#that and the whole film school application. shivers.

[astralsi]

hi everyone! i havent been simming much due to work + a bloated mods folder that im too lazy to clean out JHDSHJDF but when i do it's mostly making unfinished builds, a semi? realistic simself and spinning eve around in various outfits

(ps if u for some reason wanna hear more from me i also post a lil on @heartrrot sometimes)

[shxllxfx]

Flirtatious || David “Deacon” Kay

David "Deacon" Kay x Street!Reader, Jim Street x Sister!Reader

Summary: Jim's little sister visits and turns the life of a special Sergeant upside down.

Warnings: English is not my mothertounge. GIF isn’t mine, credit to owner.

A/N: I hope you all like this, let me know what you think. Love you all lots 💋

Words: 2097

Taglist: @browngirldominion

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For Deacon it was a normal day. At least what he could call normal since Annie left him. They tried as good as possible to make everything as easy as they could for the kids and they were as understanding as children could be. He stayed at the house with the kids while Annie went to her sister, who lived just down the street. It was Annie's wish. So in the morning, Deacon got up and ready, made breakfast and got the kids up for school. Annie would pick them up after. That was their routine since almost a year now. Once he got to work everything was as usual and normal as his day at work could be. Until she arrived.

*

With your travel bag over your shoulder and your favorite hot drink in your hand you slowly left the airport and headed towards the cabs. You missed LA. The burning heat in summer, the beach, and the waves and maybe even your younger brother. But if there was one thing about LA you didn’t miss it was traffic. You sighed when the driver had to stop yet again. "The traffic, huh?" He sighed. "Gonna be the death of me one day." You gave him a soft smile and nodded. "Well I surely didn't miss it." He laughed. Whole heartedly laughed. A big grin grew on your face. He was mid-fifties, no hair on his head but a full grayish beard in his face. "Vacation was that good?" You shook your head slightly as he stopped the car in front of the big compound. "No vacation. Lived out of city for some time but I'm coming back now." You paid him and gave him a soft smile with a quick thank you before leaving the cab and heading towards the entrance.

You knew these people were thorough but having to go through a complete body and back check that was worse than the one on the airport was something you didn’t expect. Another thing you didn’t expect was being escorted to your younger brother by some big muscular looking dude. "Sorry to interrupt Lieutenant, Commander. Street you've got a visitor." The guy stepped aside and gave you a chance to investigate the big room where some people were standing around a big table. "Y/N/N? No way!" Jim sprinted towards you and you opened your arms wide for him to hug you tight. He kissed the side of your head while picking you up slightly. "God I've missed you! You didn’t tell me you were back!" You chuckled when he let you down and gave him a big grin. "Well, surprise?" You shrugged before looking at his colleagues, all staring at the pair of you. "If you are busy now, I can come back later. Just wanted to see my little brother first thing." He rolled his eyes at you but then turned his head to the lieutenant, who gave him a nod. "It's alright. You wanna meet the team?" Now your heartbeat increased a bit. Meeting new people always made you nervous. You gave him a nod and dried your hands from the little film of sweat forming on it.

"So that's Lieutenant Lynch and Commander Hicks, my bosses. Sergeant Daniel Harrelson or Hondo, as we call him. Officers Dominic Luca, Chris Alonso, and Victor Tan. And lastly Sergeant David, or Deacon, Kay." You gave every single one of them a small smile while being introduced. Jim had his hand reassuringly on your back in between your shoulder blades. "It's nice to finally get to know the lot of you. Jim talks about you nonstop. I'm Y/N." The girl in the group, Chris, gave you a comforting smile. "Street talks about you all the time, too. He said you studied medicine?" You looked at Jim and raised an eyebrow. "Street, huh?" He just scoffed. "Yeah, I finished 4 weeks ago, now I'm just waiting to start practicing." Jim removed his hand from your back and gave your shoulder a short squeeze. The other Sergeant, Deacon had his arms crossed before his chest and gave you a soft smile when you locked eyes. "I'm sure you'll get a job soon." His voice made you shiver a bit, like an electroshock. "Thank you." You smiled softly and looked down. You needed to break the eye contact, otherwise you would have melted right away.

*

It had been some time since you came back and you and Jim had been spending more time together than ever. He had allowed you to stay with him and Luca at the house till you found a place for yourself and till you got a job. Since they were close as a team, they often spend time with each other, so obviously Jim dragged you along. You stepped out of the hospital your application file clutched to your chest as a big smile grew on your face. You tried to control the outburst of happiness that grew in your chest but failed miserably as you let out a little laugh. You had to talk to Jim. You needed to tell him. Since you were a little child and Jimmy and you had been sitting up all night, in the foster care bedroom, talking about your dreams and plans. His had been the police, the swat and your dream had always been working in a hospital. You got into your car an old Toyota you bought and drove to the swat compound. By now they all knew you but that didn’t stop the body and purse check by the entrance. As always, an officer escorted you to your younger brothers’ team. "Y/N" Hondo greeted you and gave you a brief hug. Deacon looked up from the computer he was working at and gave you a big smile. "Street isn't here and I have somewhere to be but I'm sure Deacon will keep you company till Street is back." With that he left and you turned around, your body still bubbling with happiness. You sat down on one of the chairs, not wanting to disturb Deacon who seemed to be working on something but your body was filled with so much energy that you got up right away. Deacon looked at you and stopped what he was doing. "What's got you all excited?" He asked and gave you a warm smile. A smile that could literally melt anyone. "Okay I really wanted to wait until Jim is back but I really need to tell someone." You took two energetic steps towards him, hands shaking from all the happiness. "The hospital I applied with gave me the job." You blurted out, stumbling over your words. Even if Deacon didn’t know the long backstory of you wanting to help people, be there for them at their worst and be there for them to get better, he could feel the importance of your statement. "Congratulations. That's awesome, Y/N." He wrapped an arm around you and pulled you in for a hug, which you happily accepted. "Thank you. I've been working so hard for this; you don’t even know." You whispered and let go of him. You were still shaking and your cheeks started to hurt from smiling so wide. You whipped over your face and as you lowered your hands you took yours in his. They were warm and rough, sending small electroshocks through your whole body. "You are shaking." He stated, applying a little pressure on your palms, trying to calm you. "I'm just so excited and happy about it. It's... I've always dreamt of this." You heard footsteps behind you and when you turned around Jim walked in. You slowly slipped your hands out of his, the warmth leaving you. "Jimmy!" You hugged him tightly and your happiness and excitement started to bubble up again, pushing aside the weird feeling the situation with Deacon gave you. Right now, the only important thing was telling Jim about your day.

*

You were currently siting on the sofa while Jim and Luca were playing a game. Hondo was leaning against the counter sitting on his beer while talking to Chis and Tan. They were fun to be around and great to talk to. "Got you another one since yours was empty." Deacon handed you another bottle and plopped himself down on the sofa next to you. "Thank you" you grinned while pulling your legs to your chest. Since the situation a couple of days ago you and Deacon haven’t spoken to each other but even right now only hearing his voice felt like pure electricity in your veins. A weird feeling you had never felt. "You are so quiet today, everything okay?" He nudged your side with his elbow and you looked up at him. With a small nod and smile you put the bottle to your lips. "I think..." your little brother slurred, putting an arm over Lucas shoulder who just won again, "I think that we should take a picture. To remember this glorious day and Luca winning against me." A small laughter escaped your lips when you jumped up, always ready to keep memories as a picture. You reached out to Deacon, waiting for him to take your hand while the others already formed to a small bundle. Chris put up her phone with timer and when Deacon grabbed your hand and let you pull him up, Chris pushed the button, only leaving enough time for you and Deacon to stumble into the picture. It was only after the flash went off and the picture was taken that you realized the hand on your hip and the other one still in your hand. While the others fussed about seeing the picture you just stood there for a second before Deacon quickly pulled away both hands, winking at you when he left you all flustered. You didn’t know if it was the alcohol in your veins or the simple fact that the warmth you had from having him next to you was gone, but something inside you screamed for his presence.

