’s order so precisely. Oh, and lest we not forget the ever-present parents thinking it’s cool to let their toddlers run wild and knock down his signs and spill drinks everywhere because ‘it’s okay, honey, he gets paid to clean that up!’

    Okay, so there are several things running through Virgil’s mind right now. At this incredibly specific moment, one of those several things is the fact that he only has to survive twelve. More. Minutes. With the literal worst coworker on the face of the earth. He can’t speak to the quality of workers beneath the earth’s crust—sorry, team members—but for air breathing losers such as he, his buddy here just. Takes the damn cake. Stole the candles. Blew out his wish. On his birthday. Without a birthday gift. Spit on the frosting. Grabbed two chunks with her bare hands. Ate them like a toddler. Complained when she was the only one eating cake. Took the cake anyway.

    Virgil doesn’t particularly care for cake.

    “Hey, how’re you doing?” Kim asks the next guest, plastering the absolute fakest smile Virgil has ever seen on her face. Like, he’s pretty sure it’s bordering on genuine. That’s how fake it is.

    Virgil doesn’t particularly care for Kim, either.

    “I’m good, how’re you?” the guest replies, staring up at the trifold menu and holding up a line of seven people behind them because they didn’t have the foresight to decide on a drink during the fifteen minutes they spent in line. “I’ll take a grande salted caramel mocha.” Virgil ignores Kim as she delivers the spiel about the limited supply of whipped cream, instead focusing on the measurements of all the drinks waiting to be finished. Sure, he admires that one lady for getting eight shots of espresso—he could definitely do with some of what she’s having—but her drink is doing a terrible job of holding up the line when their dinky little store only has one mastrena.

    Ten minutes.

    “Venti double quad for Debra?” Virgil calls, ignoring the line of drinks that haven’t been claimed yet. Seriously, if these people are as intent as they seem to be on getting out of here quickly, you’d think they’d jump at the chance to take their drinks. Virgil doesn’t really care either way, as he only has to survive nine more minutes.

    “Hey, we need a milk run before tomorrow,” Virgil tells Kim, shuffling down the line of drinks. To be fair, they’re moving much more quickly now that the whole espresso machine isn’t focused on one drink from five minutes ago. “Want me to do it?”

    “Ugh, yeah,” Kim groans, rolling her eyes. She waves off the concerned look from the next guest, eyeing Virgil’s obscenely long queue of drinks. “I’ll finish those up, you go get the milk, peace out in ten?”

    “Something like that,” Virgil agrees, topping off the last row of grande hot chocolates. “You know where the button is for extra help?”

    “Duh, of course I know where it is.” Rather than give a sarcastic remark to her attitude—which is what he wants more than anything—Virgil smiles brightly, pushing his way past the swinging door and straightening the hat that never sits quite right on his head. In the near back, he pulls out his constantly dying phone to snap a picture of the barren fridge. All the way to the back of the main store and into the freezer, he trundles one of the squeaky-wheeled carts between the aisles, dodging oblivious mothers and manspreading dudes with man-buns and ratty tennis shoes.

    “Okay, twenty two blue, five pink, seven red,” Virgil mumbles to himself, double- and triple-checking the picture to reassure himself of what they need. “Maybe just seventeen blue, five pink, five red.” These corrections continue as he sets about pulling every jug he can find from the crates, absently tugging down his sleeves as the cold sends goosebumps skittering over his skin. “Two more red, maybe a few half and half?” Thinking back, he’s pretty sure corporate didn’t ship any half and half this week, either. Sunday’s gonna be a blast. “Still no heavy whipping cream, no surprise there. The rations thin. The plot chickens.” Allowing himself a small laugh at his own nonsense, Virgil backs the cart out of the fridge and deepens his chronic slouch to put more force behind the wheels. They squeal and scream in protest as he shoves the—trolley? Is that what they call it?—back to the front, practically spilling it everywhere as he swerves around a narrow corner to avoid a stray child pinballing off the end cap displays.

    Finally at the near back again, Virgil fights with the cart to get it through the doors and over the floor mats covering the little alley, very nearly ramming his head into the sink when the wheels free themselves with no warning. “Okay, freakin’ ow,” he mutters, rubbing the bruise on his side from the impact. “Whatever, just a few more minutes, and I can go somewhere that doesn’t totally suck or drain the life from its patrons.”

    True to his word, Virgil eventually succeeds in restocking the rest of the milks, popping his head out to check on Kim’s status in regards to whether she’ll survive the next three minutes. One severely long line that’s steadily trickling out, most of them with drinks in hand, and if the flurry of legs outside the shuttered window is anything to go by, another slam is hot on its heels. Virgil tosses out a flippant farewell to Kim and makes a break for the punch clock, having absolutely no desire to stick around for the hell that awaits.

    “Okay, cool, cool, love driving in the rain, favorite part of my Saturday,” Virgil sighs, glancing at the window. If nothing else, should customers not be deterred by the weather? Seriously, just go home. Go home!

    Of course, no one is listening to Virgil’s complaints. All too aware of this fact, he rolls his shoulders forward to shrug on a hoodie over his work-mandated black shirt—at least the uniform doesn’t suck, he supposes. Flipping his hood up to protect his hair and tucking in his earbuds, Virgil strolls out into the clogged aisles of people and things, easily blending in with the other loners that would rather be literally anywhere else, were it not for their families dragging them along. Virgil has no such ties, and accordingly escapes from the store with ease.

    And no, he won’t lie—Virgil absolutely walks slower in the rain to the beat of the song in his ears, and he absolutely imagines some cheesy pathetic music video happening around him, and he absolutely would deny that if you confronted him with it.

    By the time Virgil reaches his car—neon blue, mind you, because it was the cheapest model he could afford—his hoodie is sopping wet, and he has had just about enough of this whole ‘existing’ nonsense for today. But no, no, he wants to go to that new cafe one of the regulars told him about. Stupid stubbornness. Of course, he’s too stubborn to get rid of it. So. On he drives.

    You might think this is where the stars align—where Virgil stumbles his way into a warm cafe from a cold car, where he bumps into his soulmate on first sight, where he knows in an instant that this is where he belongs, that this new place is the home he was always meant to find.

    You would be wrong.

    “Damn broken phone,” Virgil scowls, shaking his phone as the screen refuses to wake up, despite being at a solid seventy percent. He keeps his gaze toward his shoes and the tiled floor beneath them, pressing the home and lock buttons harder than he probably needs to. “If anyone dares to so much as look at me the wrong way, I am chucking you out the window and letting you electrocute yourself like a tiny toaster in the rain.”

    “—Upside down, iced, and pick your poison for the milk,” the person waiting at the register is saying, leaning forward as if they have all the time in the world. Virgil’s frown deepens as the person starts to socialize with the barista.

    “Ah, Roman? I believe there might be someone waiting behind you,” the barista says, their voice carrying over past the pompous person that’s basically a wall at this point. As the guest scuttles away to wait for his drink, the barista beckons Virgil forward, saying, “sorry about him. Never seems to understand that other people occupy this world besides himself.”

    “It certainly would appear that way, wouldn’t it?” Virgil says out of the corner of his mouth, not looking up to meet the barista’s eyes. Regardless of whether they’re the social type, he isn’t about to find out the hard way. The hard way being the only way, of course. Virgil does not want to talk to this person, is what he’s saying. “I’ll just take a small of whatever the cheapest thing you have is that isn’t brewed coffee. Please.”

    “Sure, that’ll be one fifty.”

    “Keep the change.” Virgil passes over the first crumpled bill he can find in his pocket—a five—and moves for a table around the corner of the bar to wait. According to that regular, the baristas here are competent enough to hunt down the guests when their drinks are done. So. Hiding around the corner. His modus operandi.

    The worn chair at a table for two is more than welcoming enough, offering a decent view of the crying clouds outside and the over-soaked flowers decorating the windowsill. Virgil dusts off the plum colored seat, which probably used to be plush when it was new—at this point, it’s so well-loved that there can’t be more than an inch of fabric separating Virgil’s rear from the wooden underside. He tucks one leg beneath himself, propping the other foot along the reddish brown window edge. The beaten-up greys and purples of his sneakers offer a painful contrast to the flowers, shining dull under the relentless rain.

    “Hey, haven’t seen you here before,” a new voice says. The same guy that was bugging the barista plonks himself down across from Virgil, pressing his nose to the window. What was his name, Ho Man? “Did the rain scare you away from a main chain trash place like Starbucks?” Rather than dignify him with a response, Virgil holds up the too-small black cap he’s supposed to wear to work. Proudly displayed in white stitches is the Starbucks logo. The way Ho Man’s face turns beet red as he fumbles to cover up the mistake is almost enough to make Virgil laugh. Almost. “Okay, wait, I didn’t mean—it’s not like I wanted to—obviously I don’t disrespect your profession—not that it’s like you have to have it! I mean, unless you like it, but I didn’t want to assume—that’s what they always say about assuming, isn’t it, ass out of you and me, right?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Okay, yeah, yeah, cool! I, uh, I’m just gonna—I’m gonna go sit over there now.” Ho Man jabs his thumb back over his shoulder, loudly scraping his chair back under the table as he stumbles over his own feet in a mad scramble for the front area of the cafe.

    “He seems fun,” Virgil mumbles to himself, resting his chin on a knee and pressing his forehead to the window. Out in the parking lot—if you can even call it that, it’s basically just ten rectangles that happen to be outlined in white—his car looks incredibly crowded in. Neon blue trapped by dark greys and flat reds, all of them reduced to shields sending rain shooting to the concrete.

    A few tables away, Ho Man has plonked himself at a bigger table, facing off with someone turned away from Virgil. They certainly seem to be in deep conversation about something, but Virgil doesn’t care enough to figure out what, much less elaborate on it. To drown out the light conversation of a considerable amount of quiet patrons around him, he digs his laptop out of his shoulder bag and unfolds it on the table. In any fantasy story he’s ever imagined, this is probably the part where his one true love appears in the vacant chair across from him, reaching out to close the laptop and reveal sparkling blue eyes that dance like the stars on a dark and clear night.

    Yeah, no thanks.

    “There you go, cheapest thing we’ve got that isn’t brewed coffee,” the barista says, appearing very much in Virgil’s field of view to hand over a ceramic mug decorated with tinier cups in every shade of blue and purple. “Apple cider with cinnamon and caramel.”

    “That’s the cheapest thing you’ve got?” Virgil sputters in disbelief. “That’s, like, four bucks at a chain place.”

    “I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized we were on par with a ‘chain place,’” the barista replies, making air quotes around the words. “Anyway, make sure you return the mug when you leave. If you take it with you, bring it back next time for a refill, five cent discount.”

    “Seriously? Cool,” Virgil says, reaching for the mug as the barista turns away. “Seems like a good way to encourage people to steal the mug if you ask me, but alright.” The barista hesitates, looking from the bar to Virgil and back. No guests demanding service. Without asking permission or begging forgiveness, the barista slips into the seat across from Virgil. “Yeah, sure, have a seat.” Virgil closes his laptop, bringing the mug to his lips.

    “So I’m not even going to ask whether this is your first time, since it’s pretty obvious,” the barista says. “For one, you didn’t even make eye contact when you ordered your drink, which, okay, rude, and for another, you don’t know the system with the mugs, not to mention that you didn’t even say hi to—”

    “Yeah, yeah, cool, great, can I just enjoy my cheap drink in peace here?” Virgil interrupts. He certainly wouldn’t admit it if this guy asked, but it’s better than what they make at Starbucks. “Yes, my first time, I don’t like eye contact, I certainly don’t like conversation—actually, come to think of it, I have a long list of dislikes, and you are quickly working your way to the top. Please go away.”

    “My name’s Remy.” The barista sticks his hand out, prompting Virgil to merely stare at it with thinly veiled disdain until he retracts it with an awkward laugh. “I run this place with my brother, since he bought the building when the lister needed to move before the taxes got too high, and he pulled me in on the deal for my sparkling charisma—”

    “Of which you have none.”

    “—and because he likes dealing with the numbers more. He’s actually sitting right over—”

    “Don’t care. Why are you sitting here?” Remy wags a finger at Virgil, biting his lower lip and puffing out his cheeks. “Spring a leak much?”

    “Mostly ’cause I was bored. You seem interesting, I don’t know. Thought I could educate you on the mystical ways of how we don’t go bankrupt from people stealing our mugs.”

    “Okay, yeah, sure, cool. Great. Educate away. Special tip, though? You kind of suck at educating so far. Like, a lot.”

    “Noted. We’re small enough that we don’t get many guests, and the ones that come in pretty often usually have their own mugs reserved. Picked yours out for you when I saw you walk in. Brand new, never used. Just for you. So special.”

    “Alright, let’s lay off the dramatically short sentences, Mettaton. You still haven’t convinced me why I should care.”

    “I mean, I think you’re cute, so there’s that. Anyway, we use the same mugs for our regulars, and we get so few one-timers that we barely ever lose a cup. Even when we do, they normally come back out of guilt for keeping the cup, and get another drink at a crap discount. That’s our motto, you know? Come for the guilt, stay for the five cents you save. Well, not really our motto. We don’t have a motto. I’ve always wanted one, but we never set one in stone, since my brother isn’t exactly into all that stuff. Speaking of which, you wanna meet him? He’s right over—”

    “I do not want to meet your brother,” Virgil says. He shakes his head, trying to force his mind to register Remy’s nonstop babbling. “I literally just want to finish my drink in peace.”

    “You’ll be back,” Remy replies, tapping out a rhythm on the table. “The cute ones always come back.”

    “I have literally never wanted to come back to a place less than I do right now. Please go away.” Finally, miracle of miracles, Remy takes the hint, scraping his chair back and moving for the table where Ho Man is still chatting up whoever it is that probably doesn’t want him there.

    Alone once more, Virgil exhales, scraping off part of the dollop of whipped cream on his drink with a finger. Before the caramel drizzle can drip down his hand, he fwips it off with a sharp inhale, pretending like he doesn’t care that he’d probably be drawing thousands of weird looks if anyone were paying attention. Over at Ho Man’s table, Remy slams his fists down on the tiled surface, making the collection of mismatched mugs bounce around dangerously. Ho Man’s friend relaxes their perfect posture by half an inch before straightening again as Remy leans forward to whisper something. Virgil quickly shifts his focus to stare out the window.

    While the rain seems to finally be letting up, its aftereffects are long from forgotten. Orange tulips and red roses in the distance are wobbling on thin stems, desperately holding onto the last of their leaves as the wind does everything it can to wrench them away. Even the trees are mourning the early summer storm, their overgrown leaves tearing away and drifting across the streets to stick themselves to windows. Virgil fights back the urge to recoil as a particularly large leaf smacks into the other side of the glass, tiny drops of water peeling away to race for the flowerbed below.

    When he lifts the mug to his mouth again, it’s empty. Smalls are always so much smaller than larges. Time to go.

    “Hey, uh, where do I, um…?” Virgil calls to Remy as he moves for the door, lifting his empty cup as indication. “Like, do I just leave it on the table, or…?”

    “Just keep it,” Remy replies, waving off Virgil’s annoyed sigh. “Seriously, keep it.”

    “Seriously, no.” Rather than take the mug and run, which would be immensely gratifying if it were, you know, actually against the rules, he deposits it on the island with cream and sugar for coffee. Dammit, even their carts are nicer than the crappy little nothings that Starbucks has.

    “See you later?” Remy yells as Virgil wills the door to close faster behind him.

    “Maybe. Probably not, but maybe.” Before the bell over the door frame has even finished chiming, Virgil is already at his car, not bothering to dodge the few remaining raindrops. “Weirdo. Hate to see how much of a disaster his brother is.”

---------------

    “How long, exactly, did you talk to that poor guy?” Remy appears none too impressed by the question, much less the implication of how annoying he probably was to said poor guy.

    “Look, bro, he looked lonely, I thought I’d just pop in on his day and—”

    “And encourage him to leave my cafe without taking the mug for a discount next time? Try harder to cover for yourself. And stop calling me ‘bro,’ it makes you sound like a teenager.”

    “Alright, Logan,” Remy retorts, letting the mocking tone dangle in the air, “FYI, I am a teenager, so lay off for a hot sec, why don’t you?”

    “I would rather not. Don’t use acronyms out loud, you sound like a preteen. You turned twenty last week. Roman, kindly refrain from displaying the inside of your mouth like that.”

    “Dude, what? Happy birthday, man! Why didn’t you tell me?” Roman demands, leaning his elbows on the table and forcefully inserting himself into a conversation where he’s decidedly not welcome.

    “I’m having a surprise party for myself,” Remy hisses in a stage whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, Logan thinks I don’t know about it.”

    “I am not planning you a surprise party,” Logan says. “There is literally not one person planning you a surprise party, in this cafe or otherwise. Go help that next guest, I never said you could take a break for this long, anyway.”

    “You aren’t the boss of me,” Remy grumbles, crossing his arms and slouching lower in his chair.

    “Technically, I am, having been the one to buy the place, not to mention that I was born first. Go help the next guest.” Logan rolls his eyes as Remy trudges over to the bar, a completely different demeanor washing over him like a wave as he steps behind the register and turns into a cheerful mannequin. Shifting his focus back to Roman, Logan presses his glasses up higher on his nose and releases a low, steady, frustrated groan.

    “Talk to me, man, what’s goin’ on?” Roman asks. “Are you really that mad that what’s-his-nuts didn’t take his mug? You didn’t even pick it out, Remy did.”

    “Mmm, no, that’s not it.” Logan rubs his knuckles against a sore spot on his forehead, considering Roman’s earnest look. “We haven’t been doing too well in sales lately, not that many new guests coming in, much less any of them returning for the discount, and I’m still waiting on your list of ideas for how to make myself more welcoming.”

    “Well, for one, don’t dump all your emotional baggage on the first person to ask.” Roman waves his hands quickly as Logan moves to get up, trying to fan whatever flames of frustration are boiling in his brain. “Kidding! Kidding, I am totally, completely, legit-ly kidding.”

    “Legitimately.”

    “Tomato, potato.”

    “To-mah-to.”

    “I’m pretty sure it’s tomato. Anyways, I did draw up that list for you, which, objectively, is the literal best thing in existence ever to be created. In existence. Ever. Objectively.” To be perfectly frank, Logan is incredibly close to shutting the cafe down and locking himself in the fridge to cool down, both literally and figuratively. Nevertheless, he endures, propping his chin on his fist and sighing heavily as Roman draws a stack of bent and ruffled papers out from who-knows-where. At the very least, if Roman’s antics don’t put him out of business, he’ll be able to end the month with a bang. Maybe.

    Roman smooths out the uppermost pages on the tiled table, letting the bottom sheets flare out like a background for the top nonsense. Pointing to each piece of paper as it comes up,  he fumbles his way through the chaos, periodically looking up to make sure Logan is paying attention. Against better judgement, he is.

    “Okay, so first off, it’s June, right? Pride month, bay-bee! Break out a new collection of mugs—”

    “I am not changing the mugs.”

    “He is not changing the mugs,” Remy seconds, returning from the last guest.

    “Alright, alright, truce, no new mugs. I know you don’t totally go for the pizzazz side of things, but—and hear me out here, just something small—we could put different colors of powder on each drink, like purple sprinkles on a latte can be called a purple drink—”

    “We cannot do that, Starbucks already has pink and violet drinks, and I will not associate with them.” Logan straightens his glasses again, pulling one piece of paper out from beneath the rest. “Are all of these ideas centered around pride month?”

    “No,” Roman grumbles, scraping about half of the papers off the table. “I do think it would be cool if you did pride stuff, though. Show support to everyone.”

    “Me, in particular,” Remy cuts in. “Show some support to my gay ass.”

    “Your ass is trans.”

    “What’s your point?”

    “I guess I don’t have one, Remy. Roman, please, if you would?” Logan gestures with his hand, indicating for Roman to find a new thread of ideas to follow. The watch on his waving wrist boasts of closing time rapidly drawing near, as a solid third of his patrons slowly head for the door, carefully selected mugs clutched between their fingers.

    “Right. Okay, so you said no new mugs, and you said no pride stuff, and you said no fun, so let me just jot that down, and we’ll keep going.”

    “I said no new mugs, I asked for different pride stuff that wouldn’t infringe on corporate coffee franchises, and fun is a subjective measurement on behalf of our patrons. Drop the attitude, or I’m cutting you off.”

    “What? No, I’m your best customer!” Roman whines, wearing a pout for a good few seconds before continuing. “I really do think some nice decorations would probably help the atmosphere, maybe string up some white fairy lights around the ceiling? I know you hate those, but they do wonders for how the interior looks once it’s dark outside. Turn off the main lights, turn on the tiny ones, and bam, you’ve got a fairytale date night. Literally.”

    “I don’t think you know what literally means.”

    “I also think you should hire me. Not with obscenely high pay, I know how frugal you try to be, but Remy and I are basically your best bets for customer service. Let me cover the shifts when he disappears for clubs and stuff, you can make the drinks as precise as you like, and I’ll chat up the guests to keep the drinks coming. If nothing else, it’ll train me for how I should exist in the real world.”

    “You’ve existed in the real world for years without working in a cafe.”

    “What’s your point?”

    Logan is very well aware by this point that the conversation is going nowhere. A few decent ideas, a few pieces of nonsense, and that’s about it. As such, he snaps the piece of paper he already grabbed, watching the top stand at attention at the peak of its arc.

    “I guess I don’t have one. Remy, please, if you would?” Struck by how he’d unintentionally repeated himself, Logan shifts his focus to the paper, blowing a long breath out through puffed cheeks. “We’re supposed to close up soon, and I sincerely do not have the willpower to do it tonight. I have way too many things to deal with behind the scenes, and I can’t just—”

    “Say no more,” Remy interrupts, plucking the paper from Logan’s hands. “Sit here, close your eyes, don’t do anything. I’ll teach Roman how to make your usual.”

    “Seven extra shots,” Logan murmurs, dropping his head to rest on the table. “Actually, make it eight. Please.”

    “Yeah, no, we’re only gonna give him hot tea,” Remy whispers to Roman, dragging him away from the table. A heavy exhale from Logan sends a few more sheets of paper fluttering to the floor. “He doesn’t get caffeine until he can go a full night without waking up to finish whatever piece of work he forgot about.”

    “And you think he can’t tell there’s no espresso in that?” Roman asks, watching Remy move as quietly as possible, considering that he’s dealing with the sound of metal on metal.

    “Oh, no, he can definitely tell. We’re both lying to each other, it’s kind of our thing, you know?”

    “Sounds like a great sibling rivalry.”

    “You could say that. Here, put these gloves on, protects from germs and junk when you’re handling the tea bag.” As the last dredges of guests file out of the cafe, most of them pausing to knock gently on the table in lieu of a soft goodbye to Logan, Remy and Roman fall into an amicable silence.

    “Maybe the pride powder would be fun?” Logan mumbles to himself, dragging his chin to his chest so only his forehead rests on the tiles. “Or I could get some food coloring, dye the whipped creams? We definitely don’t have the funds for colorful cups or anything like that, but maybe I could put a little colored dot on the bottom of each cup, have random chance dictate what color whip they get? But then I might not meet the demands, we could run out of food coloring, run out of whip, it doesn’t let me appeal to vegans or people who abstain from dairy products, not to mention that the color might leech into the actual drink. Maybe the fairy lights, just as a summer thing for softer lighting, quiet hours once they go on, I could probably get some people to do open mic stuff or something, clear out a couple tables…”

    Logan lets his words trail off at the sound of Remy plunking a drink beside his head, and while he knows very well that there’s no caffeine in the cup, he downs the whole thing in one go. Roman appears behind Remy, offering an identical drink in a bigger cup.

    “Whoa, try coming up for air bro—brother of mine. Brother. Is what I was going to say. Was brother. And not bro. Brother.” Remy excuses himself to finish dealing with closing up the bar, letting Roman reclaim his seat across from Logan.

    “Hey, buddy, you want to maybe get home, get some sleep?”

    “Yeah, probably,” Logan mumbles, not lifting his head from the table. “Still got so much to do, though. Barely even touched most of your ideas.”

    “Oh, please, you tore them to shreds!” Logan allows himself the smallest of smiles at that, shaking the back of his head and pressing his forehead deeper into the table. There’s probably a pattern of indents appearing on his skin by now. “And we didn’t even get to the best ones, which you can tackle tomorrow, after you get some sleep.”

    “Get some sleep!” Remy echoes, flitting between the sinks with every possible piece of dishware in the building. “But not at home. Go hang out at Roman’s.”

    Roman splutters indignantly, sending the rest of the papers flying. One lands over Logan’s head like a blanket. He does not remove it. “Why does he have to come to my place?”

    Although he can’t see it happening, Logan would wager a good fifty dollars that Remy has positioned himself atop one of the counters that food doesn’t touch in a dramatic pose. “Because he literally lives at work. Like, the next floor up. He needs to get some distance from this place. Plus, I mean, look at him. I’m not putting him up for the night.”

    “I’m the one paying your rent,” Logan retorts to the floor, watching his heels and toes click together.

    “You’re also the one keeping me awake at three in the morning because you had a sudden idea and are seemingly incapable of restraining yourself from writing with a squeaky marker on a squeaky whiteboard, but no one’s asking me. Just go with Roman. Roman, take him. I am not asking you, I am telling you. Take. Logan.”

    “Taking Logan,” Roman confirms. “Come on, Logan. I, Roman, am taking you, Logan. Onward, to my house, owned by a man named Roman, where I am taking Logan!”

    “Shut up, you goof.” Remy’s semi-humored tone is accompanied by the sound of what is probably a balled-up napkin punting Roman in the head, but Logan still isn’t paying enough attention to see. When he hears Roman’s chair scraping into place, he forces himself to stand on exhausted legs.

    Once he sees Logan steady on his feet, Roman shouts, “dibs on the bed!” and runs for the door. Logan offers a half-hearted wave to Remy before trudging after Roman, wincing against the ringing bell. Sure, the tea was good, but it does absolutely nothing to help his flagging energy.

    “Why would I ever want to take your bed over the couch?” Logan mutters, barely stifling a yawn as he slides into Roman’s bright red car. “Moreover, you knew it was supposed to rain today. Why on earth did you not close your windows?”

    “Because I like how it looks better with the windows down.”

    “I want to make sure that you are aware that we are currently sitting on wet leather, and that your steering wheel is drenched beyond belief. Are you aware that we are currently sitting on wet leather, and that your steering wheel is drenched beyond belief?”

    “I am aware of whatever it is you just said. Now be quiet, I can’t have you talking if I want to see the road.” Logan doesn’t bother to explain just how many levels of incorrect that is, instead reclining in the passenger seat and removing his glasses to watch the lights float by in blurry spirals of red and yellow. “So how ’bout that new guy?”

    “What, the one that Remy assigned a mug to based on first sight? Yeah, no, just another guest. What about him?”

    “Well, super cute, for one, and you’ll never believe this, but he actually works at—” Roman cuts himself off, glancing at a very much asleep Logan. “Alright, fine, I won’t tell you. Let you work it out for yourself.” With that, Roman turns up the radio and hums along quietly, careful to keep the noise low, to let Logan rest. Until tomorrow, at least, when Roman has every intention of screwing with his friends’ love life.

    Come on, you’ve gotta let Roman have some fun.

---------------

    “Ma’am, I’m sorry, we really don’t have blond espresso beans here, and we don’t have blond roast, and we don’t have decaf roast, as our shipment doesn’t come in ’til tomorrow. Is there anything else we can help you with?” To tell the truth, it is taking every single miniscule last ounce of willpower for Virgil not to vault over this counter and punch the very nice lady in the face.

    “Okay, but could you just do a blond pour over?” The very nice lady seems to be getting very agitated, but Virgil very much does not care. “Like, I get that you don’t have blond roast brewed, but I’m willing to wait for a while for a pour over.”

    Virgil is incredibly close to having to physically restrain himself from saying you’ll have to wait until tomorrow, since that’s when your stupid shipment will come in. Instead, he continues, “Sorry, no, we can’t do that. No blond roast beans.”

    “Yeah, but I’m not asking for blond roast beans. I am asking for a blond pour over.”

    “Pour over machine’s broke,” Virgil finally sighs. Yeah, sure, it just takes a small filter and some hot water, but he doesn’t have the patience for this person, much less to find any missing blond beans. So. Broken and nonexistent machine.

    “Oh, well that’s perfectly understandable!” the very nice lady says. “I’ll just take a medium blond roast, then.”

    Virgil leans over to grab Kim’s shoulder, pulling her closer to hiss in her ear, “if there are any hammers in here, you need to find and hide them immediately, because it will end up inside of this lady’s skull, and it will then find mine in quick succession. Fix her situation, I’ll catch up on the hot bar drinks.” Kim nods quickly, and Virgil is half-convinced that she thinks he’s serious. Maybe he is.

    Nonetheless, he moves past her for the mastrena machine, praying for the end of his shift to come quickly and with reckless abandon. It does not.

    “Grande affogato vanilla bean frap for Jenna?” he calls, handing off the espresso-drenched smoothie. “Thanks, have a nice day.” She probably says something or other about him having a good one,  but Virgil doesn’t even bother pretending to care, already busying himself with the next drink. “Couldn’t’ve possibly picked a better day to start grinding beans slower,” he mutters, wincing against the comparatively louder screams from steaming coconut milk. Of literally all the times for the mastrena to decide that it was being too efficient with the espresso, this is the worst time imaginable—smack dab in the middle of a rush of people, none of whom understand the concept of ‘not having blond espresso.’

    “Venti iced americano in a trenta cup with extra ice for Matthias?”

    The end of his shift literally cannot come fast enough.

    “Okay, dude, I’m really trying here, but I have absolutely no idea what this says,” Virgil informs Kim, showing her the illegible box on the cup. “You need to write the order down, and when you do, you need to make it possible for the most basic computer to decipher.”

    “It’s a salted caramel mocha with two extra shots and almond milk instead of two percent for Tommy,” Kim says. It does not slip Virgil’s notice that she has to squint incredibly close at the cup for a solid five seconds to figure out what it says.

    “Awesome. Great. Try to write it more neatly next time, yeah?” Finding a rare moment of gratefulness for his constantly cold hands, Virgil presses a frozen finger to his temple as he waits for the machine to finish rinsing. Is his shift over yet?

    Miracle of miracles, his boss, Anne, pops her head around the corner of the bar. “Hey, Virge, call for you guys, I’m covering food av, can you take it?” Virgil plasters a fake smile on his face and nods, neglecting to comment on how he never agreed to that nickname as he accepts the phone.

“Gainesville Starbucks north, this is Kim speaking, how can I help you?”

“Breakfast sandwiches.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Breakfast. Sandwiches.”

“I, ah, I apologize, I’m unclear what you’re asking me.”

“Breakfast sandwiches! You got any?”

“Oh! Yes, um, we’ve got tomato mozzarella paninis, sausage egg and cheddar sandwiches, ham and cheese croissants, turkey basil—and they hung up. Cool.” Virgil nods at the dial tone coming from his hand, quirking his mouth to the side. “Just, uh, just gonna stick that right down there.” Dropping the phone on a nearby counter, he returns to the hot bar, where Kim is absolutely drowning in the chaos she caused by sucking so much.

“Virge? Seriously?”

“If you even think about calling me that, I am going to go find that hammer I was talking about and bury it in your spine.” Kim pulls her lips between her teeth and nods, turning back to the register. Sniffing twice, Virgil tops off the next round of drinks. “Salted caramel mocha, two extra shots and almond milk for Tommy?”

“Hey, Virge, over here,” Anne calls again. “Need to see you for a sec.” Virgil bites back a relieved huff for the break from Kim, instead settling for a long exhale through his nose. No, he doesn’t really care for the nickname, but he’ll suffer through it for a brief reprieve like this.

“What’s up?” he asks, leaning over the swinging door. “’Nother phone call?”

“No, it’s just—you’ve got a lot of overtime, you know that?” Virgil glances back at Kim, who is currently occupied with trying to find the serious strawberry frappuccino button.

“Frapp creme, second row, last on the right,” he calls, taking great pride in how he doesn’t roll his eyes at her. Turning back to Anne, he continues, “yeah, I kind of have to have a lot, since she’s kind of, you know…” Virgil trails off, hoping Anne is enough on his page to fill in the blanks.

“Drowning? Yeah, I noticed. You’re doing a great job carrying her, you know that?”

Virgil pokes a tongue against his cheek, unsure how to respond. “I mean, I’ve only been here a couple months.”

“You’re really doing great. Anyway, too much overtime for you, and we aren’t supposed to be letting team members have any overtime. You think you’d be good to head home early?”

“There’s nothing that would make me happier, but are you sure she’ll be okay with this on her own?”

“Definitely not, which is why I’m here. I’ll relieve your position, but you need to get going, like, now.” If Virgil were a more confident person, he would take Anne by both hands and press them to his lips in a show of relieved thankfulness. As it stands, he snaps and offers her a pair of finger guns, skirting the swinging door and making a run for the break room before Anne can change her mind.

“No human has ever existed with a better soul than Anne,” he murmurs, punching out faster than he’d ever done so before. There’s a certain cafe he’s interested in getting to a little earlier today.

In his car, Virgil hisses lightly as he scrapes his bare wrist against the scalding metal of the seat belt buckle. Now safely secured and ready to go, he queues up the route to the cafe on his maps, bopping his head along as a song starts up on the radio. Skip, skip, skip, skip, skip, he chants in his head, getting through a solid twenty songs on shuffle before finding one he likes.

The lights of the streets, not yet bright as they battle the sun for dominance over the mid-afternoon sky, pepper the sidewalks with golden flecks between the cracks of beige and white. Virgil tilts his head to avoid the glare of the light reflecting in his eyes, skipping through his chosen song before it’s over. As he flicks on his indicator to pull into the cafe’s parking lot, he belatedly wonders whether the owners will start to think he’s weird for showing up this often. Especially that Remy guy, what was his deal?