It was getting late, Hondo and Chris already left and you were just bringing Tan outside to his cab while Luca, Jim and Deacon were having a conversation about being in the swat. "It was really nice; we have to do that again sometime." Tan laughed while getting in the cab. You gave him a small smile and wave when the cab left. The fresh night air was soft and nice against your skin. The sky was full of stars. You sat down on the bench in the garden, taking a deep breath in, eyes closed. "Here you are" Deacon walked toward you, hands in pockets. He had a small smile playing on his lips. You simply had to smile back. "It’s so pretty out here" You stated, smiling up at the sky. "Yeah it is." He said. When you looked at him, he was looking at you. You felt something warm around your heart. For a brief second you held his eye contact, before looking at your hands. "Well that was cheesy." You muttered and he chuckled quietly. "But true." He was whispering so quietly that you almost didn’t hear him. For a moment everything was quiet. He softly grabbed your hand. "You should go back inside. I just got a cab and Street and Luca are going to sleep soon." You let him pull you up, till you were standing so close you could feel his body heat and you could swear that if you would have breathed just a bit quieter you would have actually been able to hear his heart beat. “Spending time with you guys has really been awesome. I understand why Jim loves you all so much.” With a smile on his lips he hummed. He was still holding your hand in his but you didn’t bother to take it away. It felt good. Familiar. Deacon stopped right in front of the door. With a questioning look you stopped as well, your eyes on him as you waited for an explanation for his stop. With a soft smile he stared back at you. “Maybe we could spend some time together. Just the two of us?” You were confused and raised an eyebrow. “I am asking you to go on a date with me, Y/N. If you want to?” The confused look on your face changed to a soft smile which turned to a grin. The warm feeling in your stomach grew. “Yes, Deacon. Id like that very much.”

[homebody-nobody]

these skeletons got ways of coming out

k so I actually published this a few days ago but tumblr was being a butt so I couldn’t cross-post it til now anyway This is a Pope Heyward character study that ABSOLUTELY NO ONE ASKED FOR and I wrote anyway bc I needed to fix him before I could use him as a character in the rest of this series. If you disagree with the way that I've extrapolated very little data into detailed headcanons, I don't blame you but also just like read elsewhere

title from "Brother" by Kodaline ------ ao3 ------

And that -- the intersection of John B and Kiara -- the overlay of his two best friends in his heart -- that’s what scares him.

Pope realizes some things after the Phantom goes down. Things that change the way he lives his life ------

I used to be free Of any fear of emotion But these skeletons got ways of coming out I used to believe That someday you'd see That baby you got devotion in every little motion

And I won't see the storm When the rain's coming down Never let you go Never let you go Even when the madness has broken you apart Even when the madness has broken you apart

Objectively, Pope is not an idiot. He knows this. He gets good grades, and he knows more about computers and physics and a lot of other things than the rest of any of his friends. He’s a smart kid. Even though he skipped out on his scholarship interview and his grades took a very sudden dip at the end of last semester, he has a solid GPA, a fantastic ACT score, and a glittering array of colleges waiting for his application in the fall. He’s spent his entire life waiting for his chance to get out of the Cut and prove all of those motherfuckers on Figure Eight wrong. He has potential. So why, when it comes to the simplest of things, does he feel so lost?

He was sure he was in love with Kiara. Dead certain. Everything lines up. She’s kind and beautiful and intelligent, everything that matters. He feels comfortable around her, natural, like he doesn’t have to try to be funny or charming, like he’s not constantly afraid of fucking up. Everything he’s read about being in love, all the books and the articles -- it all follows. And it’s a good story, one other people will nod their heads and smile at, high school sweethearts, best friends who found solace in each other during the most difficult part of their young lives. But there’s something about it that still feels -- wrong. Uncomfortable. Like there’s the Pope that everyone else sees and then the Pope that he is, and the one in love with Kiara isn’t the same one who lays in his bed at night and stares at the ceiling fan begging for his brain to shut up.

It’s strange, to feel so separate from himself and the life he lives. He doesn’t think it’s normal. He wishes he could talk to his friends about it. It’s not like they’re dumb, the rest of the pogues. Well, not fundamentally so, anyway. John B and JJ definitely make interesting decisions sometimes. But they all inhabit their bodies without question, so sure in their skin and the feeling that they belong with each other. He slips in and out of that too readily to feel completely comfortable at every boneyard party and through every misinformed adventure. The ease is less a standard and more a pleasant surprise; there are some nights when his friends fall quiet around a bonfire and Pope realizes he can’t stop smiling, that he loves every single one of them with his whole heart and he knows they love him, too. And then he starts doubting himself, and gets nervous and quiet and weird again, and they all brush it off as Pope being Pope -- but he’s an outsider even in their little chosen family and that starts to chafe, after a while.

Honestly, he was doing a pretty excellent job of not thinking about it until John B died. Or disappeared. Or whatever you call it when your best friend goes out in an open boat in the middle of a storm and disappears off the radio and the capsized boat is found three days later with no sign of him or his kook girlfriend. Pope’s angry at him, for that. He also really, really hates Sarah, for driving him to make that choice. For her. If it was him, he would have made John B turn around. He should have tried to stop him in the first place. He shouldn’t have helped get him to the Phantom , shouldn’t have let him go.

He hasn’t been haunted by guilt like this since JJ took the blame for sinking the wakesetter, and, for some reason, this is worse. It chews at him, a constant gnawing in the center of his chest that leaves him empty and hurting every second, swallowed by a hunger consuming itself. He hasn’t stopped thinking about John B since that deadly, neverending moment of radio static. Memories flash on a constant film reel through his head. Surfing at Rixon’s, parties at the boneyard, bonfires at the chateau, afternoons on the HMS Pogue. All the moments this summer when John B smiled and Pope followed, unquestioning.

Surfing the surge. That was so beyond stupid, and Pope knew it, even before they got to the beach and saw the huge, angry waves. But John B asked, with that insane glint in his eye that he always got when he caught hold of an idea, unable to let it go, so Pope went. Someone had to keep him alive when Kie wasn’t around. And that -- the intersection of John B and Kiara -- the overlay of his two best friends in his heart -- that’s what scares him.

The whole summer, he’d watched them, first their strange tension with an undercurrent of possibility that tugged at his stomach and made him feel sick, and then their familiar platonic intimacy as they finally became comfortable in what they were to each other. Jealousy pinched and prodded at every moment of eye contact, every kiss on his cheek or lighthearted shove of her shoulder. And the way his heart soared at the salvage yard when John B told them she’d rejected him. That had to have meant something -- and what followed logic was that Pope was into Kie, and he wished himself in John B’s place.

Right?

The night the Phantom goes down, Pope thinks he’s the one who should be dead. His parents arrive to take him home, talking to him about how worried they were, how happy they are to see him safe, but his head is still full of that gut-wrenching radio static. He doesn’t hear anything they say as he watches red and blue lights dance across their faces. They pull him into a fierce hug, JJ tugged in next to him, and all he feels is hollow.

Every step he takes echoes off the side of the tunnel of his thoughts, black and void. He stays as still as he can, spread-eagle across his bed, still dressed, just to avoid the clanging of the empty air when he moves. The barest stimulation is too much, the dimmest light blinding. His chest feels like someone has reached in and turned his ribs inside out, split them with a chest-cracker and opened him up on a steel table. In the far, unexplored regions of his imagination, he can see his own autopsy, surgery performed on a perfectly silent boy, hands at his sides, eyes still open, heart still beating.

Night falls around him, from grey dusk to the unforgiving ink-black you can only get in power outages on a tiny island fighting to breathe through the salt marsh. The only thing that drives him from his bed is the urgent cry of his bladder, and it’s easier to get dressed for bed once he’s already moving across the floor. The floorboards creak under his feet and while he would normally walk lightly for fear of being hassled for waking the house the next morning, his steps are heavy and dragging. Staring at the counter, he reaches for his toothbrush and squeezes toothpaste out onto the worn bristles. He puts it in his mouth and looks up, making eye contact reflection for the first time.

You love him.  

The realization hits him as clearly as if someone had whispered directly in his ear. It’s like an icepick through the center of his exposed, defenseless heart. He lowers the toothbrush slowly, the silence of the house ringing in his ears like sirens. His breath quickens, his bare chest rising and falling as he backs away from the counter, fear and grief and disappointment and a thousand other things he can’t name swirling in him like the storm that ended life the way he knew it. The tears start, flowing down his face silently at first and then, as he loses all control of his breath and his hands find their way into his hair, accompanied by gut-wrenching, heartbreaking sobs, broken sounds of grief and loss in too many respects.

Heyward rushes down the hall, throwing the door open, fear for his son wild in his eyes. He finds Pope doubled over, hyperventilating, face a mess of snot and tears, eyes squeezed closed, as he shakes and sobs. After a moment in the door, he pushes in, pulling Pope into his chest, wrapping firm, solid arms built from hard work and weather-beaten skin around him. “It’s gonna be alright, kid,” he whispers as Pope shivers violently against him. “It’s gonna be alright.”