This worry chases him past several traffic lights and more than a few disconcertingly fast drivers, right up to pulling into the same parking spot as yesterday—decently far from the doors, but not so far that it’d be a hassle to get there if he happened to be holding seven cups of coffee. He shifts into reverse, triple-checking that he’s perfectly within the lines before parking the car and sliding out.

A cold breeze swipes over his face, startlingly out of place in the mid-June heat. Were it not for this abnormality giving him pause, maybe he would’ve gotten inside safely without drawing the attention of the silver car careening into the parking lot. It beeps brightly as it pulls into the furthest spot from the door, spitting out a driver dressed in bright blues and pale greys.

“Virge, hey, you made it! I was wondering whether you’d ever listened to my suggestions!” he calls, running over to Virgil and ignoring how his loose sleeves smack against his chin. “Find your way okay?”

“I mean, I’m here, so I guess I did.” Virgil shrugs, electing not to comment on the forbidden nickname that he would punch Kim in the face for using again. “And anyway, I always listen to your suggestions. Come here, try your usual—not a fan, by the way—and call you Pat. I’m not really one for nicknames, either, so I’d rather stick with Patton, if that’s okay with you.”

“Whatever makes you happiest!” Patton replies, taking Virgil by the hand and swinging it violently as he leads the barista inside. “So did you get to meet the owner yet, or is this your first time? I can introduce you to—”

“Pantone!” Remy exclaims, vaulting over the register counter to greet Patton. Virgil steps aside, bumping into someone’s shoulders and muttering his apologies as they leave. “I haven’t seen you around here in forever, what the heck, man? Hanging around with the cutest riffraff in town, I see.” Virgil scowls, moving for the register and scanning his eyes over the menus. Handwritten in white chalk, they look much more personal than the ones at Starbucks. Maybe not very colorful, but nice enough.

“Remy, how many times have I told you not to let any part of your body make contact with that counter? It doesn’t know where you’ve been,” someone scolds from a nearby table. The same person Ho Man and Remy were tormenting yesterday. Remy ignores them, still chatting up a storm with Patton. The person sighs, pushing back from a table covered in loose papers and moving to the register.

Virgil sizes them up as they walk, inspecting their carefully strict gait, the tie cinched perfectly around their neck, the strict khakis with only the most uniform of creases. If Virgil didn’t know better, he’d swear they were going out for a job interview at some craphole like Starbucks.

“Sorry about Remy. Little brothers, what can I do, right? What can I get started for you?” Virgil doesn’t answer, his gaze fixated on a speck of dirt marring their sharp glasses. They blink, waiting patiently and having no idea of where Virgil’s attention is directed.

Ho Man appears from around the corner, where only a few other patrons occupy the tables overlooking the windows. “Hey, it’s you! Logan, buddy, he was the guy here yesterday, the one Remy gave the wrong mug to! Wrong mug guy, this is Logan, he runs this joint!”

“Wrong mug?” Virgil repeats.

“Wrong mug,” the new person—Logan, apparently—confirms. “We carefully select mugs based on the person they go to, rather than selecting one at random like Remy does. He refuses to learn the process behind choosing mugs, so whatever he hands you, it’s probably wrong.”

“Sounds about right,” Virgil agrees, glancing back at Remy and Patton, both of whom are staring at him and giggling.

“So what can I get started for you?” Logan repeats. Virgil cocks his head to the side, considering Logan for a long moment.

“Surprise me.” Logan’s steely expression lightens for the briefest of seconds, revealing a soft grin and bright eyes. It vanishes as quickly as it came.

“I’ll have that right out for you.”

Virgil offers a small smile in return, passing over a five dollar bill and waving off Logan as he tries to hand him his change. “Just keep it.”

“We really don’t do tips—”

“Just. Keep it.” Virgil slips around the bar and moves for his seat from yesterday, tucking his legs under himself and watching Remy nudge Patton repeatedly. After a solid few bumps to the back, Patton stumbles forward, bumping into Ho Man as he curbs around the bar to straighten the creamer cart. Distracted by the way Patton’s hands flutter around his face as he talks to Ho Man, Virgil hardly notices Logan until he’s positioned himself in the empty seat across from him.

“Drink it first, then tell me what you think it is.” Logan pushes a mug across the table toward Virgil, careful to keep the motion near the bottom so it doesn’t splash. Unlike the cup covered in cups from yesterday, this one is something Virgil might actually consider stealing, if they hadn’t drained the excitement of doing so by explicitly allowing thievery.

Midnight blue and splattered with tiny white dots, this mug looks to be plucked straight from the heavens themselves. The inside offers a pale blue to offset the darkness folding in at the rim, enveloping the top of the drink’s meniscus in hues to rival the sky. Virgil traces a finger over some of the constellations skirting the outside—bright enough against the blue to be recognizable, but not going so far as to connect the dots with garish straight lines. All in all, a good mug. Maybe he will steal it.

Virgil takes a long, slow pull from the cup, pretending to be deep in thought as Logan stares unabashedly into his eyes. He holds the mug over his mouth a few seconds later, waiting for the flush in his cheeks to subside. Why couldn’t Logan have been the one to take his order yesterday?

Virgil lowers the mug, licking away the drink moustache on his upper lid and pulling his tongue back in with a pop. “First guess?”

“First guess.”

“Green tea latte.”

Logan grins, rapping the table three times. “Nailed it.”

“It’s ’cause I’m a genius,” Virgil says, lifting the mug once more. This Logan guy might keep some strange company, but he can make a mean green tea latte. “Eleven out of ten, would order again.”

“That’s an improper fraction,” Logan mutters, but there’s a gleam dancing behind his eyes. The bell chimes over the door, drawing Virgil’s attention to where Ho Man and Patton look to be in a particularly compromising position. With Patton flattened against the door and Ho Man hovering closer than necessary, Virgil can only watch as Remy appears out of nowhere, shoving Ho Man forward without warning. Logan releases a breathy laugh as he watches the debacle—moreover, as he watches Ho Man thrust his hands out to brace himself on the wall, as well as caging Patton in around the shoulders by doing so. If this were a romance movie, they’d probably start kissing right about now.

As it is, Ho Man stammers out some excuse, cheeks almost as red as the roses smattered his white shirt. Patton only smiles back widely, not moving from the wall. If Virgil didn’t know better, he’d swear his eyes were delirious. Maybe he doesn’t know better.

“I see you understand the nonsense I’m forced to endure around here,” Logan says. “With Roman being a flirt and Remy being the charming everyman, I do pretty much everything myself. Any tips on how to better survive it?”

Virgil blinks, unsure why Logan decided to dump all this on him. At least he knows what Ho Man’s actual name is now. Full disclosure, Virgil’s gonna miss calling him Ho Man. “I don’t know that I’m your best bet for help running a small coffee shop.”

Logan huffs something close to a laugh, gnawing on the corner of his lip. “Not a problem, I’m just uncertain where to go from here, and they’re being of little help. All they’ve done is force me to get sleep and toss a couple papers about pride at me, and that’s hardly a reliable way of forming a more successful business.”

“Sleep is important,” Virgil says. “I can’t speak from experience, but I’ve heard a lot of people say so.” Still midway through processing Logan’s words, his mind catches on a certain piece of information. “Did you say papers about pride?”

“Indeed, Roman thinks I ought to spruce the place up for pride month, and he’s even managed to pull Remy into the idea. You’re welcome to help, if you want to, but there’s no obligation on your end.”

“Sounds fun,” Virgil admits, raising the cup again and startling himself as he finds it empty. “I’ll take a look, if you want to show me those papers. Oh, by the way, my name is Virgil, in case I haven’t said that yet.”

“Virgil,” Logan repeats, testing the word and rolling it around his mouth. He peels his lower lip out slowly, savoring the V, puckering his lips out around the R and letting his tongue hesitate against his teeth on the L. “It’s a pleasure. I’m sure one of the other two said it at some point or another, but I’m Logan.”

“Logan,” Virgil confirms. “So, Logan, about those pride papers and this empty mug?”

Logan stands, somehow managing not to scrape his chair as he pushes it back. Virgil attempts a similarly graceful move, wincing at the grating sound of metal on tile. “Let me get that mug from you and I’ll fill you up—do not even think about handing me another five, this one is on the house, and I am returning your three dollars and fifty cents at my first opportunity. These papers, disorganized and chaotic as they are, are the only things we’ve got in the way of ideas to drum up more business.”

Virgil seats himself at the cluttered table, grabbing a sheet at random and letting the distant clanks of Logan behind the bar fill his head. Stuff about colored whipped cream—probably too expensive, not to mention non-vegan friendly, and powdered sugar colors—kind of similar to Starbucks with their colored drink gimmicks, which doesn’t seem like Logan’s style. He pauses on the mention of white fairy lights, glancing around the room and imagining how they might look framing the windows. Maybe a little too winter-holiday for mid June, but the tackiness could very well add to the overall charm of the place. Certainly a warmth that overcrowded Starbucks stores could never hope to have. Or they could line the windows in different colors, if Logan really does want to keep with the whole pride thing, or else—

“Try that, tell me what you think,” Logan says, plunking the blue mug on one of very few clear spaces between the papers. Virgil complies, poking his tongue at a crooked front tooth as he considers the flavor.

“Tastes like cinnamon, but that’s all I’ve got.”

“Cinnamon and almond milk latte, one of our most popular drinks,” Logan confirms.

“You don’t get called out for it being too similar to the one Starbucks does?” Logan goes deathly still, an expression somewhere between fury and shock freezing on his face.

“We are nothing like Starbucks here, and I’m going to pretend you didn’t just compare me to that steaming pile of garbage.” Virgil nods, deciding this probably isn’t the best time to inform Logan about his own line of work. “Anything good come out of that disaster?”

“Maybe.” Virgil takes another swig from his mug, running his tongue over his lips and humming to himself. “The colored powders and whipped creams seem kind of impractical, but the lights and quiet-hour thing doesn’t seem to bad. You could do soft pastels for a warmer tone around the room as a whole, and different colors around each window to fit pride month. I don’t know about open mic, since that’s a lot to organize, but maybe use that empty corner on the other side of the door for some little bookshelves and comfy chairs, have a chill zone when the lights go down and the moon comes up? Oh, and this is definitely just a suggestion, so you don’t, like, have to do it, or anything like that, but it might be cool if you changed up the colors of your menu signs, so they weren’t all just white and plain. You could do one board in blue and purple and pink for bi, and another in purple and yellow and white for nonbinary, and another in pink and yellow and blue for pan, and then do a bunch of little drink drawings on all of them in every color to represent gay pride as a whole?” Virgil bites his lip, suddenly realizing that Logan is staring intently at him. Again.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—I mean, I wasn’t trying to—you don’t have to do all that, obviously, and it’s not like I’m forcing you to, and I wasn’t trying to—” Virgil cuts himself off, ducking his head down and hiding his face behind his mug.

“No, no, that’s great, really, I love those ideas,” Logan stammers, waving his hands frantically to shake away Virgil’s hesitation. “They’re splendid, exactly what I was looking for.” Virgil nods quickly, not coming out from behind his mug. Logan places a hesitant hand on Virgil’s shoulder, trying to offer some semblance of comfort. Against his own volition, Virgil leans into the touch, tilting his head toward Logan’s knuckles before he can stop himself. The moment his ear grazes the back of Logan’s hand, he jerks out of the seat, spilling the rest of his mug all over his work-mandated khakis.

“Oh, jeez, oh man, I mean, shoot, crap, okay, I just, I’m just gonna go,” Virgil rambles, stumbling for the door and clutching his unwittingly emptied mug tightly in his shaking fingers. Before Logan can even think about calling after him, he’s behind the wheel of his car and careening out of the parking lot, already berating himself for being such a dork.

---------------

“Where’d Wrong Mug Man go?” Remy asks, popping his head over the bar as he pauses midway through restocking the milk fridge. “Scare him off with your utter lack of charm and cold exterior?”

“A little too on the nose,” Roman calls out from his usual spot in the corner. Well, not ‘usual,’ per se—Roman can barely tolerate staying in the same place for more than a week before moving on for bigger, better seating options. He’s had much the same opinion regarding boys for as long as Logan can remember, and the selection of the week seems to be Patton on the windowsill with the Toy Story clouds mug. Practically a real-life version of Clue, with romantic motives to boot.

Remy finger guns at Roman and ducks back down to finish with the fridge. Logan blinks, the exchange flying past him as he tries to come up with a reason for Virgil’s sudden disappearance. The first person to choose his flatter tones over his brother’s exuberance, and they run away like an owl from a forest fire in the middle of Canada.

Logan has never been one for analogies.

He reaches across the counter, startling Remy in the process as he grabs for a clean rag and sanitizing spray. In no less than five minutes, the spilled latte is gone without a trace. At least Virgil took the mug with him—if nothing else, he’ll come back to return it. Maybe even to use it for that discount—not that Logan would charge him. Virgil doesn’t seem like the type to acquiesce not to pay, but Logan is the owner, so what’s to stop him from making every drink free for the short instances when Virgil shows up?

“Roman,” Logan says, “what are the odds you have some colored chalk you don’t need?”

“Fifteen out of three,” Roman calls back, not looking up from the phone tucked in his lap. Across from him, Patton mirrors the position, curled into the corner of the windowsill—not strictly a real seat, but they both seem to be making do well enough.

“So five?”

“You know that’s not what I meant. I’ve got, like, a whole crate full of art supplies that I can’t use, because someone told me not to pursue my lifelong dream of becoming the next Leonardo Dicaprio.”

“Da Vinci. And I would hardly phrase it like that—I merely suggested that, were you to aim for realism, it might be wise to avoid giving your elephants tails for trunks and trunks for tails.”

“Stop stifling my creative energy!”

“Stop stifling his creative energy,” Patton echoes. Oddly enough, Logan doesn’t feel that familiar urge to roll his eyes as he watches Roman glance up from under a curtain of bangs, staring at an oblivious Patton. He’s never looked at one of his weekly obsessions like that before. Or maybe he has, Logan doesn’t pay very much attention to that sort of thing.

“The point being, you do have colorful chalk, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because I need some. Bring it in with you tomorrow, if you would be so kind.”

For reasons Logan doesn’t care to puzzle out, Roman tumbles off the windowsill, jumping to his feet and brushing off his knees as he rushes to Logan’s side. “Or,” he whispers excitedly, bouncing on his toes and waving his hands around his face, “I could run home and get them now! I could even go out to a store, buy more stuff you didn’t know you needed, spruce the whole place up! Patton could come with me!”

Patton’s head perks up at this revelation, and he pockets his phone before joining the other two. Even Remy leans over the bar, half-intruding on the conversation as he waits for the next guest to decide what they want. Logan crosses his arms, considering Roman’s eagerness.

“You know very well that I don’t trust you to decorate my cafe to your tastes, much less on your own dime.” Glancing at the menus in plain black and white, Logan does have to admit they look, well, plain. Boring. Virgil wasn’t wrong when he said they might look better with more colors. And yes, Logan would greatly prefer having Virgil here to coach him on how to properly execute the pride color schemes—Logan’s never been one for art—but Patton doesn’t seem totally hopeless. “Tell you what. I’ll close up early tonight, and us three can all go out and stock up on decorations. Keep the place closed tomorrow, and we’ll plan out how to make it look best to ramp up business.”

“Excuse you,” Remy cuts in, “but I think you mean us four. Don’t go excluding me from the party.”

“Who said you were invited?” Logan retorts. Roman stifles a snort behind his fist as Patton’s jaw drops in startlingly believable dismay.

“Logan! We have to take Remy with us, he brings half the fun! It wouldn’t be as exciting without him there!”

“Who said I wanted it to be exciting?” Logan mutters to himself, shooting a quick look toward the back of the cafe. Pretty empty, save for a couple patrons here and there nursing at their personal mugs. Casting his eyes to the ceiling, Logan pulls in a long breath through his nose, blowing it out through his lips and wondering why Virgil couldn’t be here to endure this nonsense with him. Immediately thereafter, he wonders why he wonders that. He didn’t even know Virgil’s name yesterday, why is he so set on having him here now?

Remy and Patton’s hopeful expressions drag him back to the moment—specifically, the moment where Logan is being forced to take three overgrown toddlers on a shopping spree to decorate the building that makes up his entire livelihood. No pressure.

“I am definitely going to regret this,” Logan sighs. Pretending as if he hadn’t said that, he continues, “fine, I guess Remy can accompany us. No candy, though—we don’t need to be buying food when we already have some upstairs.”

“Aha, but I have tips!” Remy declares, shaking a paper cup full of coins. “I’m gonna buy so many peanuts with these.”

“Explain how,” Roman says.

“Do not explain how,” Logan says. Not allowing either of them the chance to finish their charade, Logan turns to Patton. “You walked in with Virgil, didn’t you? Do you two know each other?”

“Something like that. I’m a frequent customer where he works.” This catches Logan’s attention. A direct pipeline to the owl that got away.

Again, Logan has never been one for analogies.

“Where does he work?”

A mischievous glint takes residence in Patton’s eye as he nudges Roman’s shoulder.  The latter snickers quietly, nudging right back as the former gets out between giggles, “that’s just something you’re gonna have to figure out on your own. The answer will shock you.”

“If he works as a clickbait journalist for Buzzfeed, I am banning both you and him from this establishment.”

“He does not work as a clickbait journalist for Buzzfeed, but you’ll never guess what he does instead!” Roman hisses in an action-star voice. “This summer, coming directly to your screens, and coming soon to own on video and DVD—” He drops his tone to an impossibly deep register while ramping up his volume, drawing the attention of pretty much everyone in the room. Patton and Remy join in on the tagline, both yelling at the top of their lungs.

“Are you quite finished?” Logan asks, wholly unimpressed. Having failed to get so much as a huff of acknowledgement, the other three sigh dejectedly and nod. “Good. Remy, finish cleaning up behind the bar. Roman, can you wipe down the tables and start stacking chairs? Patton, I know you don’t work here, but—”

“On it,” Patton interrupts, already moving toward the back to gently rouse the student that fell asleep doing their homework at a table. Morally, Logan has no problem letting people stay as long as they like, even if they don’t buy anything, but it’s a little more difficult to be lenient about that sort of thing when he’s closing up the cafe. He turns his attention back to the papers scattered across the table as the other three flit about their respective tasks, and wonders whether Virgil might try to come back tomorrow. If they close the cafe for renovations, would he even get out of his car? Or would the lack of business  and other patrons scare him off? Maybe Logan should position the other three at various seats in the back as he does all the work himself, making it look like he kept the place open so Virgil would still come in, without being terribly obvious about that being his goal all along. Of course, that brings up the inevitable he knows that I know that he knows situation, but it’s not as if—

“Hello? Earth to Logan? Paging alien squadron fleet two K four one nine oh?” Roman waves a hand in front of Logan’s face, pulling him out of his head. Before him is the only unwashed table in the cafe, still littered with papers that have yet to be picked up. The  only page that managed to find its way into Logan’s arms is the one Virgil was talking about when he made additional suggestions. Logan blinks, gathers up the rest in a haphazard bundle, and steps back to let Roman finish his cleaning.

“Can I drive?” Remy asks. He slides around the bar, dusting his hands off on his pants and tossing a dirty rag over the lip of the sink.

“We need to get you an apron,” Logan replies absently, eyeing the gathering dirt stains on Remy’s thighs.

“I didn’t hear a no!” Remy singsongs, tilting his head to lean against Logan’s shoulder. The top of the mess of hair tickles along the crook where his jaw meets his earlobe, and Logan blinks as his mind unhelpfully conjures an image of Virgil in the same position under a blanket of stars. Where on Earth did that come from?

“No, you cannot drive. Give me Roman’s car keys.”

Roman emits an unholy shriek, somewhere between miffed and scandalized that Remy had managed to steal the keys to his soccer mom car. Granted, those things basically live in various spots around the cafe as it is, but still. Groaning in a pitiful attempt at getting sympathy, Remy tosses the jingling chain to Logan, who snatches them out of the air with ease. Before the owner of said keys can protest, Logan passes them on to him, biting back a laugh as Roman instinctively ducks.

“Hey! No dangerous projectiles in the house!” Roman whines. The keys hit the door and clatter to the tiles below.

“Not a house, and you don’t make the rules here, anyway.” Logan wisely keeps his gaze elsewhere as Patton makes his way to the door, grabbing the keys to pass them to Roman. Of course, the windows are reflective surfaces—this unfortunate reality fails to protect Logan from having to see how Patton’s hand lingers a moment too long on Roman’s. Honestly, the whole point of looking away was to not have to deal with their nonsense in the first place. “Let’s go.”

Lingering at the back of the group, Logan lets the other three exit before him, double- and triple-checking that everything is off, unplugged, cleaned up, closed, and generally in various states of presentable. The last thing he needs right now is for his life’s savings to literally go up in flames. Well, not his life’s savings. He’s got some common sense—everything he hasn’t spent is carefully accumulating interest in various reputable banks. So. The expendable portion of his life’s savings. That’s what he doesn’t want to go up in flames.

“What happened to ‘let’s go,’ sonny boy?” Roman calls, popping his head back in the door and making the bell chime. Logan tilts his head, wondering if anyone would ever question why he picked that bell in particular to greet his guests.

“I’m older than you.”

“Patton dared me to call you kiddo, but I thought mine was funnier,” Roman admits.

“I’m older than Patton, too.”

“You didn’t even tell me Patton’s name until last week!”

“Ever heard of barista-guest confidentiality?”

“No, because it doesn’t exist. Now hurry up and get in the car, or we’re tying you to the roof and I’m letting Patton use the backseat as his own personal lounge area.”

Tossing a sigh to the ceiling and casting one last glance at the way his cafe was always meant to be—before everyone else barges in to redecorate for him—Logan follows Roman out.

He slides into the back on the passenger’s side, not voicing his apprehension at Patton taking the front seat. That’s Remy’s seat, he thinks. Remy doesn’t seem to mind, though, already pressing his nose to the window and bouncing on the worn cushion.

“Seatbelt,” Logan reminds his brother—and the car as a whole, he supposes, as even Roman jolts to comply. “I am hereby imposing a price limit of one hundred dollars on this excursion. Anything over that will be coming off of your dime.”

“I don’t even—” Roman begins, but Logan isn’t having any of it.

“I know, I know, you don’t even work for me, but if you want to? And you want to help, shall we say, ‘spruce up the place,’ you will refrain from exceeding my budget, lest you pay the overages.”

    “If we go to the place on the corner of Eighth and Main, I’ve got an employee discount for ten percent,” Patton offers.

    “By the Texaco?” Roman punches the coordinates into the car, tapping his foot impatiently as Siri attempts to connect with his dwindling internet connection.

    “You really ought to know your way around the town by now,” Logan opines. “You’ve been to the Texaco more times than Remy’s flirted with my guests.”

    “Shut up, Logan!” Remy hisses. Were his face not pressed against the window and his shoulders hunched defensively, Logan is certain his comment would be rewarded with cheeks glittering ruby.

    “Got it!” Roman exclaims, punching the roof. “And I refilled the tank a couple days ago, which means no gas money going into this excursion! Can I get a what what?”

    “You cannot,” Logan says.

    “What what,” Patton agrees.

    “Plus,” Roman continues, shifting into drive and doing a mediocre job of backing away from the building, “with the discount, just think of how much more stuff we can get!”

    “Yay.” Logan has never known his own voice to be more flat. He glances up just in time to see Patton shoot him an apologetic look, mouthing the word sorry. He smiles as he does it, though, so Logan isn’t completely convinced of Patton’s regret.

    The excited conversation of the other three fills up the car as Logan lets his gaze drift out the window, watching the bright greens of summer flash by in bursts between the blemishes of humanity’s invasion upon the world. Traffic lights, street signs, lampposts, telephone lines, couches at curbs, discarded plastic bags, crushed coffee cups, dead patches of grass, cracked squares of concrete, buildings crawling for the skies and stretching to escape the natural world without which they could never dream of existing.

    Logan does not particularly care for the overdevelopment of what used to be a homey nook of nature around his cafe. He can hardly see the stars at night anymore, what with all the city lights pulling his eyes to the ground.

    “Beep beep!” Roman announces, punching the roof again before slipping out of the car.  Logan blinks, suddenly realizing they’d already arrived at the store. Time to suffer.

    “One hundred dollars,” he reminds the others. His words fall on deaf ears as they all sprint for the doors, chattering excitedly amongst themselves about color schemes and bargaining and how to make the most of spending every last dime they can squeeze out of Logan’s pockets. More to himself than anyone else, he murmurs, “I bet Virgil would understand the significance of imposing a spending limit before getting surprised with an obscenely high total crowning the receipt.”

    “Come on,” Remy groans, doubling back to grab Logan’s wrist. Patton and Roman have already vanished, probably traipsing through the birthday party aisles for decoration ideas. “At least pretend you’re having fun, yeah? Show some enthusiasm for Virgil’s ideas, I bet he’d love that.”

    “When did he tell you his name?”

    “He didn’t. You used it when you asked Patton where he worked.”

    “Where does he work?”

    “If you push the price limit up to two fifty, maybe I’ll tell you.”

    “Maybe I’ll stop letting you accept tips.”

    Remy’s eyes widen slightly at that, and he wobbles on his toes before running the rest of the way to the door, waving his hands over his head. “La la la, I can’t hear you, I’m too fast for the sound barrier to keep up!”

    “That’s not how—oh, whatever,” Logan mutters. Hands in his pockets, he dips a chin to the greeters just inside the door and maintains a leisurely pace, waiting for his friends to reveal themselves. Admittedly, he’s a little impressed when he sees them next—they’ve managed to avoid getting covered in streamers and sparkles. So far, at least. Unfortunately for Logan, the night is still young.

    “Hey, what about these?” Patton asks, grabbing a pack of pride-themed playing cards from an end cap display.

    “How are those supposed to drum up business?”

    Patton shrugs, turning the cards over in his hand. “I dunno, they just look neat.”

    “Make it a puzzle,” Roman suggests, picking up a matching set. “Have different fun facts about pride history written on cards from one set, but keep out a piece of important information. Someone finds a card and can tell you the answer without having to look it up, they get a card from the deck you didn’t write on. Get a full suit, get a prize. Maybe they get all the diamonds, then they get to name a drink after themselves. Get all the hearts, they can save ten cents instead of five.”

    Logan has to admit, it isn’t the worst idea Roman’s ever come up with. The worst was probably that time with the stuffed sheep, the empty ramen cup, and the half-eaten ring pop. He shudders at the memory before relenting. “How much for a pack?”

    Patton glances at the sticker on the side, sucks a sharp inhale through his teeth, and sets the deck back where he found it. “More than it’s worth, even with the discount. Come on, I know where the shelf is for stuff we’re trying to get rid of. It’s hidden in the back so we can make more money, but who ever had fun paying full price?”

    “I did, back when it meant doing less damage to my cafe,” Logan grumbles. Nevertheless, he follows dutifully behind, stifling a snort as Roman grabs Patton’s hand and they skip—literally skip—down the aisles. Every few steps, one yanks the other to a stop, cooing over some toy or game meant to catch the eye of passing toddlers. Remy’s eyes sparkle, and he leans over to Logan when he thinks the other two aren’t listening.

    “You know,” he whispers, “I like this one a lot more than Roman’s other flings.”

    “They’ve barely been talking for more than a few days,” Logan retorts, careful to keep his voice low. “You cannot place all your eggs in the basket when the eggs don’t even exist yet.”

    “You lost me, but seriously, bro, look at them.” Tutting to himself, Logan watches the way Roman’s eyes catch on Patton more often than they catch on bargain bin attractions. “You can’t honestly expect me to believe you don’t see it.”

    “That’s hardly any of my business. All I care about is how much they’re making me spend. And what did I tell you about that ridiculous nickname? It isn’t even original.”

    “Nothing’s original, not even originality,” Remy fires back. “A redux of something that already exists is way more fun than not doing it in the first place. Or would you rather have me tell Virgil the real reason you opened up the cafe?”

    Logan yanks Remy to a stop by the neck of his shirt, balling the fabric up in his fists. “If you do that, then so help me, I will have you shipped back home faster than you can spit out that infernal nickname, and you will never set foot in my cafe again.” Remy blinks, laughs, and bops Logan’s nose.

    “I bet Virgil would think you’re cute when you get all angry like that.”

    “That’s not—I don’t—shut up!” Logan sputters. The epitome of elegance.

    When Logan’s first instinct upon releasing Remy is to wonder whether Virgil would think he looked cute like that, he knows he is well and truly screwed.

    Elegance, indeed.

---------------

    Virgil’s current favorite shift is opening. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he shows up at the ass crack of dawn for work. A solid hour by himself to get the bar set up to his liking, to work in silence without worrying about angry guests, and the knowledge that he’ll be out by noon. The turning stomach of too little sleep is certainly less than ideal, but he’s lying to himself about liking being here this early. Cut him some slack.

    “Just fire her already,” he mutters to himself, moving faster than he’d like to as he restocks the pastries. Not for the first time, Natalia closed last night, and she never does any of the shift’s duties right. Case in point, the expired pastries still being in the serving zone. The milk fridge being barren. Having less than three whips. Forgetting the refresher shaker lid in the washing machine—still dirty, mind you. Not wiping down the tables before stacking the chairs. Not washing the half and half from the little cart. A quick sniff reveals the insides to be well past curdled.

    You know, maybe Virgil just wants to gripe in general about the incompetence of his fellow team members, and it really has nothing to do with the quality of his workplace experience.

    Or it could be that he’s still reeling from the ridiculous note he left Logan on yesterday. That is a very strong possibility.

    Glancing at the clock on the register he has yet to open, Virgil weighs his options. He can either sprint for the milk fridge and pray there’s enough left to restock, or he can stay up here and try to straighten up the place for the off chance that corporate shows up and tears Anne a new one. Though he likes Anne well enough, he’d rather face the consequences of corporate’s wrath than deal with pissed-off customers who can’t have their precious two percent milk.

    Just his luck—the stock fridge is empty. This is the moment Virgil’s mind chooses to remind him that today is Monday, and that they’re supposed to be getting a shipment in later. So no half and half, no two percent, no heavy whipping cream, and an insatiable desire to go home before the whole ‘interacting with the public’ part of his shift has even started.

    As the clock ticks over to eight, his boss’s boss’s boss, Stephen, walks over with his usual fistful of crumpled singles. Virgil doesn’t even bother asking for his numbers, already keying in the discount and punching the order into the register. In the amount of time it takes him to start lingering on yesterday’s disaster, Stephen’s usual—grande mocha, no whip—is already done and gone. Whether this is because Virgil is fast with making drinks or because he’s very adamant about the masochism of reliving embarrassment is open for debate.

    Seriously, what was that? Logan puts a hand on his shoulder and gravity decides to be a little bitch, dragging Virgil’s head to the side to lean on a basic stranger? Naturally followed by the most logical reaction—dumping his entire drink all over himself. Yesterday was the first day he wore those pants after their wash, too; he can usually get three or four days out of a pair before they need to be cleaned. What a waste.

    One singular glimmer of positivity in the hellscape that is the opening shift, though, is how much faster it seems to go by on Mondays. When the mid shows up, they vanish to the back to take care of the order, so Virgil basically has the bar to himself for four hours, then the fifteen minutes of dealing with the other mid. All the better to suffer through his own blunders in peace.

    At least it’s a slower stream of guests.

    “I’ll take a trenta very berry, but with all the kinds of berries in it,” some guy with a greasy man bun says, strolling up and scrolling through his phone. Virgil nods, keying it in and going through the usual polite spiel while he waits for him to pay.

    “Anything else for you?”

    Man Bun glances up from texting, raking his eyes over the purple fading from Virgil’s bangs. “Yeah, can I also get extra blackberries—”

    “Sure.”

    “—and your number?”

    “No. Five twenty-nine.” Virgil turns his back to the register as Man Bun sets about dealing with his credit card, and wonders whether this guy’ll be a nuisance for him as he finishes the drink. “Trenta very berry, extra blackberries, have a good one.”

    Man Bun takes the cup, tearing off the straw wrapper and throwing it on the floor. Literally, the garbage can is, like, right there, dude. Don’t be an ass. “So I seriously don’t have a chance with you?”

    “Definitely not.”

    “What, are you not gay? I mean, with the hair, and with—”

    “I’m gay, just not for you. Have a good one.” To escape any further annoying questions, Virgil vanishes into the near back, organizing the drying dishes to wait out Man Bun. Once the coast is finally clear, Virgil returns to the bar, where Patton awaits with a bright grin. Fantastic.

    “Hi, Virge!” Patton calls, bouncing on his toes. He does a twirl to make sure no one else is in line behind him before propping his elbows on the counter and leaning in as if he were sharing a secret. “I’ll take a venti iced caramel mach-yeet-ato with an extra shot of eek-spresso, if you please.” With another spin, Patton nearly crashes to the floor, the weight of the bag on his back yanking him faster than he can recover from.

    “I got the yeet, but you’re gonna have to explain the eek bit.”

    “I want you to pull three shots like normal, but scream at the fourth one. Scare it into submission. Then I’ll drink it, and get the scared bean energy.”

    Virgil blinks, his pen hovering over the boxes on the side of the cup. “You. Want me. To scream at your espresso?”

    “Only the fourth one! I need the other three to be brave, so I can have the bravery in addition to the terror.”

Virgil opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and shakes his head. “Okay. Five thirty five.” Patton presses a ten across the counter, refusing as Virgil tries to pass back the change, and slides to the end of the bar before Virgil can force him to take his money. True to form, Patton leans over the counter to watch Virgil making the drink, scrutinizing the pouring shots. “You know,” Virgil remarks, “it’s faster to pull two and two shots than two and one and one.”

“Yeah, but then my drink would be half scared, and we can’t have that, now, can we?”

“I guess not. What if I just pull the last two into two separate cups, and apologize to one to get rid of the scared emotions?”