Pope doesn’t remember being folded into his bed, or how the glass of water and bottle of Advil ended up on his bedside table. He wakes up well into the afternoon, the room heavy and sticky with the day’s heat, the air conditioning rendered useless with the lack of electricity. The golden light fools him into a pleasant kind of ignorance for half a moment before the reality of the previous night crashes over him ,and suddenly the comfy nest of his bed feels like a prison, sucking him down like quicksand into the mattress. He puts his hands over his face, pressing fingertips into aching eyes, trying to keep himself calm by counting backwards from four hundred, a number with each breath. When he reaches three hundred and fifty four he feels like he might be able to move again, and he reaches for the water and gulps it down, a note stuck to the bottom fluttering to the floor.

He swings his legs out of bed to pick it up, recognizing his mother’s handwriting on the pink post-it note, smudged and running from the condensation. Breakfast in the fridge , it says, don’t worry about the store. Rest. We love you. It makes his skin itch, rather than being comforting. The storm in his head turns a tide toward guilt, like he’s keeping a secret that he just learned, himself. The bed calls, but he knows that if he collapses back into it he won’t move for the rest of the day, and that he should stand before he changes his mind. The ache in his belly forces him up, and he pads through the empty house, feeling halfway like a ghost. Eggs with peppers and cheese, sausage, and hashbrowns are on a covered plate in the fridge, and he unwraps it and puts it in the microwave, watching the food rotate as his mind comes to grips with consciousness.

He’s in love with John B. The boy that taught him how to play beer pong and smoke a bowl, the surfer that pushes him while they’re out on the water, daring him to bigger and bigger tricks, making him better. The idiot that chases gold and kook girls without a glance at impossibility, simply because he has no understanding of the idea. The John B that died last night.

The microwave beeps and he takes his food to the counter, hunched over it, twisting a fork between his fingers and feeling like his stomach might feel better on the outside of him. He takes a few bites, to see if maybe just the potatoes might go down easy, but they taste like ash, and he sits back from the plate, sore and exhausted. He wanders through the house and eventually back up to his room, standing in front of his closet, knowing he should get dressed but overwhelmed by even the simplest choice. Finally, he just pulls on a plain t-shirt over his basketball shorts, and, after catching a glimpse of his hair, puts a snapback on backwards. He doesn’t feel like sitting, so he doesn’t, tucking his keys in his pocket and sliding on a pair of flip flops, leaving the house without his phone or any sort of destination, just walking as his thoughts churn and crash over each other without being much of anything at all.

The heat sends sweat rolling down his temples and between his shoulder blades but he barely feels it, keeping his eyes on his feet as he shuffles down the side of the road. Normally, he’d be listening for any sound that might indicate Rafe or Topper coming up behind him, constantly judging the proximity of the cars, quietly bemoaning the blister forming under his left big toe from the strap of his sandal. But the only thing he senses is the slap of his shoes against the asphalt, carrying him aimlessly across the island.

His own denial fights vocally to be heard under the stifling realization, but it’s something he’s been pushing down for years, ignoring even as the obvious signs wiggled their way into his every day life, like the goosebumps at John B’s touch or the expansion of his chest when John B laughed. It was always there, waiting for him to see it, quietly growing and climbing its way like ivy from his heart to his head, finally bursting from underneath his skin at the worst possible moment.

He’s going to have to tell his dad. There won’t be any way to explain the grief crashing over him without the truth. That settles itself on his shoulders right next to the realization itself and everything else he’s been holding up for months. Knowing the name of it, at least, makes it easier to handle. He’s been carrying around his feelings for John B without knowing what they were, mis-assigning them to Kiara and fucking up what’s probably his favorite friendship. He’s gonna have to tell her, too. He’s not looking forward to that.

As he walks, it settles in, making a home along with all the other true things about him. Pope Heyward. Black. Sixteen years of age. Six feet tall. Pogue. And, he guesses, gay. Maybe bi. But probably gay. Looking back, no girl has ever made him feel the way that John B makes -- he swallows. Used to make him feel. With his stupid floppy hair and his kind brown eyes and that absurd jawline. Tears cloud his eyes and the path in front of him blurs. His best friend is dead . And it took that horrible, heart-shattering tragedy for him to figure out how he felt about him.

He keeps walking for a while, choking back tears and half-planning conversations with his parents and Kie, listening to the slap of his sandals on the cracked asphalt littered with long, dry pine needles and cracked seed pods, signalling the nearing end of summer. He feels, gratefully, a little more clear-headed, less freaked out than he thought he would be. He always feels better, having a plan, no matter how vague and ineffectual that plan may turn out to be.

After a while, he looks up, and finds himself in Figure Eight -- a very dangerous place to be, given the current social climate of the island -- not very far from Kie’s house. He heaves a sigh. Better now than later. Pausing before mounting the porch, Pope spares a second of a regret for his appearance. Kiara’s parents have never been keen on him or either of the other boys, and he knows that showing up in tattered shorts and flip flops won’t exactly help his case. Anna opens the door, looking surprised to see him, and Pope is momentarily relieved it isn’t Kie’s father.

“Good morning,” she says, wary.

“Hi,” Pope replies, lacking his usual magical parent-charming abilities, exhaustion and grief sapping the energy from his bones. There’s an awkward pause as Mrs. Carrera awaits the explanation of a rattily dressed pogue boy on her porch and Pope scrambles for one. He settles on the obvious. “Is Kie here?” He doesn’t know where else she’d be, honestly, but it’s the usual go-to for when they’re dragging Kie back to the Cut for nonsense and potential delinquency, and he’s hoping her mom won’t question it.

“She’s not,” Anna says, concern coloring her tone. “She isn’t with you?” Pope feels his eyebrows draw together, a betrayal of his own confusion, an immediate admittance of guilt.

“I, uh --” he says eloquently as panic overtakes Anna’s face. “I mean, she --” He’s saved by the girl herself riding down the sidewalk on a bike that looks like it’s seen better days, rattling loudly as she cruises toward the house. “There she is!” he says, with a disturbing amount of forced enthusiasm that puts the same expression on Kie and Anna’s faces. “So, we’re all good. Thanks, Mrs. C!”

But Anna isn’t gonna let her daughter slide so easily. “Kiara,” she says, ���You weren’t in your room this morning.”

“I went for a bike ride,” Kie replies coldly. “I needed to think.”

“For three hours?” Anna asks, crossing her arms over her chest.

Kie shrugs. “I needed to think a lot.” Anna looks like she wants a little more information out of her daughter, but she looks at Pope, clearly reluctant to start a fight with him around. He feels caught, standing on the porch between mother and daughter, like he’s in a room with a half-constructed bomb. Kie’s hands fidget with the handlebars. “C’mon, Pope,” she says.

“No way,” Anna interjects. Kie opens her mouth like she wants to argue, but her mother’s words cut her off. “You two can hang out on the porch for a while, but when you’re done,” and here, she looks at Kiara like she might actually commit murder if her daughter doesn’t listen to her, “Come inside. We have a lot to talk about.”

Kie heaves a heavy breath. “Fine,” she says. Satisfied, Anna turns and goes inside. Pope drops off the porch and walks with Kie as she walks the bike over to the garage.

“Hey,” he says, his heart in his throat. This is a complete turnaround from the emptiness of earlier, every inch of him hyper aware of her body language, the changes in her expression and her attitude towards him. His entire life feels like a shipwreck, dashed against the rocks after careful years of building, after months of planning the perfect voyage. “Bike ride?” he asks, because he always knows when she’s lying.

She props her bike up against the side of the garage. “I was with JJ,” she blows out on a sigh. She doesn’t look at him as they walk around to the back porch. “At the Chateau.” Pulling her hair out of it’s ponytail, she splits it over her shoulders, fidgeting nervously with the ends. “I didn’t want him to be alone.”

He’s about to say that he was alone, that maybe he wanted to have his friends around him, too, but then he remembers his father catching him in the bathroom, waking up in his own bed, water and a note on the bedside table. JJ wouldn’t have gotten any of that. He can’t even go home, not after Luke Maybank finds out what happened to his precious Phantom . With John B -- gone -- JJ doesn’t have anyone left. Except for them. And Pope was too wrapped up in his own grief and bullshit to think about something like that. He takes a second to be grateful for Kiara.

They reach the steps to the Carrera’s back porch, and she sits down on the second-to-last one. “I have something to tell you,” she says, and she still won’t look at him. Half of him wonders what she’s upset about while the other hopes she can’t hear his heartbeat, it’s pounding so loud in his own ears.

Slowly, he sinks down next to her, the morning sun radiant across her skin, amplified by the reflection off the channel. He takes a deep breath. “I have something to tell you, too.” Her eyebrows draw together. He licks his lips. She pulls her knees up to her chest. He stares at his feet. They’re afraid of each other, and the awkward tension in the air makes him hate every wrong thing he said, every lie he told her, even though he believed them when he said it. She doesn’t say anything else, and he takes that as his cue to go first. He looks up, before he says anything, taking in her kind brown eyes, the soft lines of her kind, intelligent face. He wants one last picture of her before he changes everything. “I don’t love you,” he says.