Patton quirks his mouth to the side and hums. “I guess that could work. Make sure the apology’s genuine though, so I can have some empathy in my drink, too. And you don’t have to actually scream at it, either—just rile it up a bit. Scare it into submission however you see fit.”

This was one of the worst possible things Patton could have told Virgil to do. The barista leans in as the second round of shots pours, putting his mouth as close to the cup as he dares. “I’m going to stand outside your house and chant ominously about your sins while pouring expired coffee grounds on your sidewalk, then I’m going to hack into your sims account, give everyone full autonomy, and age them up to the maximum elderly age possible. Sorry, other espresso—I promise your sims are safe and your sidewalk is clean. For now.”

Patton looks understandably disconcerted by the time Virgil has finished, although the latter isn’t completely convinced that what he said was necessarily scary. He hands off the drink, drenching it in far more caramel than necessary and leaving the lid off. With an unholy grin on his face, Patton brings the cup to his lips and swallows half the caramel drizzle before the scared espresso even has a chance to settle.

“So hey, are you coming by Logan’s cafe today?” Patton asks. Virgil glances at the clock—five more minutes, and no line to be seen. He swings around the bar to sit at one of the guest tables, pulling out a sharpie and setting about dating the pastries. Whoever the mid is, they didn’t bother to show up on time, so they certainly can’t be trusted to do something literally in their job description. “You kind of left in a hurry yesterday.”

“Yeah, no, I don’t need a repeat of that embarrassment. I’m just gonna go home and hide under a blanket.”

“What embarrassment? I think Logan liked talking to you, I bet he’d like to have you come back.”

“Definitely. I’m sure he’d adore talking to the guy who couldn’t even keep his drink in his mug, much less remember to leave the mug there.”

“Virge, that’s the point of the mug system. You weren’t supposed to leave the mug there.”

“It’s not the point of my system, though. Now I’m basically, like, obligated to go back and return the cup, if not use it for that discount. Not to mention—which I already did—how I literally dumped my drink all over myself. I do not want that to happen again.”

“So just don’t drop your drink, and it won’t happen again! Simple.”

“Oh, and I bet you’ll just go ahead and police Logan so he doesn’t touch my shoulder again, prompting the situation that drove me to run out in the first place.” At the way Patton’s eyes sparkle, Virgil rushes to backtrack. “Not that it meant anything! It just startled me, so I shook my hand and my drink spilled.” Virgil glances at the bar, but there’s still no guests appearing to save him from this disaster of his conversation. All the pastries are dated, too, so he doesn’t even have the excuse of occupying his hands. “I do not want to go back.”

Patton grins. “So you’re going back?”

Virgil throws his hands in the air and groans. “I’m going back.”

“Promise?” Holding back a sigh as Patton thrusts out a pinky, Virgil links it with his own.

“Promise.”

“Great! Because your shift just ended, and Logan’s keeping it closed for the day so he can do renovations. Just you, him, and a few other people for as long as we’re there, doing decorations and generally engaging in close teamwork. Forming bonds to last a lifetime.”

“You tricked me,” Virgil hisses. “You scheming snot.”

“But it worked, didn’t it? And oh, look, there’s your mid! Let’s leave.”

Virgil glares behind him, where Natalia is tying her impeccably clean apron around her waist and fastening the hat on her hair. The only reason her stupid apron is so clean is because she’s impossibly slow, so as not to get anything dirty. The one time he could use her tardiness to his advantage, too.

“Fine, whatever, give me five minutes to clock out and I’ll meet you back here.”

Patton takes another sip from his quarter-scared drink and nods. “But if you aren’t back within those five minutes, I’m gonna find your boss and file a missing team member report.”

“You don’t even work here.”

“You don’t even understand the extent of my relentless matchmaking skills.”

“Nor do I want to. See you in five.”

“Make it four.”

This is how Virgil finds himself begrudgingly driving toward Logan’s cafe, with Patton’s car hot on his heels. Clever enough, he supposes, since now there’s a literal heavy piece of machinery holding him accountable for reaching the destination he pinky promised to attend. Virgil would rather be hiding under the covers at home.

Swinging into the parking lot and taking his normal spot, Virgil wonders whether Patton would notice if he just hid out in the bathroom until everyone went home. He glances at the mug nestled in the passenger seat—secured with a seatbelt, of course—and decides against it. If nothing else, Logan would probably get suspicious about the goings-on in there, not to mention he’d be the one to have to clean it. Patton’s cheerful honk rings through the air as he locks his car, scooting over to press his nose to Virgil’s window.

Virgil raps the glass lightly, jolting Patton into taking a few steps back before he not-so-discreetly points at the door and dances on his toes. To tell the truth, Virgil is procrastinating, because he absolutely does not want to go inside and see Logan.

“Hi, Logan!” Patton calls, bursting through the door with Virgil in tow. “We’ve been waiting all day to see you!”

“We?” Virgil repeats skeptically.

“Oh, right, right, my bad,” Patton says, waving his hands sheepishly. “Virgil has been waiting all day to see you!”

“That is not better,” Virgil mutters. He lifts a hand to his shoulder, massaging a sore spot along the slope of his neck and wishing he could be literally anywhere else right now. In an effort to diffuse the awkwardness that Logan hasn’t bothered to notice, he continues, “looks nice in here with the lights down. Kind of home-y.”

    “Indeed,” Logan agrees, balanced precariously on the second-highest rung of an unreasonably tall ladder. At its base, Roman holds the legs steady, grinning as Patton slings his backpack onto a nearby table. “Patton, I assume you brought more decorations I never greenlit?”

    “You know it.” Patton grins, upending the bag and watching every manner of rainbow trinket spill over the tabletop and onto the floor. “Okay, so see these? They look like normal food coloring, but they actually—”

    “If they sparkle or make the drink behave like pop rocks, I do not want them.”

    Patton pouts before tossing the food coloring stuff back in the bag. “Alright, well how about this one? It’s like a DIY mug for—”

    “Don’t use acronyms out loud, and I am not having mugs that guests design themselves. That defeats the purpose of my system.” Patton puts the mugs away.

    “Fine, so I also found these little mythical creature trinkets that—”

    “No.” Patton puts the trinkets away.

    “Or these things that look like scratch off tickets, but instead of the lottery, you can—”

    “No.” Patton puts the tickets away.

    “I found this book of stickers that has—”

    “No.” Patton puts the stickers away.

    “You know, I’m beginning to think you didn’t want me to bring all this stuff.”

    “I did not want you to bring all that stuff.”

    “Well, fine! I’ll just take it back home, then!”

    “Good! I do not want it here! Please remove it from my establishment!” Virgil cocks his head to the side, his thoughts catching on the mock enthusiasm in Logan’s voice. If anyone could possibly be the breathing personification of a sarcastic exclamation point, it’s Logan.

    “Can I help you up there?” Virgil offers. Logan glances down, still precariously balanced on his ladder and stretching out an arm to toss a strand of string lights over the menu boards. “You know, it might be more effective to pull the signs down and write the menu first, then tape some lights to the top, then hang them back up.”

    Thrusting out a hand for stability on the top rung, Logan lowers the spool of lights waiting to be thrown. “You may have a point. Roman, if you even think about shaking this ladder, I am going to ban you from helping any further with the decorations.”

    “Come on, dude, it’s pride month! Show some spirit!” Roman whines. Regardless, he holds the ladder steady as Logan descends.

    “I’ve already shown my spirit by deigning to allow you in my cafe while it’s closed. Don’t push your luck.” At the sound of a yelp and something crashing near the seats around the corner, Logan presses his middle finger to his glabella and groans deeply. “Remy, if you broke one of my windows, I am legally obligated to inform our parents that you are unfit to be an adult, and that I am sending you back to them, effective immediately.”

    “No, nope, everything is totally fine back here. You aren’t legally obligated to do anything whatsoever.” Remy pops his head into view, his cheeks flushed and his hair flopping into his eyes. Taking one look at Logan’s stern face and Virgil’s reserved one, he jerks his head at Roman. “Hey, wanna give me a hand back here? Your boyfriend can come too, I guess.”

    “He’s not my—” Roman begins, but Patton barrels right through it.

    “Sounds fun!” he declares, grabbing Roman by the elbow and dragging him toward whatever chaos Remy already caused. With a quick pause to point from his eyes to Virgil’s and back, Patton winks and vanishes from sight. In their absence, silence reigns supreme.

    “So,” Logan says.

    “So,” Virgil agrees.

    “How’s your handwriting?” Logan asks, clearly just as desperate to fill the awkward silence as Virgil.

    Virgil shrugs, grabbing one of many pens spilling from Patton’s abandoned backpack and twirling it between his fingers. “Not terrible, I guess. I do most of the boards where I work.” For a brief moment, Virgil wonders whether he’s ever mentioned to Logan where he works, but ultimately decides it’s not important just yet. He watches the pen spins for another few moments before continuing, “I have this style of super straight lines, though. Not exactly bubbly and inviting for your guests.”

    “My guests know I own this place. They aren’t expecting any manner of bubbliness, inviting or otherwise. Help me pull down the signs?” Allowing himself the smallest laugh at Logan’s matter-of-factness, Virgil moves for the lower right corner of the trifold board, hoisting it off the wall in tandem with Logan. “I suppose we ought to erase it first, before we go about ruining it.”

    “Do you know what kind of scheme you’re going for?” Virgil asks, shifting into decoration mode as he starts wiping off the first section. He shoves aside any lingering thoughts of yesterday’s fiasco in favor of focusing on the task at hand. Maybe if he pretends to have forgotten, it’ll be like it never happened in the first place.

    “Scheme? I was simply going to write the drink options in various colors,” Logan admits. He scrapes together a pile of chalk from a children’s craft box leaning against the bar, grimacing as he rubs the dust from between his fingers. “Unless you know of a better idea.”

    “I mean, we could do something like cold drinks here, and hot ones here, and you could have some people personalize based on this third one over here? And then, like, each third can be a different pride flag, like how I was saying yesterday—maybe make the miscellaneous board the pan flag, since it’s basically everything? Unless you don’t like the pun side of that, of course, then we don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. Or we could do the whole rainbow there, again with the ‘everything’ deal, but it might not look so cohesive as being strictly separated thirds of the menu. We don’t even have to separate by themes, if you wanted the whole menu to be just one section. Maybe we could do the bi flag for the cold drinks—if you decide to go for the cold, hot, miscellaneous boards, I mean—just because the blues and purples could go well with cold drinks, color theory and all? Or I guess there’s also the possibility of stuff like the transgender flag, or the polyamorous flag—maybe you could have a pastry menu, and put it there for a sort of pie-pi pun? I don’t know how well that one would go over, but if it sticks out to you well enough…”

---------------

    Logan props his chin on a fist, his legs crossed beneath him and his knee supporting his elbow. All of Virgil’s words are floating straight over his head, and he doesn’t even pretend to hide it, so entranced is he by Virgil’s enthusiasm. In all honesty, Logan stopped listening by the third sentence, more focused on how Virgil’s pale lips formed the soundless words, washing the cafe in an ocean of rolling tones and low asides. Not ten seconds into his rambling, Logan is certain he saw Virgil’s eyes light up, ever so slightly, at the prospect of having creative control over something so simple as menu theming.

    “Does that work for you?”

    Shit. Logan forgot he was supposed to be listening.

    “Er, I’m actually somewhat unclear on what you meant. Do you mind rewording your suggestion?”

    Virgil blinks at him, and Logan feels his soul melt—no human has a right to look that much like a confused puppy. “I don’t really know how you expect me to reword ‘I’m gonna run to the bathroom real quick while you think about which theme you like,’ but I’m certainly willing to try if you need me to.”

    “Yes, no, I mean—of course, absolutely. Go right ahead, second door on the right in the back.” Logan waves a flippant hand as Virgil pushes off from his knees, tossing a two-fingered salute to the other three working in the back. Logan has no idea what they’re doing back there anymore, nor does he really care. He’s slightly more concerned with that complete social blunder between Virgil and him. Could he have come across any more ridiculous?

    “So what do you think of Virgil, hm?” Patton asks, appearing over Logan’s shoulder. Logan flinches, sitting up straighter and nearly slamming his head into Patton’s chin. “Think he’s got a cute butt?”

    Pausing to absorb the second question, Logan wonders whether he doesn’t look too dissimilar to a computer rebooting itself. “He certainly has an ass.”

    “Do you know any other swear words?” Remy groans, trudging over and draping himself across the bar. Meanwhile, Patton is spluttering in disgust at Logan for daring to use a more crude synonym for the word ‘butt.’

    “You should be proud that he even knows that one,” Roman chimes in. “Why, when I first met Logan—”

    “We are not doing emotional history montages,” Logan declares, getting to his feet and waving a hand at Roman. “We are here only to improve the environment in and around my cafe, so that is what we are going to do.”

    “Actually,” Remy corrects, “I’m mostly here because I want to set you up with Virgil. He was a dick from the moment he walked in that first time, which is exactly your type.” Pointing at Logan with a wink, Remy moves to lean against the wall.

    Logan doesn’t bother to question his motives, and pretends he didn’t hear the first half of Remy’s statement. He does, however, hear the general motivation behind the words, and responds accordingly. The sly grin on his face makes Roman take a subconscious step back.

    “Oh, and you aren’t here to set Roman up with Patton?” Turning his focus on them, Logan wonders in the back of his mind whether Virgil might walk in on this. “Of course, everyone’s talking about it, Remy. Don’t you want to be the first trendsetter with the newest, hottest couple?”

    “Since when does he know what ‘hottest’ means?” Roman hisses in a stage whisper. Patton shrugs, pressing his lips together as his cheeks stay annoyingly neutral, not at all embarrassed by Logan’s tirade. “Do you think he doesn’t know?”

    “I think he doesn’t know,” Patton replies. He doesn’t even bother to lower his voice, which serves only to further infuriate Logan.

    “What don’t I know?”

    “He definitely doesn’t know,” Remy agrees, peeling himself away from the wall. “It’s almost pity full, really.”

    “You don’t know the meaning of the word. You don’t even know the pronunciation.”

    “But I know you use it on me, like, all the time, which is only that much more pity full for you.”

    “Pitiful. Like your tenuous grasp of the English language.” At the sound of the sink faucet turning on around the corner, Logan glances back at Roman and Patton, who are still whispering together intently. Patton is barely hiding his giggles. “So, tell me; what is it, exactly, that I don’t know?”

    “Should we tell him?” Roman whispers. Patton shrugs, pushing his glasses up by pressing his finger directly against the lens. Logan can feel something shattering, deep inside his innermost soul.

    “Oh, tell him, you dorks,” Remy groans. “It’s literally, like, so obvious, it’s almost sad that he hasn’t figured it out yet.”

    “Figured out what?” Virgil asks, materializing around the corner.

    “That me ‘n Patton are dating,” Roman says.

    “Duh, everybody knows that.” Glancing around, a look of concern grows on Virgil’s face. “Was I not supposed to know that?”

    “Well, actually, Logan here—” Remy begins, but with a swift smack to the arm from Logan, he cuts himself off. “Nope, yep, totally justified in knowing that. Seven out of three. Good job. So smart. We stan a clever icon.”

    “Please stop talking,” Logan says. “Can we just get back to decorating?”

    “Way ahead of you.” Virgil drops to his knees, gathering up scattered pieces of chalk and positioning the blank slates in front of him. “Did you decide which theme you liked?”

    Logan very much did not do that. “I like both the gender flags and the sexuality flags. What do you think?”

    Virgil, clearly not prepared to be in control, blinks twice. “Um. Well. Maybe we could make the first board sexualities, and the second one genders, and have each drink be a different flag based on which menu theme they’re under? And Remy likes making up drinks, yeah?”

    “Yes,” Remy unnecessarily confirms. Logan scowls at him until he disappears around the corner with Patton and Roman.

    “Cool,” Virgil continues, “So that way we can do a little of everything on the menus, and then the lights can just look nice in general, and they don’t strictly have to coordinate with the menus.”

    “Where do you work, some interior design place?” Logan asks, raising an eyebrow at Virgil’s confidence, which rapidly grows the more he talks himself through ideas. “You really seem to know what you’re talking about.”

    “Not exactly,” Virgil admits. “Where I work doesn’t really matter, though, does it?”

    “Want to work here?” Logan blurts, before immediately clapping his hands over his mouth. “Sorry, that was probably too forward. I don’t even know why I said it, I mean, look at this place, I can barely pay Remy, let alone add another hire, not to mention—”

    “You’re fine,” Virgil says absently, more focused on the menu spread. “Anyway, so the flags. Do you want to start listing off some drinks you serve, and I’ll write them on my phone, and we can just go from there to decide which drink goes with which flag?”

    Logan swallows thickly and nods, launching into his perfectly memorized list of everything he makes on a day-to-day basis. At least Virgil elected to ignore his outburst.

    As the sun makes its trek toward the horizon, shooting beams of light through floating bits of dust in the air, Logan sits back on his haunches to admire Virgil’s handiwork. For how consistently they’d been working all day, he has to admit some small amount of pride in the outcome.