Her face contorts in an expression of surprise and offense, and he rapidly backpedals. “I mean, I do.” he says. “Of course I do, but like, like a sister.”

“A sister,” she says incredulously, confusion rising in her eyes.

“Not -- Oh, fuck, that’s not --” He drops his head in his hands, his blood rushing so loudly in his ears he can’t hear himself think. “This is not going well.”

“No shit,” she says, but there’s a little bit of relief in her voice. This bumbling, tripping-over-his-words Pope makes a lot more sense than the one that lost his shit and nearly killed Rafe Cameron the previous day. (And God, was that only yesterday?) He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, and she notices his breath start to quicken. “Pope?” she asks, leaning forward and putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Kie, I’m gay.” It falls out of his mouth like a boulder, hitting the ground and shaking the earth with its weight. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, and it’s terrifying, to have it so concrete in front of him, no longer nebulous and trapped in his head. He can’t take it back, can’t lie about it anymore, to her or himself or anyone else. He has to live with that truth, now, no matter how he feels about it. Part of that, while intimidating, makes him feel just a little bit more free.

“Oh,” she says, and he’s too panicked to discern anything in her tone. “Okay.” He doesn’t want to look at her, doesn’t want to see the horror or anger or whatever else must be settling there.

He rushes to explain himself, like he didn’t hear. “I’m sorry that I thought I was in love with you,” he says, even as she feels a thousand worries slip from her shoulders like coming up from diving under a wave. “I just, I was jealous, and I thought that it was John B I was jealous of, but it wasn’t, it was you, and then he--” Pope blows by his name before he chokes on it, realizing what he’s said aloud, how dangerous and loaded a once-familiar thing has become. “It wasn’t him I was jealous of,” he repeats, lacing his fingers over the back of his head, dropping it to his chest. “It wasn’t him.” He squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing down the tears fighting their way up his throat.

Kie hesitates in reaching for him, but the moment her fingertips brush his shoulder, she falls against her best friend, wrapping her arms around him as best she can. “Oh, Pope,” she whispers, as tears well in her own eyes. “Oh Pope, I’m so sorry.” He falls into her embrace, all his anger and uncertainty dissipating like fog at dawn. They both cry for a while, her silently, him shaking. She does her best to comfort him, but his grief has taken on a different tone she can no longer imagine.

When his breath finally slows, he sits up out of her arms, wiping under his eyes. “You aren’t mad?” He asks, in true Pope fashion.

“Why would I be mad?” she asks, disbelief echoing in her words.

“Well, I was…” he sniffs, watching his hands fold over each other. “I was kind of a jerk about it.” He feels bad, about the way everything went down. He was drowning, in disappointment and confusion and a million other things he still doesn’t have words for that he wishes he could explain. He was an asshole to her when he should have listened and  

She knocks their shoulders together with half a sly smile. “Yeah, you kind of were.” It feels good to be joking with him like this again, after the last couple of days of chaos and anger and disappointment after disappointment. They’re best friends for a reason, her boys and her.

“And then --” he swallows, remembering the moments at the Dump after John B disappeared into the marsh, moments he still doesn’t understand. “Y-you kissed me, and --”

The smile falls off her face. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she says. She shifts her weight between her feet, her knees moving back and forth as they sit side by side on the porch steps, picking at her nails. “That wasn’t --” she looks at him, and he looks back. “I shouldn’t have done that.” She stretches her legs out in front of her, knocking her sneakers together, her hands dropping to her lap. “I have my own shit to figure out, Pope,” she says. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into it.”

Pope leans over, “You wanna talk about it?” he asks pointedly. He knows she likes to talk things through, make sense of them by pushing everything out into the atmosphere so she can see it all, pick out the pieces that make sense. He also doesn’t want to talk about him, anymore.

“No,” she says abruptly. He leans back into his own space, holding his hands up a little, and she bites her lip, like she does when she’s thinking too hard about what to say next. “I’m sorry,” she admits. “I just --” she knocks her feet together again before pulling them back up to the last step, her chin falling onto her knees. “I gotta think about it some more, I guess.” She looks at him, screwing up her face in that way that makes everyone agree that she’s adorable. “I’ve got some more I’ve gotta work out.”

“You know you can still talk to me, right?” he reassures her. He used to be the best listener, before he went and fucked everything up. Kie would talk to him about things John B and JJ would never understand, usually about parents or family pressure, things she felt guilty discussing with either one of their practically-orphaned friends. Pope understood, and it was easy to let Kie just let everything out, answering her own questions, defining problems and putting together solutions in the same breath. It’s part of the reason he assumed they would end up together, before -- well. Before. She trusted him, and he fucked that up, and now he can only hope that he can earn it back.

“I know,” she says, folding her arms on top of her knees and looking back out across the channel. “It’s not because of --” she stops, unsure of how to define it.

“Yeah,” he answers. He doesn’t want to talk about it either.

“It’s just --” she goes quiet for a second, picking through words like the wrong ones are rotten, and he watches her, the slight breeze off the water picking up strands of her hair. Her shoulder drops as she moves her head, and a few curls shift enough that he can see dark red marks tracking up the side of her neck. Hickies? “I don’t think I have words for it yet,” she says, finishing her sentence. JJ , he thinks, her confession about her absence this morning circling back through his mind. The word is JJ .

Pope isn’t blind. He sees the way JJ looks at her. He always has. It never unsettled him like the shared glances between Kie and John B, and now he knows why. It’s a little relieving, to not have to manufacture false jealousy in the pit of his stomach, to have to lie to himself in order to make his constructed, false worldview make sense. JJ and Kie -- they’re going to be something else to handle, with the inherent chaos of how they both handle their emotions and the forced bravado they both put on, but he supposes they were… inevitable, in a way. Kiara was misinterpreting her own feelings, just like he was, forcing herself to believe she loved someone who made more sense, someone that was easier to accept than confronting the truth. John B was his truth -- JJ is hers. He’s grateful, in a way, that they’ll have each other, through this -- once she gains the same clarity he’s come to.

“It’s okay,” he says, as everything slides into place. He’s not gonna rush this, not gonna make her take steps she’s not ready for. “You don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready.” She smiles at him -- a weak thing, but genuine.

“Thanks, Pope,” she says.

He shrugs. “What are best friends for?” She drops her head against his shoulder, and for the first time since Shoupe confirmed their worst fears, he feels like things might, someday, be okay again.

They stay like that for a while, and then she asks him if he wants to talk more about it, and Pope recounts the moment of clarity in the bathroom, his thought process on his walk across the island. Kie listens, because he��s still her best friend, and it’s one of his favorite things about her, the way she makes it so easy to let everything out, the way she makes him feel seen. She doesn’t say much, but she doesn’t have to, because everything is still so fresh and bleeding that he doesn’t know what he wants to hear, yet. She reassures him she still loves him, that she’ll stick with him no matter what, just like she’s always promised to do, and that seems to do the trick.

Eventually, Mrs. Carrera comes out and offers to drive Pope home, a very pointed instruction to the both of them. She goes to get the car, leaving the two of them to say goodbye on the porch. Kie stands with her arms crossed over her stomach, like she’s holding herself together. “My parents are probably gonna have me on lockdown for a while,” she says, biting on the corner of her lip.  

“Mine too,” he answers, with some inkling of what she’s about to ask him.

“Do you think you could --” she starts, and she’s staring somewhere around his collarbones, because JJ means more to her now, and makes this request, somehow, different. “I mean, with service down, it’s gonna be hard to keep in touch and I just --” She sighs, frustrated with herself, that she can’t get the words out. “When his dad figures out what happened --”

Pope interrupts her this time, reaches a gentle hand out for her arm. “I’ll keep an eye on him,” he promises. “I’ll talk to my parents…” he says, automatically, his usual main resource for help or assistance, and pauses, remembering the note he left on with his father, how things might go without the overhang of a recent disaster. His parents. They’ll be out all day, at least, won’t know about his sojourn to Figure Eight. But they’ll be back, and he has a lot to face.

“Will you just make sure he’s safe?” she asks, small and scared, and, in true Kiara fashion, ashamed to be asking for help.

“Yeah,” he answers. He wraps her in a tight hug, grateful to have his friend back, to be centering somewhere at least slightly left of normal, to be spiralling down from the insane high of failure and the chaos of being half a fugitive. “Yeah, of course.”

Mrs. Carrera drives him home, and even though she tries to ask him how he’s holding up, he answers monosyllabically, avoiding small talk by staring out the window and doing his best to stave off the encroaching panic as he anticipates the upcoming conversation with his father. Anna watches him carefully, and he can feel her eyes on him. It makes him uneasy.