    The first board, comprised of iced and frozen drinks, proudly bears all manner of gender orientation flags that Logan could find, both common and obscure. Each in bright pastels, of course, as neither Roman nor Patton had the foresight to bring darker colored chalk. The second board boasts hot drinks and sexuality flags, and despite himself, Logan quite likes the soft brightness of the middle menu. The third is still blank, with an added wooden board at the bottom to hold chalk.

    “That way,” Virgil explained, “whoever makes the custom drink of the day can draw it there, and write the ingredients without having to hunt for the chalk.” Although Logan doesn’t particularly care for letting guests take control of the menu, he begrudgingly agreed that it was a good idea.

    “You guys took, like, forever to do basically nothing,” Remy complains, now sprawled out across a table.

    “Guests eat off those,” Logan remarks, still more focused on the menus than his brother’s antics. “And you only managed to string up a few sets of lights between the three of you. I would hardly call that an achievement.”

    “Among,” Virgil corrects.

    “What?”

    “You said between the three of them. Since it’s more than two, it’s among the three of them.” Logan can’t decide whether to be horrified or enchanted by how Virgil managed to catch his own grammar mistake.

    “Roman?” Logan calls, drawing attention away from his flub. “What, exactly, might you be doing?”

    Roman merely grins in response, precariously balanced on one of the tables near the front. He lowers his hands from the upper frame of the window and jumps to the floor, trying to duck into a somersault and failing miserably. Patton giggles before helping him up and glancing at what he’d been messing with.

    “This is my cafe,” Logan reminds them, “so I believe I ought to know what you’ve done to it.”

    Offering a shrug and a wince, Roman follows Patton’s gaze to the window. “Mistletoe.”

    “Mistletoe,” Logan repeats.

    “Mistletoe!” Patton agrees.

    “Mistletoe,” Remy choruses. At Logan’s glare, he raises his hands defensively. “Sorry, I just wanted to feel included.”

    “Why, pray tell, is there mistletoe in my cafe?” Logan sighs.

    “Bitchmas in July,” Roman replies. Logan can’t decide whether to throttle him or to simply scream.

    “Roman?”

    “Yes, my dearest friend and barista?”

    “It is June.”

    “Yes.”

    “Bitchmas, as you say, is in July.”

    “Yes.”

    “June is not July.”

    “You lost me.”

    “Actually,” Patton cuts in, “I think I know why Roman put mistletoe there.”

    “Why might that be?” Logan is extremely close to tossing one of the people in this room out the window, and based solely on proximity, it very well might be Virgil.

    “For this.” With no further warning, Patton grabs Roman by the neck of his shirt and yanks him to stand behind the chair he’d been using as a stepstool. Logan hardly has the chance to blink before Patton is pulling Roman in, closing his eyes, and—

    “Yep, nope, super cool, very much did not need to see that,” Virgil announces, mercifully drawing Logan’s eyes away from the scene. “Besides that nonsense, did you guys get the lights all finished? I need to peace out pretty soon here, but I want to see the cafe in its full glory before the guests come and destroy it by existing in its presence.”

    Roman hesitates to answer, still breathless beside a beaming Patton. Remy cuts in first, allowing the other two to regain their composure.

    “We got everything done, so if you wanted to pack up whatever stuff you brought, I’ll get the last of the connections and cords all set up, so you can bask in the splendor before you go.” Leaning in close enough to whisper so that Virgil can’t hear, Remy’s breath tickles Logan’s ear. “His mug is on the side pocket of his bag. Sneak it away while I distract him, and make him a personalized drink. It’ll be totally endearing, I know it.”

    “I am not doing that.”

    Remy dangles the mug from his fingers with a smirk, thrusting it at Logan when Virgil isn’t looking. “You are doing that.”

    Logan frowns and reluctantly takes the mug. “I am doing that.”

    “Unless you want to be doing—”

    “Don’t you dare say it,” Logan hisses, snapping his head around to cast the entirety of his glare at Remy. “If you swear, in this moment, to shut your damn mouth, I will make him a drink.”

    “That’s all I want,” Remy says, dusting his hands off and tugging Virgil to stand in front of the door. The mistletoe dangles a few ominous feet away. Logan’s scowl melts into a vague feeling of contentedness as he watches Virgil taking in the unlit decorations. His hands work on autopilot, making an old favorite of his that has long since outgrown its recipe. When Remy clicks the lights on and Logan catches Virgil’s face in the light, the barista is pretty convinced he might just collapse right then and there, coffee and all.

    Framed in the soft blues and yellows of twinkling artificial lights, Virgil’s pale skin almost seems to glow against his jet black hair, a silhouette of ethereal splendor captured oh-so-perfectly for a split second, before the illusion shatters. Virgil turns to look at Logan as the latter absently slides the full mug across the counter, so entranced is he by the former.

    “You good?” Virgil asks. Logan can only manage the smallest of nods, barely capable of closing his stunned mouth as he watches the way the moonlight flicks off the purple tips of Virgil’s hair. “Dude, you didn’t have to go and make me anything!”

    “It’s one of his oldest favorites,” Remy cuts in, rescuing Logan from himself. “No, no, put your money away, this one’s on the house for helping us remodel.”

    “All I really did was draw on a couple menus,” Virgil protests. Nevertheless, he pockets his wallet and takes a hesitant sip from the mug. A beauty to rival that of his shape against the night sky lights in his eyes as he tips the mug, draining the rest as fast as he can manage.

    “Good, right?” Remy asks. Logan wonders whether his own mouth will decide to start functioning properly any time soon.

    “So good,” Virgil murmurs, still holding the rim of the mug to his nose and inhaling deeply. “Smells amazing, too.”

    With a swift elbow jab to the side from Remy, Logan manages to choke out a broken “thanks,” his voice cracking on the vowel. Miracle of miracles, Virgil doesn’t notice. Or, if he does, he pretends not to, which only makes it worse—or better, Logan isn’t sure.

    “Well, uh, thank you too,” Virgil mumbles. He clutches the mug as tight as he can manage, shouldering his way out the door. Not two feet beyond the threshold of the door, he absently raises his shoulders toward his ears against a cool summer breeze.

    “Logan, close your mouth,” Roman calls. Logan moves his jaw up, realizing all too late that he’d been staring open-mouthed at Virgil for no reason. Turning his face toward Patton’s neck, Roman giggles and whispers, “he’s so head over heels.”

    “That’s an understatement,” Patton replies. “If his head is where it is now, you’d need a cinderblock and the Mariana Trench to get to his heels.”

    “That was a bit of a stretch,” Remy says. “I know you’re trying, hon, but maybe try more puns, fewer metaphors?”

    “Puns,” Patton echoes, rolling the word between his lips and chewing the n. “Pun pun pun.”

    “Now look what you’ve done,” Roman groans.

    “Pun,” Patton repeats, pointing up and nudging Roman to the side. Roman blinks and follows his finger to the mistletoe, which is wobbling dangerously. “Don’t think you used enough tape there, Crumb cake.”

    “Maybe not,” Roman agrees. As he reaches up to adjust the decoration, Logan’s hand thrusts out of its own volition.

    “Do you maybe want to move that over the door instead? Maybe? I mean, you don’t have to, I just—”

    “Logan’s rambling,” Remy announces. “Better do what he wants before he short circuits entirely.” Roman and Patton titter at this before the former pulls down the mistletoe, removing the old tape and producing a new roll from his pocket.

    “Thanks,” Logan sighs, watching Roman stick the mistletoe just to the right of the bell. What he wouldn’t give to be under that with—

    “Closing time!” Logan shouts suddenly, ignoring how the other three flinch. “It was all very fun and nice, but it is time for everyone to go home. Right now. Please leave. This very second. Immediately. Get out.”

    Remy exits first, followed quickly by Patton and Roman, none of whom bother trying to hide their laughter. Logan is the last to leave, still focused on that mistletoe. Still focused on who he wants to see beneath it.

---------------

    Virgil is having a bad day.

    He woke up with only two minutes to spare before having to leave for work. He stepped on poop from his neighbor’s dog when he went outside. He found a smear of mocha syrup along the seam of his pants in a very conspicuous pattern. He didn’t have any other clean pants ready. His car wouldn’t start fast enough. His USB cord to his phone wouldn’t connect, no matter how many times he turned it. His throat ached, but without a fever, he was still legally allowed to work with food. His voice was all but gone.

    Virgil wants nothing more than to go back home, crawl under a mountain of blankets, and stay there until the sun goes away.

    This would be a task much more easily achieved if Natalia would bother to show up on time. Virgil forces a tight smile onto his face as he mindlessly nods along to the latest guest’s conversation. Ten more minutes and he’ll hit compliance, which means a stern talking-to between Anne and her boss, which means a stern talking-to between Anne and him, which is basically the last thing keeping Virgil from walking out of the store right now.

    Virgil wants to go home.

    “Have you seen Natalia?” Anne asks, appearing on the other side of the bar once the line dribbles down to nothing. Virgil shakes his head, already halfway through making her usual order as she groans. “Okay, well, you’re gonna hit compliance in a second here.”

    “I know that,” Virgil snaps. “There’s not exactly a whole lot I can do about it.”

    “Mind your tone,” Anne chides lightly, and though Virgil can tell she’s kidding, he really isn’t in the mood for it today.

    “Yeah, sorry. Do you mind, uh, you know?” He tilts his chin to the next guest, as well as the cluster of families preparing to queue up behind them. Anne nods and apologizes with a laugh, scurrying off to do whatever it is she deems more important than helping Virgil to keep this line in check.

    This is the part where Virgil is supposed to launch into a spiel of every drink he makes, as well as the struggles that accompany calling out complete orders with a voice that basically doesn’t exist, but based on the morning he’s had so far? He has absolutely zero desire to get into it. Guests are rude, baby boomers are impatient, the sky is blue, Virgil is in hell, next question.

    “Hey, um, excuse me?” Some dude leans over the counter, shaking his empty cold cup at Virgil. Evidently, he did not notice the line waiting to be helped. “Barista boy?”

    Virgil glances where his name tag should be, shrugs at its absence, and nods. Yeah, that’s a fair nickname. “What’s up?”

    “You made my drink wrong.” His empty drink, that is.

    “Oh, I’m so sorry about that, did you want me to remake it for you?”

    “No, I want you to give me a refund.”

    “Sir, I—you already finished your—by store policy, I can only make you a new drink, I can’t give you a refund if there’s no drink to take back in return for the money, sorry.”

    “Yeah, but I didn’t like it.”

    “Then why did you—never mind, would you like me to make you a new one?”

    “No, I want compensation for a miserable drinking experience.”

    This goes on for some time, and while Virgil is largely skilled at keeping his composure when he has to, that’s much more easily said than done when the guest is flinging curse words at him left and right.

    “Sir, I’m sorry, it’s—there’s a long line, so unless you want to have me remake your drink for you, there’s really nothing I can do.” Angry Guest Man rips out a few more choice words before storming off, shouldering patiently waiting customers out of the way. Virgil rolls his shoulders back and moves on to the next guest, relieved when all they want is a grande mocha.

    Virgil.

    Wants.

    To.

    Go.

    Home.

    “Hey, I’m here to cover for Natalia!” Kim announces, prancing behind the bar without a hat on, as if she doesn’t notice the hold up Virgil’s dealing with.

    “Awesome. Get here sooner next time. Put on a hat—or a hairnet, I don’t care which—and start taking orders while I catch up on hot bar. We’re almost out of skim milk, and the almond milk shipment is behind today, so only offer coconut and soy milk.” Virgil tosses out orders almost as fast as he hands off drinks, waving off Kim’s bewildered demands. “I don’t care how or why Natalia got you to show up late—better than not at all—but I need you to kick into gear. I’ll get you as caught up as I can, but I’m gonna hit compliance, so savor this partnership before you’re on your own.”

    Kim bites back whatever protests she might’ve had, instead nodding and moving for the register. She plasters a welcoming smile on her face and starts chatting up the next guest as Virgil slowly but surely picks apart his backlog of orders.

    Virgil does not want to be here.

    Another guest complaining about their cappuccino not having enough foam is incredibly close to being the straw that shatters his back. Virgil bites back a groan as he gingerly takes the unlidded cup from her, nodding his apologies and profusely assuring her he’d remake it. She scowls and mutters something about hurrying up.

    “There you go, sorry ’bout that,” Virgil says, passing off the new cup.

    She removes the lid, glaring at the drink and completely ignoring the swarm of people behind her that would very much like to get their orders. “There isn’t enough foam for the caramel to sit on top.”

    “Yeah, that’s how physics—I mean, yes, my bad, do you want more caramel drizzle?”

    “No, I want you to make it right.” With no further warning, she scrapes off the top layer of foam and flicks it at Virgil, cocking her head to the side as it plops across the bridge of his nose.

    He might just scream.

    “So you’ll have me remake it, then?” Virgil forces himself to smile as she nods with a harrumph. “Right, okay, just give me a minute here, aaand—there you go.” He pushes the latest creation over the bar and comforts his shot nerves with the mental image of throwing the drink in her face.

    “There’s not enough foam.” Before Virgil can even pretend to be sympathetic to her first world problems, she dips her finger into the foam.

    And flicks this one square at his chest.

    “Anne?” Virgil’s voice is sugary sweet as Anne drifts lazily over from across the seating area, moving as if she had all the time in the world. “I’m going to hit compliance in less than two minutes, so I am going to clock out. I will not be coming in tomorrow, as I have a backlog of sick days, and I will be using one to figure out whether I want to come in the day after that. Good luck getting someone to cover for me, since it was obviously such a difficult task for Natalia.”

    “Virgil, if you don’t come in tomorrow, you can kiss this job goodbye,” Anne snaps.

    Virgil considers this, removes his hat, and places it squarely on her head. “If you want me to stay away, I’ll do so happily. In case you haven’t noticed, there isn’t a whole lot of qualified backup for you here.” Anne can only manage bewildered sputters in response as Virgil unties his apron, drapes it over a chair, and strolls off to the break room.

    Virgil is leaving this hellscape.

    “I really wanna leave this stupid town,” he sings to himself in the car, ignoring his blatantly wrong lyrics as he tears out of the parking lot. “And today, the time has come.” Ramping up his voice to little less than a furious scream, he pounds the steering wheel to the rhythm, and feels an odd lightness when he sees the empty passenger seat. For once, he doesn’t have to have the ever-present company of that obnoxious apron, wrapped up and tucked inside that ridiculous hat.

    Virgil is going home.

    At least, Virgil thought he was going home.

    No one could be more surprised than him when he finds his hands steering the car toward Logan’s cafe of their own volition.

    “Hey, Virgil, what’s going—wait, hey, you walked under the mistletoe!” Roman whines from the counter, where Remy is closely monitoring his work behind the bar. “You can’t just walk past mistletoe without a kiss-letoe!”

    “Stop talking, or that mistletoe is going up your ass-letoe,” Virgil mutters, making a beeline for the mound of bean bag chairs in the corner. A nice touch of comfort amidst the soft lighting and colorful menus they’d added yesterday. Probably Patton’s idea.

    He falls to his knees before he knows what he’s doing, shoving his face into the plasticky surface and letting the rustling beans consume his senses. He’d barely bothered to notice how loudly his pulse was thrumming through his head until it stopped, overpowered by the artificial cushion beneath him. At the sound of footsteps drawing near his head, Virgil briefly considers sweeping out a leg and knocking them to the floor. An action movie sequence fantasy at best.

    He feels them speak before any words come out, and has never felt closer to cussing out someone he met mere days ago.

    “Hey. Rough day?” By some merciful chance, it’s not Roman, or Remy, or even Patton. Logan continues, careful to keep his voice low and measured, “I get that. I had the lights turned down temporarily to test the environment in direct sunlight, but I’ll leave them down for your sake. We also received several compliments on the new menus—all your handiwork, of course.

    “Remy’s training Roman on how to make drinks right now, since I’ve heard many guests discussing how to get their friends to join them on trips here. With that kind of increase in business, I could really use his extra set of hands, no matter how inexperienced. I see you brought your mug, as well—if it doesn’t upset you too terribly, I’ve already had Remy begin teaching Roman how to make up drinks, so you might get an odd flavor combination, what with the steep learning curve and all. Roman is creative, I’ll give him that, but he’s never truly been one for understanding the intricacies of taste and texture among our staple ingredients.”

    With every word out of Logan’s mouth, Virgil can feel his mounting headache slowly, ever so slowly, draining away. In the wake of Anne and Kim’s nonsense, he hadn’t cared to notice the exhaustion, much less how severely it hurt. Even now, his pulse is pounding like a jackhammer against the roof of his skull.

    “When Remy first picked out that mug covered in cups for you, I have to say, I was horrified. As far as I could tell, it was just the first thing he grabbed, which is about as basic a tactic as any other. Your current one, with all the constellations and the blues, just felt right, if you know what I mean. Not exactly a logical way to select your mug, but I can’t really explain it.”

    “I like to call them mug-mates!” Roman announces. “You know, mug, soulmate, mug-mate?” An image crosses Virgil’s mind of throwing his current mug at Roman’s head, and he laughs. “See, Remy, told you I was funny.”

    “I hate to break it to you,” Remy says gently, “but Patton was only lying about you being funny because you suck at everything else.”

    “Shut up,” Logan singsongs, his voice achingly calm against their raising tones. In a voice that somehow manages to be even more soothing than before, almost dulcet, he continues, “most of my guests have a particular piece of clothing or accessory that stands out, matching their immediate mug. You just felt, well, different, somehow.”

    Virgil fights the instinct to flinch as he feels something come to rest against his head. A moment passes, two, before it starts to move, lightly combing through his matted hair and gently scratching at his aching head beneath. Against his own volition, a contented sigh escapes his lips. The scratching continues unaffected.

    If it were possible, Virgil would stay here, just like this, forever. Motionless in a pile of bean bags, with only Logan’s presence to remind him he still exists. Naturally, this isn’t possible, as a gentle set of three raps against the wall over his head jerks him out of his half-conscious state.

    Logan nods with a smile as a guest lowers their hand, moving for the door and stashing their mug in their bag. At Virgil’s questioning gaze, Logan raises his hands and explains, “that’s how my best guests say goodbye. The first few regulars I had liked the peaceful silence, so instead of cutting through the air with words, they’d just knock on the tables. It sort of became habit, I suppose.” Virgil glances from Logan’s mouth to his shoulder and back, releasing another sigh as the scratching shifts down to his back.

    “Feel any better?” Logan asks. His eyes are filled with a warmth that Virgil swears wasn’t there yesterday.

    “Little bit,” Virgil mumbles. “Work sucks.”

    “And where, exactly, do you work?”

    “Starbucks north.”

    The shock in Logan’s expression is almost laughable. “I have never been more disgusted with a single human being in all my life than I am right now.”

    “Yeah, that’s fair. I think I just kind of quit, though. Not exactly a ceremonious end to my shift, if you know what I mean.”

    “Rude guests?”

    “Try obscene and pathetic. One flicked her foam at me.”

    “Wait, don’t you get free drinks when you work there? Why buy my drinks when you can get stuff without paying for it at all?”

    “We aren’t, like, a chain place, since we’re owned by the department store we’re in, so we kind of follow different rules than the regular stores. I only get one grande drink per shift, and it has to be while I’m on the clock.”

    “Okay, but you can still get those drinks. Just make them on your last five minutes and walk out with them. Why bother spending money on what could be free?”

    “I’m not funneling the money I get from that place directly back into it. They are a capitalist regime based on the basic downfall of the foremost man empowering story, and I refuse to fuel their fire.”

    “How closely did you analyze Moby Dick?”

    “Sparknotes.” Virgil pushes himself onto his elbows, still savoring the feeling of Logan’s fingers gently scraping along his back. “Hey, what was that you were saying yesterday about offering for me to work here?”

    Logan’s face colors immediately, flush with about as much red as is humanly safe. “I didn’t mean to impose—I mean, er, I didn’t want you to feel like—”

    “It’s cool,” Virgil interrupts. “Anyway, were you even a little bit serious? Because I don’t really have a reference from my last place, but if you’re willing to accept a new hire with a shady history who knows how to run a coffee bar, I’m your guy.”

    Logan nods quickly, glancing back to where Roman is struggling considerably under Remy’s watch. “You’re hired. You start today.”

    “Actually, I know this is probably a bad first impression on my new boss, but do you mind if I start tomorrow? I’m not really feeling it today.”

    “Indeed, I should probably draw up the paperwork, as well.”

    The finality of this tenuous agreement hangs in the air, an oddly relaxed cloud of, well, something that can only wait to be shattered.

    Roman does a perfectly fine job of carrying out this task.

    “Logan, you’re gonna be so proud of me in a second here—I made my very first drink! Remy said I have to give it to Virgil, since you won’t take it.” Roman passes the constellation-covered mug over to Virgil, who glances warily at the murky substance rippling within. “Relax, it’s literally the easiest drink I can make.”

    “Earl grey tea,” Remy calls over. “Two tea bags, hot water, and honey. I promise he didn’t poison it.” Only after Remy’s reassurance does Virgil take a hesitant sip, admiring the flavor as soon as it hits his tongue.

    “Oh, that reminds me!” Logan exclaims, raising a finger in the air. It takes everything in Virgil not to whine at the loss of the reassuring hand against his back. “I got something as a thank you for helping us with the decorations yesterday—it’s right upstairs, actually. Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll have it right back down here for you.” As Logan rises, something jingles and clatters to the floor, escaping his notice as he moves for the door. A keyring, covered in at least ten keys and even more keychains.

    “Hey, wait, you dropped these,” Virgil says, grabbing the keys and following Logan to the door. Logan lifts his chin slightly, taking the keys and shoving them in his pocket—careful enough that they won’t fall out this time.

    “Oh, look at that,” Roman coos. Virgil raises an eyebrow, turning to see where Roman and Remy are excitedly elbowing each other and giggling. Even Patton appears from around the corner and smiles along with them—probably leaving the bathroom.

    “Look at what?” Logan asks, obviously quite finished with their nonsense. Rather than dignify him with an answer, Roman merely points above their heads. Virgil follows the motion to see the last decoration he could’ve expected in June.

    Mistletoe.

    To the tune of the other three quietly chanting, “kiss, kiss, kiss,” Virgil swallows an annoyed moan and glances at Logan, whose face somehow managed to turn an even deeper shade of pink.

    “If you don’t want to, I mean, if you didn’t, you know, feel comfortable with—” Logan stammers, every word darkening his cheeks, but Virgil cuts him off with a laugh.

    “Maybe I do want to. Kiss you, that is. I mean, if you want to.”

    “No, yeah, I mean—yes. I would like that. To kiss you, I mean.”

    Virgil’s face glows like a rose on fire. “Okay, cool, because I also want to do that. Also.”

    So he does.

[elsac2]

I live for your tumblr and your fanfiction! I was wondering though if you could do a Bonlijah (Bonnie and Elijah) prompt in New Orleans! Btw I love your tumblr ughh!!!

Aww thank you

She suffocates under the heat, and her old white t-shirt is drenched. Worse than Virginia’s sun, which culminates at noon, the New Orleans sun blinds her and renders the young woman dizzy.

It is her first time in the big city, Nola. New Orleans like Salem is the mecca of the young witch. An imposed pilgrimage and a way to commemorate her grams'memory. The streets are busy. Music, scent, heat, and a lot more to take in. Perhaps the town is too alive. For a young woman from a little town, it is overwhelming. Her magic is on edge and buzzes.

The energy of the city has latched on it. She is a Bennet, and so magic is inclined to embrace her. However it is too much at once, and she stands as a magnet for the free energy around her. Through the air, particles of magic travel to intertwine with her essence. It boils under her skin. Resonate like excitement or a sudden fall into a secondary state.

Associated with the heat, Bonnie’s body needs a release. The young woman inhales, but the magic in the air clogs her lungs. The magic clings to her muscles. The tingles on her fingertips and the sweat on her palms, the magic continues its infiltration.

Now, the implosion is inevitable. Her control lost. The magic will consume her or flood the city. Afraid of the outcome, she stares at the languid passant, who fill the street of the French Quarter. Not a witch on sight, and so no one to help the struggling witch. She attempts to draw some air, but the task is painful. Accordingly, she abandons.

What a horrible first day in New Orleans! Bonnie waits for the unavoidable, and her shoulders drop. She continues to stare at the vivid scenery of life while magic overwhelms her until the implosion

One…Two…Three…

“I will help, dove.” Lips pressed on her pulsating carotid, he whispers. The tip of his tongue darts and grazes the feverish skin of her neck. Canine teeth grow until the sharp tips rub her magic embalmed flesh.

A strong arm circles her waist, and a heavy hand rests on her shoulder. The tip of his nose caresses the back of her ear and irritate a little part of her jaws.

His canine teeth threaten to break the elasticity of her flesh. Panic is the appropriate reaction, but the elegance of his voice soothe her worries. In addition, the ache, which the magical infiltration of her bloodstream causes, distracts her.

Clenched jaws and tensed body, Bonnie tries to retain the hyperactive magic. It is straining on her metabolism. If it wasn’t the strong cool arm holding her up, she would fall unceremoniously on the ground. Blood leaks out her nose and tears pools under her closed eyelids.

A cold finger pressed on the tip of her nose sends unnamable stimuli through her burning body. Perhaps, it is the grip of death as it collects every drop of blood, which escape her nose.

When the finger disappears behind her back, she hears an appreciative moan. For a second, the piercing sensation on her neck disappears, but it quickly returns. The faint sensation is now a sharp ache. Her unfocused magic bubbles under the suffering of her skin.

With each passing second, the barrier of her skin is broken. Canine teeth continue to sink deeper into her neck. Her nails dig into the arm, which circles her waist. A soft layer of material welcomes the tip of her fingers while her cry erupts in the sky. With a firm hand, he tilts her head and the magic rushes to escape the physical confinement, which her weak body is.

By waves, her blood and magical essence pour into his mouth. She feels drain, no he is draining her. Her nails scratch on his arm, and she tries to escape his old. She feels lighter, and she is no longer a magical bomb ticking away. However, she continues to face an impending death. His canine must have sunk deeper because they almost crush her bone.

On the tip of her tongue, there is a defensive spell, which she tries to say. The retained tears have started to fall when it all cease. The support of her body moves, and she can’t stand on her wobbly legs. Her voluptuous bottom hit the pavement, and what was left of her loose bun become a mess of heavy black curls.

She tries to move the curtain of hair to face her aggressor or her saviour. It is uncertain. From a quick glance, she knows he will never be either. Teeth coated with her blood, he cleans away the divine nectar from his lips. He is a fallen angel of a deceptive elegance. Bonnie knows she found a tormentor.

He kneels down and takes her chin between his thumb and forefinger. He lifts her head and pushes her rebellious mane behind her hear. She can’t look into his brown eyes, but Bonnie has very little choice. He pulls his handkerchief and wipes her tears.

“Now breathe, dove.” He commands with a whisper, which forces her to strain her hearing. Bonnie obeys and freed from the magical restraint, her lungs open. Tears slowly dry on her cheek.

Uncaring of his designer suit and even less of the world, which he inconveniences, he sits by her side. He watches as she recovers from the magical hypersensitivity.

“It was ambitious, dove.” When he notices her regular breath, he starts a conversation.“ it was an accident, Bonnie that is my name.” She replies and offers her name so he can stop using a generic endearment term.

“Next time don’t channel the city, and if you’re a stubborn witch, do so in a place where witches are allowed to practice magic. The quarter belongs to the vampire.” He warns while he stands to leave.

“ what if I can’t control where it happens.” She asks.“ perhaps, you will need a lesson.” He extends his arm and helps her on her feet.“ vampire and witches aren’t allowed fraternalization or amicable relationship.” She replies with the main rule of New Orleans. He doesn’t answer and presses an open wrist on her lip. Blood stains her cheeks and infiltrates her semi-open lips. The warmth return to her body.

“ it is too late to be your friend or worse your brother. Do you know more than accidental magic?” He cleans his blood away from her cheek.

She blushes at his question and chooses to disregard it. However, it is an unforgivable mistake. “Relationship doesn’t matter. In Nola, there is the rule. I don’t intend to broke them.” She answers and dust away from her clothes.“ rules don’t apply to me.” He counters.“ and you’re?” She questions.“ Elijah mikealson.” He answers.“ well, they continue to apply to me.” She deadpans unaware of which power his name shield. “ then abide by them, dove.” He crosses his arm and a confident smirk falls on his lips.“I do.” She answers as she starts to walk away from him. He lets her leave, she will figure it out or the magic will reveal its truth. “I see you chose a pretty witch instead of a vampire.” His brother slides by his side. “ it was an accident, and her magic was about to consume the city.” He replies in an unconvincing tone.“ you gave her your blood, oh Niklaus will be furious.” Kol chuckles after his accusation.“ how else was I supposed to control the amount of magic, which pours through me. Niklaus will understand, his precious quarter is safe.” He counters.“ he loves the rules more than he does the quarter,” Kol replies.“ Rules don’t apply to me.” Arrogance laces his words.“ it applies to her.” Kol points out.“ rules don’t apply to Mikealson and she was accidentally made one.” He sucks from his teeth the remaining taste of the young witch blood.

Never wrote bonlijah before but I hope it isnt completely trash.

[ravenvsfox]

Hello hi! I have a prompt if you're feeling up to it? There is so much of Andrew looking after sick!Neil but can we have it reversed? I think Andrew would low-key (highkey) love the focused attention from Neil (also,,, Neil not being sure how to look after sick people and turning to advice from the other foxes as discreetly as possible bc there's no way Andrew wants them knowing he's anything less than impenetrable)

(I did my best w this prompt from one POV, sorry it took so very absurdly long! lots of Andrew thoughts with a side of useless boy dialogue)

He wakes up bleary and dry-mouthed, his tongue catching on his hard palate like papers rustling together. Andrew squints into his pillow, pressing two fingers into the eyelid of one streaming eye. The sun is too dilute to touch him, and the breeze from the cracked window chills him so much that it hurts, muscles locked and shivering.

He knew he was getting sick when the hurt that lives inside him flared real, visible and disgusting. All this hacking, running, sweating makes him vulnerable, loud when he wants to be quiet. Neil had called him overdramatic. He’d dragged the covers to his side of the bed in reply, battered sleep’s door until it splintered.

Now he feels like he always felt in the heart-racing countdown to withdrawal, fighting through sweat and aches and cracking lips, cracking skin, cracking strength. Whiskey won’t help him here though. Nothing will help him here, after rowing through the confused, freezing night and only now washing up in foggy morning, fever lapping at him.

Something drips onto his hot forehead and his chest pumps hard, startled. His eyes flash open.

Neil is frowning, looming over him and holding a cold rag that’s a bit too wet. It’s clumsy, but it feels better when Neil arranges it on his sweaty brow. His hand stays on the compress, a sustaining pressure, like he’s healing with just his hands and his willpower. Water runs into his hair like tears.

“How are you?” Neil asks. His other hand walks from the bedspread to Andrew’s side, he can feel the fingertips becoming a full-palmed press. It’s the comfort of a person who always feels better when he’s touched hard and deliberately, alive in a way he can feel.

Andrew doesn’t reply, but he knows that his closed eyes and relaxed body mean something to Neil. He trusts him with his hot forehead and his bedside.

“You look bad,” Neil continues.

“I am not playing,” Andrew says hoarsely. “If that’s what you’re angling for so tactfully.”

Neil’s hands retreat, Andrew’s forehead folds under the rag where no one will see. “I’m here because you’re my— I’m not worried about our goalie, I’m worried about you.”

“You’re here because this is your room,” Andrew corrects.

“Fine,” Neil says, voice full of the opposite. “I’m going to practice, anyway, since that’s all I care about.”

Andrew feels him leave their bed, and he finds that the wet smell of his hair was keeping his headache at bay. Another drop of water rolls down his temple, and he scrubs the compress from his face so he can watch Neil leave, but he’s already gone.

It haunts his heart, for a while, the snapped olive branch, the hurt that put its fist in its mouth and left the room so Andrew wouldn’t see it properly.

He knows, deep in him, that he’s not being any different than usual, but he also knows what Neil might have expected, seeing him spread out in their bed with his eyes wet. He’s trying to fix Andrew’s surface like he never tries to fix what’s underneath.

Neil doesn’t have the vocabulary for sickness that isn’t terminal, though. He can’t fathom something between a bandaid and a prosthetic.

He drifts, for hours, so thirsty that he can feel it in his skin, so stuffed from throat to nose that he can only breathe dry and heavy through his mouth. He can hear the wheeze inside of him.

In foster care, they would make him sleep in the garage when he got sick. They didn’t want him to infect a house full of already difficult children. He remembers watching the shadows of feet moving in the light under the door, the way the cold only made him sicker and angrier, a yoga mat between his body and the concrete.

He blinks and his eyes are crusted together. He can taste salt. He thinks of Neil and the pain in his chest changes. He latches onto the feeling, like the garage door opening in the morning, letting him back into the warmth.

There’s water on the bedside table the next time his eyes open all the way, and he rolls, panting with the movement, putting his hand around the base of the glass, his muscles loose, feeling barely taped together.

He feels a hand on his spine, and then the glass is plucked from his grip. He slits his eyes against bright bright sunlit auburn, and gulps when Neil tips the glass against his chapped lips.

“This is bad,” Neil says urgently. “You’re too hot, I think we have to break the fever.”

“You will be sick,” Andrew warns, delirious. “You’re so close.”

“I’m close,” Neil confirms warmly. “And I got Dan to cancel practice tonight.”

“What?” Andrew says, uncomprehending.

“Exy. Not happening.”

“Are you also sick?”

Neil laughs quietly, and Andrew’s eased back onto the pillows, glass drained.

“Do you want me to be here?” Neil asks quietly. The back of his hand keeps brushing against the flushed skin of Andrew’s cheeks.

“I want you,” Andrew starts, swallowing and coughing around the caught, sharp feeling in his throat. “I want you to cancel more practice. All of it.”