Watching Figure Eight slowly melt into subdivisions and condominiums and then, as houses get smaller and the weeds get wilder, into the Cut. In a matter of minutes, fantastic wealth descends into abject struggle and poverty, a jarring display of privilege and elitism that Pope and the others are no longer shocked by. They grew up in it, cut down over and over again by a system that simply wasn’t built for them, grew up before their time because the kooks never will, abdicating responsibility and ignoring the fallout. Pope’s thoughts wander to Topper’s wakesetter, bile rising in his throat. His impulsive mistake ruined JJ’s life at sixteen, and the Thorntons, well. They’ll just buy another boat.

When they reach the Heywards’, Anna cuts the engine, and Pope doesn’t move, staring at his family’s little house, shabby but well-kept, his mother’s vegetable garden in full swing, bursting with a physical manifestation of love and care in an explosion of green leaves and colorful fruits and vegetables. He thinks about the Carrera’s neatly kept lawn, the decorative plants placed carefully on their wraparound porch, the contrast between the two images. Chaos and love, wealth and precision.

“I love your mother’s garden,” Anna says, almost like she doesn’t mean to. “I wish she’d tell me her secret.”

You can’t have it , Pope thinks, selfishly. He wants this one thing, for his mother, for his family. Instead, he answers; “I wouldn’t know.” This, he realizes, is unfortunately true. When was the last time he helped his mother with her garden? Asked her what she wanted to do on a Saturday? He helps with the store, of course, but in that, he doesn’t have a choice. He’s spent so much time chasing John B, first his promise of adventure, and then his approval, and then, desperate to help him in his hour of need. When was the last time he helped with the yard work? Helped make dinner? Stayed in on a Friday night?

His parents love him violently, work hard to give him opportunities they never had. His father breaks his back, works the store, the delivery service, any hard labor job he can get, used to being a tool, something to be taken advantage of, a means to an end. He does it so Pope can go to school, have a laptop to do homework and apply for colleges on, have a phone to text his friends and stay in contact with his parents. His throat thickens with the realization that his father was right -- he has been ungrateful. He’s been disrespectful, and rude, and if it was him, he wouldn’t even let himself back into the house, much less comfort him, leave him breakfast and reassuring notes.

Anna takes the emotion in his eyes for something else, and she puts a hand on his shoulder that feels so distinctly different from Kiara’s that it’s fundamentally wrong, and he freezes under her touch. “I know this is hard,” she says, in a tone that tries for concerned mom and lands somewhere closer to patronizing school counselor. “But you’ll get through it. You have each other, and that’s the most important part.”

“Thanks,” he says coldly, reaching for the door handle before climbing quickly out of the car. When his feet hit the packed-dirt drive, he stops, feeling like an asshole. “And thank you. For the ride.” He goes to shut the door, but she interrupts him.

“Pope,” she says, and he looks up at her, making eye contact for the first time since he got in the car. “If you -- or your family -- needs anything…” She bites her lip the same way Kie does. “Just, don’t hesitate to ask.” Pope usually rankles under the suggestion of charity, pride bred into him alongside a stubborn willfulness that rivals even his father’s, but she knows life in the Cut, has faced the same things he and his family deal with every day. It’s an odd juxtaposition, her inherent compassion and her dislike of her daughter’s friends. It’s what, at the end of the day, separates her eternally from Kie.

“Yeah,” he answers. “Of course. Thanks, Ms. Anna.”

When he reaches the door, he hears tires twist in the dirt, and Anna Carrera drives away, back to her house, her daughter, her life on Figure Eight. Pope lets himself in, showers off the sweat from his trek to Kie’s, and sets about cleaning the house, both as a distraction and a desperate appeal for his parents’ forgiveness. The whole afternoon, he rehearses a million different versions of the same speech, apologies and admittances, going back and forth about copping to the sinking of Topper’s boat, afraid of his father’s wrath and the legal consequences, but still guilty and anxious to the point of nausea over it, desperate to do the right thing.

Pope was raised with a strong sense of right and wrong, a deep and little-discussed Catholic faith, and a strong sense of familial pride. What Heywards are and aren’t, what they do and don’t do -- it was all drilled into him from a young age. Heywards pay their debts. Heywards don’t complain, don’t argue, don’t talk back. Heywards work hard. Heywards work honest.

Heywards aren’t gay.

It was never said, but Pope knows his dad. He knows what counts as acceptable behavior, the future his father imagines for him. A college degree, a Good Job, a house, a wife, kids -- he knows what’s expected. He tries to wrestle with the disappointment that he’ll never own up to that image as he scrubs the stove, tears welling up as he works at a particularly stubborn grease stain. He’s already disappointed them so much, just in the past few days. What will they say? What will they think of him?

He knows he’s lucky, as a kid in the Cut with both parents still around, still willing to work, still willing to love him. There are too many kids like John B and JJ, left behind, ignored and neglected, the victims of vicious cycles and cruel tragedies. Pope still has a whole family, as small and broken as it may be. He should start acting like it.

He’s just finished dusting the living room when he hears tires in the driveway, the rattling engine of his father’s old pickup, and he freezes like a prey animal caught in an open plain. They’re home. His mother makes quiet comments on the improved state of the house as they toss keys in bowls and remove shoes, speaking calmly to each other, the soft noises of domesticity and routine. Routine he is about to monumentally disrupt, more than he ever has.

Pope has a speech planned. He has things he wants to say, sentences he needs them to hear in the same way he has them planned. Everything needs to follow the course he’s laid out, or it could be open to misinterpretation. He’s prepared. That’s what he does -- he plans, he structures, he researches and prepares. All of that disintegrates the moment his father walks into the living room.

“Pope,” he says. “You cleaned.”

“Dad, I’m sorry,” Pope says, and the words choke him, tears welling and spilling in the same instant, like a faucet turning on after winter. He tells him everything, about Topper’s wakesetter and the failed treasure hunt and the impossible hope that drew him from his scholarship interview, the desperation and the certainty that he was following, determined to be the final piece of the puzzle, the thing that saved his friends. He begs for forgiveness, crying and broken, looking for himself in his fathers eyes. Heyward doesn’t say anything for a long time, soaking in the information. His wife is struck dumb, at Pope’s heart breaks with the horror in his mother’s eyes, at his admittances of all he’s done.

“Please,” Pope begs. “Say something.”

The silence that hangs in the living room feels like a gun against his temple, his father’s finger on the trigger. “Well son,” Heyward says, “What are you gonna do about it?”

“What --” Pope’s brain stops, too overwhelmed to process this reaction from his father. There is grief and anger, guilt and fear, and a thousand other things he cannot name. He is out of words, out of ideas and out of power. He wants someone to tell him what to do, because cannot possibly summon the energy to determine a path himself.

“You sunk that boy’s boat?” Pope nods, dumbfounded, answering on instinct. Heyward looks tired. “You let your friend take the fall?”

“I --” It’s hard, to hear it in his father’s voice, to hear the disappointment there, to feel it, real, metallic, and cutting in the air. “Yeah.”

Heyward shrugs, like it’s simple. “What are you gonna do about it?” Maybe it is. Pope got himself into this mess, and now he needs to get himself out.

“I don’t --” he starts, with nowhere to go.

“You gonna do the right thing?” His father asks, his tone implying that there is one answer.

Pope straightens up, closes his mouth, swallows down all the tears, all the uncertainty and vulnerability. He has asked for guidance, and his father is providing it. There is no more room for weakness here. “Yes, sir.”

Heyward nods, and turns to Yvonne, who has tears in her eyes. “He’ll be fine, sweetheart,” He says to his wife. “We’ve got a good boy here. He’ll be fine.” He wraps his arms around her, folding her into his chest in a familiar, nostalgic gesture. Pope feels awkward, watching his parents comfort each other, but he knows that his feelings are not the most important in the room. His chest hurts knowing he’s the one who caused their pain.

But this conversation still isn’t over. “Dad, um,” he says, and Heyward looks at him with exhaustion in his wizened eyes. “there’s one more thing.”

Heyward turns toward him again, leaving one arm around his wife. “Well I don’t know if you can shock me anymore today, Pope,” he says, “so go ahead.”

The words dam up behind his lips, and his hands flex at his sides, clenching into fists and spreading out again, and there’s no way out of this, not anymore. It was easier with Kie, for some reason.  “Dad, I’m gay.” It hangs there, bigger and somehow more terrifying than anything he’s said since his parents came home. The air in the living room doesn’t move, stale and muggy in the North Carolina evening, without the hum of the fridge or the air conditioner for reprieve.

Heyward blinks. Once, twice. Yvonne shakes on a silent sob, a noise that cracks Pope’s ribs open. “Okay,” his father replies.

It is somehow relieving and disappointing all at once. Pope doesn’t lie to his parents, at least, as much as he can help it. “Is that all?” he asks, because he expected -- something more? Something beyond indifference. Maybe rage, maybe affirmation. Maybe some indicator that this was just as big of a deal as he made it out to be.

“What else do you want me to say?” Heyward asks, knowing this is the most he and his son have talked about anything in years. The last mention at vulnerability came before the ill-fated scholarship interview, less than a minute of conversation before Heyward left his son to take a job. Sometimes he kicks himself for that, wondering about what might have happened if he’d waited, been there when his son made one of the most impulsive decisions of his young life. Could he have caught him coming out the door? Talked him down? What would today be, if Heyward had been there?

Pope looks at his father through a haze of tears, his breath somewhere other than his chest, uncontrollable and foreign. “You don’t hate me?”

Heyward shrugs. “You’re still my son, ain’t you?” Pope nods, sniffling and backhanding tears off of his face. “Well then, I guess I still love you.” Pope doesn’t remember the last time his father said that to him. “Pope,” Heyward sighs, heaving himself off the couch. “You’ve done a lot these past few weeks I don’t understand. I’m not gonna pretend I’m not upset with you.” Pope looks at his father’s feet, weary and sore on the threadbare carpet. “But you bein gay? That ain’t why.”

And that, that breaks the tenuous control he has over his emotions, and he sobs, loud and hard and echoing in the small living room. “I thought maybe -- maybe you might --” Pope tries, his arms at his sides, fists clenched, chest shaking. Heyward steps forward, wrapping his arms around his son, because he may not know what Pope is going to do, what he’s going to do as a father, as a man. Even though neither of them know how they’re going to get through this, how they’re going to deal with the police department, the Thorntons, John B’s death, and the rest -- they  know this, they know the faith they have in each other, the love and respect that lives there, even after everything.

Pope’s father pulls back from the embrace, places his hands on his son’s shoulders and levels him with the same stare that Pope has known his whole life. “What are you?” he asks, the same way he’s asked a million times before. This is a routine, between father and son, in moments of desperation, a way of taking a step back up from the most crushing of lows, of taking back control, setting their shoulders and facing into the wind.

Pope knows the answer. “I’m a Heyward.”

[a-secondhand-sorrow]

Dear Evan Hansen Gift Exchange!

This is my gift for the @sincerely-us DEH Gift Exchange for @thatfriendlyanon! Hey @thatfriendlyanon, hope you enjoy :D This is a bit of an amalgam of prompts that you offered but it’s mostly centered on Evan and Zoe a year later. Just for ease of timing/pop culture references it’s set in 2019/2020. Happy 2020! (here’s an ao3 link if you prefer)  

Her first night back home, Zoe slips out the back door and just sits on the porch. It’s cold outside, like it always is in December, and it seeps through the old dollar store flip-flops she’d shoved her feet into on the way out the door. She shivers as a chilly gust of air bites through her purple and white sweatpants and old, graduating-class t-shirt. She’s like a collage of new and old school spirit, and some part of her hates it while the rest of her loves it. Sinking into one of the wicker chairs, she takes a breath for what feels like the first time since she stepped off the train in town, letting the hum of the cicadas drown out her other thoughts. She’s almost forgotten the different noise in the suburbs, the noises she was so used to in her first eighteen years of life. It feels disarming to be back in those noises after so long away.

Finally, once she’s sat in the feeling of the cold outdoors, her eyes drift up towards the sky. A smile picks at her lips, drawn by the faint points of light in the sky. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registers names of a few, although had she tried to remember them consciously, she’s sure she wouldn’t be able to say them.

(Maybe it’s two memories, ripe with different kinds of nostalgia, that stop her from truly remembering. Maybe it’s the memory of two different hands in hers under the night sky. The memory of childhood, of wild giggles spilling from her lips, of another protective little hand in hers and speaking in what they thought were whispers but were more like normal volumes, sharing those names with her for the first time. And later, a later memory, of grass underneath her and a once-still hand in hers and warm lips pressed just right of her ear whispering the names he knew and asking her the ones he didn’t.)

She...likes school. She really does. It‘s felt like a fresh start in so many ways, with new people and new scenery and an easier way to breathe. Fewer shadows to haunt her from the corners of her eyes, drowned out by the constant lights of the city.

She just wishes she could see the stars there, that’s all.

Not that the stars at home are bright, exactly. They’re still dulled and hard to see, but they’re a world away from how they look at school. They are visible even if they’re not the strongest.

So Zoe smiles and looks at them, ignoring the lights that spill out from inside the house and the two figures they reveal inside.

After some time, she stands quietly, moving through the air as though it is nothing more than smoke and revelling in how silent she can be just before opening the door to the indoors.

“Everything alright?

Zoe’s head snaps up, locking onto where Larry is seated just beyond the kitchen and into the living room. She shakes her head at her own jumpiness, freeing her feet from the flip-flops. “Yeah, just catching some fresh air.”

Already, that almost-suffocating feeling is back. She can breath, but the air doesn’t seem to quite reach her lungs.

“Yeah, I just wanted some fresh air.” Her eyes scan the rooms. “Where’s mom?”

Larry’s lip quirks at the corner, but it doesn’t really seem happy. “She wanted to stay up to talk with you, but she was pretty tired so she turned in early.”

“Oh,” Zoe says, and for some reason it makes her feel kind of small. She crosses the house, letting her feet acclimate to the warmer temperature through her socks. She studies her father; he has dark circles of his own, and his hand seems to shake slightly where it holds the day’s newspaper. “I’m probably just gonna go to bed anyway, unless you…?”

“No, that’s fine, sweetheart,” he says, and for some reason Zoe’s heart feels heavy. Larry hasn’t called her sweetheart for a long time, and something in the word makes her feel like a little kid again. “I’m sure you’re tired.”

She nods and grabs her phone off of the small coffee table, turning towards the stairs. The light is already off upstairs, she can tell. “Well, ‘night.”

A sound that’s suspiciously like a yawn, and then a “‘night” back.

On the second step, her father’s voice stops her. “Zoe? We’re really glad you’re home.”

She ducks her head back down, forces a smile in his direction, and then continues to her room without looking up from her feet.

*

Evan’s still working at Pottery Barn.

He told himself, time and time again after senior year, that he’d be out of Pottery Barn in a year. Off to college full-time, maybe commuting or maybe even living on campus. But it’s six months past that year-long deadline, and here he is, on the first night of Hanukkah only just finishing the common app for next fall. Or trying to, rather, around his Pottery Barn shifts and his general fear of opening up to other people.

On one of his shifts, he scrolls through Instagram during a quiet spell, having accepted the fact that his application would not be worked on during work hours long ago. Just his average feed, a few former high school classmates posting holiday pictures (Alana Beck, unsurprisingly, has color-coordinated with her dads, sister, and grandma effortlessly for Christmas photos) and some of those Central Park nature shoots the pretentious photographers he follows are always posting. He’s about to click onto his Explore page when a recommended account catches his eye. His heart sinks as he recognizes the profile picture and the name, simply titled “zo + ev” in place of full names. And there she is, Zoe Murphy, smiling so wide that some of her freckles disappear behind the others and her eyes are smaller than usual. Another girl sits just behind her, her lips angled so her face comes across as more “funny” than “happy,” but that’s on purpose, he thinks. Before he can convince himself not to, he clicks into their account, and it’s revealed that the other girl in the picture must be ‘Ev,’ or Eva, if her main account’s handle is trustworthy. His pulse slowing slightly, his eyes skim their profile.

@stargirlzo_m and @evamillthegreat_ / NYU ‘23 / covers + general goofery / dm to req a song!

From a glance, it appears that they’re roommates. Not that he’s like, actively trying to figure that out, no, it’s just that all of the videos seem to be filmed in the same place, and the previews of the comments have a couple messages like “that’s our fav down the hall neighbors!” and such. Evan’s not even surprised to see that they have a couple hundred followers, since when one of their videos begins to auto play, they definitely sound really good. Zoe’s playing guitar, and something in the familiar curve of her fingers on the strings almost makes him turn his phone off and shove it away to get rid of the deep swell of emotion he feels just seeing her like that.

After...everything, he never really saw her play guitar again. While they were together, it was almost constant, because their coexistence was almost constant. But he couldn’t bring himself to go to the jazz band concerts for the rest of his senior year, and he certainly wasn’t hanging around her house while she figured out a new tune. Hearing her play is bittersweet and nostalgic and he feels...off. But he listens anyway.