“Funny,” Neil says flatly. “Anything else?”

Andrew screws his eyes closed and says nothing. He wants him to stay close. He feels so much like a cure, he’s burned so many things out of Andrew before.

“I don’t know how to help you,” Neil says honestly, rough with frustration. “Just tell me what’s hurting you.”

It’s a childish response to pain, wanting to see the physical source of it so it can be staunched and fought and squared away. His energy is frenetic, actively pursuing, waking Andrew up. The heat of Neil is different from the heat of his fever—jungle rain instead of drought.

Neil gets up to leave again, and Andrew catches him by the wrist. It’s the fastest he’s moved all day. “Stay.”

Neil stops moving immediately, save for the way his hand curls until they’re palm to palm.

“Yeah,” Neil says, and gets up into bed, drawing Andrew’s hand with him. He ends up half arched towards Neil, hand sweaty, t-shirt twisted around his chest. It’s uncomfortable. It’s better.

Sleep tries to put a bag over his head and lead him out of the room, but Neil’s presence is neutralizing, especially when he starts to talk.

“Practice was terrible, you didn’t miss much.”

“I didn’t expect to,” Andrew says stuffily. Neil pinches his pinky between two of his fingers.

“Your alternate sucks. He shouldn’t be allowed in goal if he’s going to desecrate it like that.”

He’s talking about the scrawny freshman goalkeeper with the attitude of a fourth year and the skill of a high schooler. Something about him fires Neil up in a way that Andrew finds off-colour amusing, on a good day.

“He didn’t save a single goal. It wasn’t even practice, it was public humiliation. Renee would’ve obliterated him, and her skill set is limited, next to you. But christ, Nicky could’ve done better. I was considering locking him in the change rooms but you know how fucking loud he is, and last time Wymack…”

Andrew’s mind wanders, alternately focusing on the slip of Neil’s fingers between his, the whir of the overhead fan, the way the tag on the duvet is irritating the bare skin of his stomach. His insides are an uneasy sea, and his face is raw from rubbing his running eyes and nose. Neil’s voice is so soft, even when he’s saying things that should leave scratches.

Andrew thinks, confused, that he’s never been taken care of before, except by an apologetic Nicky on his way to a shift at Eden’s Twilight, a bottle of stolen tylenol left at the foot of his bed. Cass— no. He’d been afraid to be the sort of foster kid who needed things, and so his weakness was folded up and swallowed. He pretended not to hurt for as long as he was with the Spears.

His withdrawal and rehabilitation had been his own problems, bloody things dragged through the foxes’ house. Everyone’s noses wrinkled, involuntary, at the ugly sight of his healing.

But Neil shared his coping mechanisms and grinned at his anger and provoked him into something, urged him into something—

Sometimes he feels like the monster, the shapeshifter, being coaxed back to humanity by the love interest, the waning moon. Neil makes him feel like his fangs are receding. Neil is a speech and a silver bullet.

For so many of the worst years of his life, everyone else waited for him to fall off the precarious side of a building, told him that it would get better, told him there was a safety net five stories down, even though he couldn’t see it. Neil launched the front of his body over the side, teeth gritted, muscles straining, and started hoisting him up by the hand.

His throat clogs with tiredness, itchy and thick. Neil’s free hand passes over his damp hair, his body heat bumping closer like a mouth ducking to kiss him, and Andrew is dropped, overwhelmed, into sleep.

______

“No, I don’t know. It’s not about him. No, Dan. Put Matt on the phone? Don’t tell him—no, I��m serious.”

Andrew’s face breaks watery sleep, but his ears are still foggy underneath the surface. Neil’s voice is low and distant, probably in the seat by their window.

“Hey,” Neil says quickly. “Do you still have the recipe for that soup you were making Dan last— no he’s fine. I just wanted to…” He makes a clucking noise, upset, and Andrew rolls over to watch him. He finds him staring distractedly out at the parking lot with his feet tucked underneath him, unlit cigarette between his fingers.

There’s a burble of a voice on the other end of the line, and Neil puts his head back. Andrew watches the whole long arc of his neck and feels a violent pull of affection in his gut, wishes he could do something about it.

“Yeah,” he whispers, Andrew frowns at the shift in Neil’s tone. “It’s scaring me. I know it’s not— he’s not that sick, or hurt, and no one’s responsible, so it’s…” he looks towards Andrew, whose eyes are still slitted against the lamplight.

“Exactly,” he breathes, looking back out at the cloud-frothed sky. “I can’t fight a virus for him. And I don’t know how, I don’t know what people do, like, am I supposed to be doing what he wants or what he needs because they’re not— I can’t solve this with cigarettes on the roof, and I can’t pour alcohol on it, but I want his eyes clear again. I don’t. I hate it when I touch him and he doesn’t react. I can’t… he’s too sick to see straight.” He’s getting upset. Andrew can hear his own heartbeat reacting, surging ahead.

“I know,” Neil says, frustrated. “But I don’t want to do nothing. I just--do you have that recipe or not?”

A moment, a hum, a scribble.

“Okay, thanks Matt. I’m not telling him that. Okay. Okay. Bye.”

He flips his phone shut and drops it on the carpet, putting both palms to his eyes and holding them there, cigarette still dangling. Andrew’s eyes close, but he hears it when Neil sighs and stands, moving carefully to the door. He can sense him pausing at the foot of the bed and watching Andrew for a moment, and then he says, “you’re awake.”

“Yes,” Andrew replies, not opening his eyes. “You were having a heart-to-heart two feet from my sickbed.” He can tell that Neil’s gnawing his lip. He can almost hear the skin tearing.

“Did it bother you?”

“You are constantly bothering me.”

“I mean—“

“I know what you mean. I do not care what you do or do not tell Boyd.”

“I think,” Neil starts, “that he was too surprised that you have a human response to viral infection to use it against you.” He sounds torn between annoyance and amusement, and Andrew cracks an eye at him.

“I don’t need soup,” he informs him, and Neil sags, walking heavily over to the bed and dropping down in front of it. It’s so dramatic that Andrew might have left the room, if he were mobile.

“What do you need?”

They look at each other, and the only sound in the room is from the galloping fan and their breathing.

“Get in bed,” Andrew says finally, trying halfheartedly to make it seem like it’s not an answer to his question.

Neil’s eyes go cotton-soft, grateful. He puts his face down on the blankets in front of him, and Andrew stares at the slip of a cowlick on the top of his head.

“Painkillers first,” he murmurs. “Aaron got you NyQuil, and there’s Vicks in the bathroom cupboard.”

Andrew lets him talk, and knows that he’s been searching for ways to fix this, asking their teammates and the internet. There’s a bow in Andrew’s chest, and Neil always seems to have a grip on both slippery loose ends. The knot of it keeps giving and giving and giving.

Neil stands again, hesitating. “Thanks for trusting me with this,” he says softly. He closes the door behind him, and it clicks into place like it’s embarrassed.

Andrew blinks. Gluey sickness peels back just enough for him to recognize that he’s enjoying himself somewhere through his gummy symptoms. Neil treats a nasty flu with the same attentive concern that he affords gunshot wounds, that he never seems to give his own pain.

He’s never taken care of someone, and Andrew’s never been taken care of, but it works, somehow, it makes sense. That garage door swings inward and the warmth wriggles back into Andrew’s fingers.

Neil comes back in with a tray full of over-the-counter medications spread out like a dessert sampler, and Andrew coughs, hard, over the unfamiliar twitch of laughter in his throat.

Neil sleeps through the time that practice usually falls, and Andrew holds him to his chest, too hot to sleep. Neil bought him strawberry lozenges designed for kids, and Andrew’s halfway through the pack, mouth buzzing. The sun melts, a slab of ice cream on the hot horizon.

“Hey, knock knock,” Nicky says suddenly from the doorway, and Andrew’s keenly aware of how debauched their room looks, the wrappers and kleenex and clothes and heat, Neil crushed to Andrew’s body. “I just wanted to see if you were okay, and I knew neither of you were offering any updates, so hey, I’m here. Are you okay?”

Andrew means to say ‘leave’ but what actually comes out is “yes”. The painkillers must be there, behind his teeth, loosening his tongue. Nicky beams. Neil hitches his leg higher over his hip. Andrew pinches his eyes shut.

When he opens them again, Nicky is gone, and so is the sun. But Neil’s there, shivering without a blanket, mouth wet at Andrew’s clavicle. He sighs into his hair, and the breath comes easy. His chest is clear.

[fuzic]

7 Beauty Tips To Fight The Summer Heat Wave In 2021

With the scorching summer nearing us, we tell you beauty tips to follow to beat the heat

These basic lifestyle changes are a must for the summer season; Image Credit: Pexels

While summer loving is a time to unwind and get your bright colourful dresses on display, it is in fact the heat which crushes all dreams and hopes for the season. During the scorching Indian summer, we are all at the mercy of air conditioners as the sun sucks the life out of us and creates trouble with body hydration, beautiful skin and flawless hair. Unlike any weather, summer demands for special treatment for your hair and skin and even though all we've probably told you yet is the bad news, we've got some good news too. Get prepped beforehand as we tell you some of the best beauty tips you can follow for the upcoming summer season.

Also Read: Home Remedies For Dry Skin In Summer: Face Packs For Hydrated Skin At Home

7 Beauty Tips To Follow To Look After Your Skin And Hair

These simple changes in your beauty regime will completely transform you from being a hot mess this summer.

1. Hydrate! Hydrate!

You've probably heard this before and you're going to hear it from us yet again. The cheapest and easiest way to keep yourself hydrated is by consuming ample amounts of water on a daily basis. Not only does it cools your system but cleanses it as well. Do the math then - if you're clean on the inside, you're most definitely clean on the outside. The good old H2O does wonders for your skin to naturally give you a glowing sheen all throughout the year. Give your skin and hair that added boost of hydration with products with ingredients such as ceramide, aqua and glycerine and don't forget your regular hair oil massages.

2. Don't Go Away From Sunscreen

Unlike the first point, this obvious second is what we've heard many times but are always neglecting it. We can't stress this any further but do not leave your house without sunscreen, ladies! Direct sunlight on the skin cause sunburns, pigmentation and dark spots, everything we absolutely hate to have on our skin. Choose the correct formula depending on your skin; a gel formula for oily skin types will give a mattifying look while a moisturising formula will leave your dry skin dewy all while protecting it.

Choose a sunscreen based on your skin type for flawless skin; Image Credit: Pexels

3. Use Waterproof And Lightweight Makeup

Nobody loves oil creasing eyelids or an oily foundation that melts on the skin. Choose lightweight makeup formulas for a summer-friendly look without working about your makeup running all over. Ditch your liquid foundations for a powder based one or better still a lightweight BB cream for a fresh dewy look. Use waterproof mascaras to avoid panda eyes, lip and cheek stains for the usual blushes that will allow your skin to breathe too while working its magic.

4. Avoid Overheating Your Hair

We get it, you just got a haircut recently, it looks on fleek, you want to show it off. We get it. However, no matter how perfect your luscious locks are after your blow dry, all you're doing is draining your hair off of its natural oils leaving them dry and lifeless. Make way for heatless curls or natural waves this season and keep the moisture locked in with natural serums for that perfectly shiny hair. Instead experiment with different hairstyles for all lengths of hair to keep the style quotient high but minus the damage.

Also Read: 6 Biggest Hairstyle Trends To Look Out For In 2021

5. Follow The Basic Cleanse, Tone, Moisturise Routine

Our pores tend to enlarge during the summer months as a means for the skin to breathe easily. What this usually results in is excessive sweat and dirt clogging the pores leading to blackheads and breakouts. The simple cleanse, tone and moisturise beauty routine isn't just the most basic way to look after your skin but also the most effective. Based on your skin type, use a gentle cleanser, toner and moisturiser and follow it up with a mild exfoliator once a week to get rid of dry cells forming on the surface of your skin.

Cleansing, toning and moisturising is essential all throughout the year; Image Credit: Pexels

6. Choose Natural Products

Even though over-the-counter products are easier to access and lest we forget cheaper to join the beauty and skincare bandwagon, it is always good to understand the ingredients going inside it. Some trends may seem tempting to try but aren't always effective for your skin. Herbal products are always better alternatives like pure rosewater to the easily available drugstore variants. Even better are products that can be easily found in your own kitchen pantry that can work wonders for your skin.

7. Dare To Go Bare

This is definitely easier said than done but for those who do dare, going bare is the greatest things you co do for your skin. Sweat and excessive pollution can clog your pores, leaving your skin with breakouts and dark spots and nobody has the time to deal with. By going sans makeup products on your skin, not only are you letting it breathe but you're also allowing yourself to soak in that Vitamin D naturally.

Also Read: 8 Shower Creams That Won't Dry Out Your Skin In Summer

[lezfody]

7 Beauty Tips To Fight The Summer Heat Wave In 2021

With the scorching summer nearing us, we tell you beauty tips to follow to beat the heat

These basic lifestyle changes are a must for the summer season; Image Credit: Pexels

While summer loving is a time to unwind and get your bright colourful dresses on display, it is in fact the heat which crushes all dreams and hopes for the season. During the scorching Indian summer, we are all at the mercy of air conditioners as the sun sucks the life out of us and creates trouble with body hydration, beautiful skin and flawless hair. Unlike any weather, summer demands for special treatment for your hair and skin and even though all we've probably told you yet is the bad news, we've got some good news too. Get prepped beforehand as we tell you some of the best beauty tips you can follow for the upcoming summer season.

Also Read: Home Remedies For Dry Skin In Summer: Face Packs For Hydrated Skin At Home

7 Beauty Tips To Follow To Look After Your Skin And Hair

These simple changes in your beauty regime will completely transform you from being a hot mess this summer.

1. Hydrate! Hydrate!

You've probably heard this before and you're going to hear it from us yet again. The cheapest and easiest way to keep yourself hydrated is by consuming ample amounts of water on a daily basis. Not only does it cools your system but cleanses it as well. Do the math then - if you're clean on the inside, you're most definitely clean on the outside. The good old H2O does wonders for your skin to naturally give you a glowing sheen all throughout the year. Give your skin and hair that added boost of hydration with products with ingredients such as ceramide, aqua and glycerine and don't forget your regular hair oil massages.

2. Don't Go Away From Sunscreen

Unlike the first point, this obvious second is what we've heard many times but are always neglecting it. We can't stress this any further but do not leave your house without sunscreen, ladies! Direct sunlight on the skin cause sunburns, pigmentation and dark spots, everything we absolutely hate to have on our skin. Choose the correct formula depending on your skin; a gel formula for oily skin types will give a mattifying look while a moisturising formula will leave your dry skin dewy all while protecting it.

Choose a sunscreen based on your skin type for flawless skin; Image Credit: Pexels

3. Use Waterproof And Lightweight Makeup

Nobody loves oil creasing eyelids or an oily foundation that melts on the skin. Choose lightweight makeup formulas for a summer-friendly look without working about your makeup running all over. Ditch your liquid foundations for a powder based one or better still a lightweight BB cream for a fresh dewy look. Use waterproof mascaras to avoid panda eyes, lip and cheek stains for the usual blushes that will allow your skin to breathe too while working its magic.

4. Avoid Overheating Your Hair

We get it, you just got a haircut recently, it looks on fleek, you want to show it off. We get it. However, no matter how perfect your luscious locks are after your blow dry, all you're doing is draining your hair off of its natural oils leaving them dry and lifeless. Make way for heatless curls or natural waves this season and keep the moisture locked in with natural serums for that perfectly shiny hair. Instead experiment with different hairstyles for all lengths of hair to keep the style quotient high but minus the damage.

Also Read: 6 Biggest Hairstyle Trends To Look Out For In 2021

5. Follow The Basic Cleanse, Tone, Moisturise Routine

Our pores tend to enlarge during the summer months as a means for the skin to breathe easily. What this usually results in is excessive sweat and dirt clogging the pores leading to blackheads and breakouts. The simple cleanse, tone and moisturise beauty routine isn't just the most basic way to look after your skin but also the most effective. Based on your skin type, use a gentle cleanser, toner and moisturiser and follow it up with a mild exfoliator once a week to get rid of dry cells forming on the surface of your skin.

Cleansing, toning and moisturising is essential all throughout the year; Image Credit: Pexels

6. Choose Natural Products

Even though over-the-counter products are easier to access and lest we forget cheaper to join the beauty and skincare bandwagon, it is always good to understand the ingredients going inside it. Some trends may seem tempting to try but aren't always effective for your skin. Herbal products are always better alternatives like pure rosewater to the easily available drugstore variants. Even better are products that can be easily found in your own kitchen pantry that can work wonders for your skin.

7. Dare To Go Bare

This is definitely easier said than done but for those who do dare, going bare is the greatest things you co do for your skin. Sweat and excessive pollution can clog your pores, leaving your skin with breakouts and dark spots and nobody has the time to deal with. By going sans makeup products on your skin, not only are you letting it breathe but you're also allowing yourself to soak in that Vitamin D naturally.

Also Read: 8 Shower Creams That Won't Dry Out Your Skin In Summer