Her roommate has a really great voice, and it’s clear that in their few months of knowing each other they’ve played together a lot. He keeps scrolling. Eva, or Ev, has a few videos up of her singing a cappella, or with a background, some kind of...TikTok riff challenge, maybe? Zoe, too, has a few where she strums some jazzy numbers by herself, that familiar old smile on her face in a whole new light. But then he finds one of her alone in a denim jacket and a flower-patterned dress, and she opens her mouth and begins to sing, and Evan swears he could cry. She always claimed she couldn’t sing, but of course he disagreed. He still does, and as she softly sings Dodie Clark and her fingers pluck at the strings in some complicated pattern, he could never disagree more. He hurriedly keeps scrolling, since if he were to continue listening he’s not sure if he’d be able to make it through his shift without crying.

She and her roommate are playing Crush by Tessa Violet, then, and it’s a little easier to hear.

A customer comes into his line of sight and he quickly shoves the phone under the counter before he can hear Zoe come in to harmonize in the background.

*

Sometime after Cynthia accepted the fact that Zoe wasn’t going to share every detail of her college life with her, she set her the task of going through her closet and cleaning up. She’d already done it before leaving in the fall, but Zoe agrees, mostly just to have something to do rather than thinking about the bedroom across from hers. She still hasn’t really breathed properly, but it’s a little easier when she’s alone.

When her trash garbage bag is already partially filled with old tops from high school, old Harry Potter and Brie Larson posters, and some guitar sheet music she doesn’t remember buying, she catches sight of an old plastic storage bin. Her hand brushes the unmistakable feel of dusty plastic, and her fingers search for purchase so she can drag the container out. It’s heavier than it looks, and the most she can do is drag it out. She falls back onto her heels as she does, eventually crossing her legs criss-cross under her. She pushes her hair away from her face and lets her eyes roam over the container. It looks like it’s filled with paper, and as she opens the lid there’s an overwhelming scent of school glue and cheap acrylic paint. There are old star stickers coming off everywhere.

“Oh, boy,” she mutters under her breath.

She considers just chucking it into the trash for a moment, but thinks the better of it. Tentatively, she plunges one hand into the pile of papers and promptly sneezes. Fucking dust allergies.

A few old math tests from elementary school are in the top pile, for some reason. She wastes no time in setting those into the garbage bag. She’ll sort the recycling out later, but for now she just wants to get the dust into one area. There’s an old, dried-up glue stick under the old tests and a couple of purple and blue markers with no caps. The faded yellow folder beneath them has clearly suffered for it, with big splotches of color on the thin paper. After tossing the markers in her normal trash, she picks the folder up. Immediately upon opening it, she’s hit by an image of herself as a little kid, her hand scribbling some crayon against printer paper with Connor at her side scribbling on the same paper. She lets out a sharp hiss of breath for nothing in particular. It turns out the folder is just full of old drawings, nothing special. Crayon stars on superhero capes, just about her and Connor’s combined interests. Seeing them on the same page feels like less of a gut punch after remembering them drawing together, but it still hurts all the same.

She knows her mom would want to keep the drawings, but she dumps them into the garbage bag before she can think to do otherwise.

The construction paper is surprisingly rough under her fingertips, but she smiles at the glue galaxies she’d created on the page, the letters of each star’s name written painstakingly next to them. She wonders where her good handwriting went and sets the page aside, figuring a little nostalgia won’t hurt.

There are several pages that just seem to be covered in glitter and star stickers, which immediately find themselves in the unforgiving cell that is her garbage bag. Some old book reports reach the same fate, as does a small journal that seems to be dedicated entirely to her writing with her left hand. If some of the handwriting looks like Connor’s, she chooses to ignore it.

“It’s weird,” Zoe says. “Who else writes with their left hand?”

Connor sniffs, looking indignant as he holds his pencil aloft in his hand. It’s held so gently and delicately in his artist’s hand, all long and thin fingers. “I think it’s cool. Right hand writing isn’t special.”

“And you smudge everything you write,” Zoe mutters under her breath. That didn’t stop her from trying to write like him, though. If he saw her, he ignored it.

It’s better to be rid of it, anyway.

The next item appears to be crudely bound by some old thread. It’s several sheets of printer paper bound together, and with a sinking heart Zoe sees the same crayon stars and superhero capes on the page. Monsieur Lumière. One of Connor’s pretentious French phases as a child, probably, fueled by the old English-French dictionary he found in his room.

She’d completely forgotten about the fake superhero they’d created, probably while huddled under one of their beds as their parents fought. A man to take away all their fear and sadness, who would bring the light of the stars wherever he was. Just a silly invention they’d dreamt up. A lot of good it did them.

This hurts more, this creation of their shared crayons on one page. There were probably hours spent on this, and she can’t even bring herself to open it and read a page.

She drops it suddenly as though the very touch of the paper to her fingers scalds her. She pushes it across the floor, away from her. She may leave it on some counter for her mother to find, rather than bringing herself to throw it away. She wants to get rid of it, but she can’t bring herself to pick it up again, not yet.

It’s only as she picks up the next glitter-coated paper that she realizes it gave her a paper cut.

*

“-right here—oh, isn’t this lovely?” Heidi says, her head turning back in Evan’s direction. She drops down onto the blanket she’s just finished spreading over the grass, crossing her legs under her.

Evan smiles. “It is, yeah, definitely.”

And maybe he’s just a little surprised by how much he means it. Because this is the first year in a very long time, too long a time, where January 6th has felt like something other than a slightly sadder mirror of every other day. When he woke up today, he didn’t feel that same hollow dissatisfaction on this birthday. He felt...excited.

It’s a nice feeling. Unusual, but nice.

He’d probably be excited even if he hadn’t woken up like that, however. Heidi had insisted she take the day off, and she herself was so excited to be off and to be with him that he couldn’t help but pick up on it. His mother was always like that - if she was excited, he was excited.

And she was definitely excited, given the honest-to-God picnic basket she’d packed for them and the new watch she’d given Evan just that morning “so he’d know when to look away from his inbox” (to which he’d feebly protested that it’s never too early to keep an eye out for forward movement, which she’d dismissed with a kiss on the cheek). As Evan carefully chooses a spot on the blanket where he is protected from the sun by the shade the tree branches above them throw, Heidi gets set unpacking everything, from small cans of sparkling water to grilled cheeses to bakery cookies to a bunch of grapes that looked like they’d had a fight with an anemic mouse and lost. Evan smiles as each item gets pulled out.

Almost automatically, his eyes start scanning over the park. It feels like it’s been a while since he’s been here, too, or at least since he’s taken a moment to sit back and observe the park in its entirety. In the time it takes Heidi to finish setting up, he’s not sure he’s discovered the source of the uneasiness deep in his stomach.

But Heidi is happy, and so he is, too. He turns back to her.

“I picked up this cheese from Shaw’s, it’s supposedly super sharp which I know you love, so it should turn out better than the Kraft Singles grilled cheese last week.”

Evan represses a shudder. “Oh, good.”

Heidi lies back slightly, smiling at him. “Here.” She holds out a plate full of food she’d just pulled out.

“Thanks,” Evan says, and when he smiles at her it's more genuine than most of the smiles he'd given her when he was younger.

She reached over and pats his cheek. “I like seeing you happy, you know that?”

“Yeah, I think I got that from the whole motherly affection thing.”

Heidi shakes her head. “I’d tell you to lay off the sass, but this is the one day I can’t, huh?”

“Oh, you love it.”

“Yeah,” Heidi says, picking up an apple and taking a bite out of it. “Yeah, I do.” She leans over, and with her free hand, she ruffles Evan’s hair.

“Hey!” He protests. “What was that for?” The action makes him feel like he’s a little kid again.

Heidi smiles at him again. He can’t remember the last time she smiled this much. “My little boy is all grown up. Twenty. Can you believe it?”

He shakes his head, looking up toward the trees. He really can’t believe it. Three years ago, he’d never have believed it. Seventeen was a bad year. But here he is, sitting in Ellison Park three years later, where he’d felt so helpless before. He’d be lying if he said there wasn’t an edge of that now, but it’s nowhere close to the wide expanse it had once been. He’s made it to twenty, and he knows he’ll make it longer. He smiles back at her. “Not really,” he says.

They eat in silence for a moment. Normally the presence of other people in the park besides them would make him anxious, but not today. He’s just another person, enjoying the afternoon sun with his mother. He blends in with everyone else. He feels like them. He wants to cork it up along with the feeling of the sun on his cheeks and the grass below him. With a start, he realizes his ache a little from the constant pull upwards his lips are engaged in. He’s smiling so much his cheeks hurt.

“I think you’re freckling again,” his mother mentions offhandedly. “I think you’re just about the only person who can’t freckle in the summer but can freckle just fine in January.”

“Maybe I am,” he says. “Like a superpower. Although it’s kind of a dumb superpower.”

“I don’t think so at all, sweetheart.” Heidi says.

He shakes his head, and as his mind fills with the image of someone else’s freckled cheeks, he may be inclined to agree.

*

“So you play a lot with Eva?”

Zoe looks up from her laptop, her brain unable to really understand the question. “What?”

Cynthia sits at the other end of the couch, and Zoe automatically tilts her screen in towards herself. “Aunt Christie mentioned it. She said that Sarah was talking about your...music Instagram at Christmas?”

Her cousin had ended up cornering her about her instagram account between dinner and desert. She was actually kind of happy to talk about it, since she and Eva do get along better than most roommates and it’s pretty cool to play with other people. She couldn’t really care about their followers, but they certainly had them, that’s for certain. Besides, it was a welcome reprieve from the dreaded “do you have a boyfriend?” questions, since she couldn’t exactly say no, i don’t have a boyfriend, since I’m still caught up on Evan, you know, the guy from junior year who lied about being friends with Connor and completely but accidentally fucked over the family in the public eye? But they didn’t know the half of that story, and she didn’t like to admit to herself how much she still cared for Evan, so the significant other area was a no-go and anything else was boring.

“Yeah, we have an account,” she says, shrugging. “It’s just a habit we’ve gotten into, playing together. It’s kind of fun to share it.”

“Ah,” Cynthia said, in that ‘I’m trying to understand but honestly have no idea what she’s talking about” tone of voice. “I’m glad, Zo’.”

Zoe smiles.

“But are you sure that’s the...best thing?”

The corners of her lips turn down, and she can feel her voice hardening a little. She doesn’t want to be defensive, but she is. “What?”

“Well, after everything that happened with your brother...with the Connor Project.” When she realized that wasn’t a sentence, she continued. “Are you sure the public eye is the best thing?”

She bristles. “It’s hardly the public eye, it’s just an Instagram account, and my full name isn’t on it. And honestly, mom, it couldn't get worse. No one cares anymore. It’s been years. Most of that was taken down. And I can take care of myself.”

“I know, Zoe,” her mother said, and maybe she’s just being placating, but the hand she reaches over and lays on her arm really does lessen her defenses. “I know. But you can’t control those people, and I just want you to be happy and safe.”

“I know,” Zoe says. “I know you do.”

She’s sure they both remember the endless days of calls, coming in a time of confusion and new grief she doesn’t know if they’ve really moved past, yet. Zoe knows that, if she tries, she can probably remember the exact words they said, the exact tone they said them in. It was only worse when she believed them.

Cynthia sits back again. They sit in silence for a little while.

“I’d love to hear some, though,” she says, in that classic mom voice.

“Why don’t you ask Sarah for a link?” Zoe says, sure to make her voice sarcastic.

“Why have a lousy link when I’ve got the rockstar right in front of me?”

Zoe rolls her eyes. “Sure, let me just summon my roommate. She’s not in Buffalo at all, she’s actually been tiny sized and in my suitcase this whole time, just waiting for my mother to ask about my music so she can belt her tiny heart out.”

“Ha, ha,” Cynthia says. “Good thing you can sing, missy. I know this is where you’re going with all of your university sarcasm.”

“I can’t, mom.”

“Don’t give me that.”

“What would you prefer I give you?”

“An accurate assessment of your talents.”

“Sure, I know I’ve got one in my coat pocket somewhere, right with my sky-high self esteem and my 4.0 GPA.”

“Your GPA is more than fine and if you keep talking like that I’m going to worry. Why don’t you go pick it up from your room along with your guitar? Then I can hear the famous musician’s liquid silver voice while she plucks away with the speed of a god at her strings.”

Zoe cringes. “Always so poetic.”

“It’s a gift,” Cynthia says airily, and the two smile at each other. “Go on. I’ll get your father.”

“I'm not a child at a recital.”

“Why couldn’t you be? We just want to hear you play, sweetheart. We barely see you now, and next time it’ll be Carnegie Hall.”

Somehow, Zoe ends up retrieving her guitar. True to her mother’s word, Larry was there when she came back downstairs. She’d never expected to actually play for them, but this is the first time Cynthia has really pushed her on something in a long time. It’s nice, quite honestly, that she feels that strongly about hearing her play guitar.

“I really normally don’t sing,” she protests mildly.

“Nonsense,” Larry says, and Zoe smiles. She shifts the guitar in her lap.

“Eva absolutely loves singing this,” she begins, her fingers seeking out the beginning chords to Crush, because quite honestly she can’t think of anything else to play. Her parents’ eyes on her make her feel nervous. “She’s made me play it a million times. She’d probably be mad if she knew I was singing it without her.”

It’s...nice to play for them. They smile and clap as she plays song after song for them. She can feel their happiness at something she’s accomplished, for the first time in her life. But for the first time since she’s been home, she thinks she can feel the weight of a third gaze on her. She knows it’s just in her mind, but all the same, she hoped she’d left that lurking guilt from Connor far away, in the orchard, at the end of senior year. She doesn’t know how she feels now that it’s back.

He always used to listen to her play. Maybe this is what she gets instead of him, now.

*

“Zoe?” Evan says.

She looks...small, is the first word that crosses his mind. Which is funny, because although Zoe Murphy isn’t the tallest person you’ll ever meet, she’s certainly got the confidence and gravitas to make up for it. Stage presence, as his mother would say.

Maybe he’s caught her between the first and second act, then.

She looks up at him, her hands practically drowning in her chunky-knit yellow sweater. It comes up to her chin, half-tucked into a denim skirt at her waist, and where the skirt ends a pair of high riding boots begin. Some part of his brain recognizes that she looks impeccable just as she always does, even when the look on her face is so unguarded and shaken that he’s half surprised she’s still standing. Something passes over her face, and in a second it rearranges into something a little happier than before. It’s not happy or okay, not by a long shot, but if he didn’t know her better he may think it was. Barely giving himself a moment to marvel at just how cool it is she does that, concern overrides every alarm bell going off in his brain about being around her and talking to her and hurting her again (not again, not again), because the most important thing is making sure she’s okay, the most important thing is her comfort. “What-” he breaks off, shakes his head. What does he want to say? What are you doing? What are you feeling? What do you need?

What could he possibly say?

(He knows it doesn’t matter what he wants, in the end. It doesn’t matter.)

“What’s...up?” he finishes a second later, cringing internally.

Zoe’s mouth twists and her nose scrunches, and for a second he thinks she’s going to cry, but a moment later she settles on a half smile, and she looks so much like Connor did that day in the computer lab that he feels winded, winded by an image he couldn’t have conjured consciously. At once the weight of where he is hits him squarely in the chest, and Zoe must sense it, because when she speaks it’s gentle, almost, even though every fiber of her being feels like it’s been shifted on its axis. “Well, uh. You know. Not a lot. And a lot, also, I guess.”

Evan nods, and for a second he feels seventeen again, fighting against a torrent of words, because Zoe never talked like that. She always selected every word carefully, and if she can’t, there’s no hope for Evan. “Yeah, no I, I definitely get it. That makes, that makes sense. You’re um, I guess you’re home for break? Winter break?”

Zoe nods once, and for once he detects a hint of ice in the gesture. “Yeah. And you’re…”

“Still home,” he supplements quickly. “I’m, uh, applying, actually, but, you know…”

“Yeah,” she says, and Evan privately thinks that this may be the most painful conversation they’ve had. There’s still a look in Zoe’s eyes, something a little unhinged and a lot hurt, and he wants more than anything to get rid of it. He knows that it’s not his job, but God, he wants to. He wants to grab her hand and press a kiss to her temple just like he used to, to slide his hand along the side of her jaw like he did whenever she was upset. He wants to remind her to breathe just like she used to remind him to do, wants to trace the freckles on her cheeks until she’s giggling and her eyes are dry.

“Are you here to see Connor?” she spits out, as though surprising herself, and Evan finds himself nodding, because oh yeah, they’re at a cemetery. He absolutely could not tell you why he chose to go down to the cemetery, rather than literally any other place. He just...felt like he had to. For some reason, he felt like he needed to go to Connor’s grave to say sorry and maybe thank you for something he couldn’t quite understand. He hadn’t planned on running into Zoe, though.

“You are too? I can...I can go,” he offers, and he’s surprised at how quickly Zoe shakes her head.

“No, I’d...I’d like someone else there.”

“Really?” he says, his voice soft.

“Yeah,” she says, offering him a quick ghost of a smile before steeling herself and turning.

He follows her in silence, choosing to focus on the sound of her shoes on the concrete and examining the back of her head and the trees lining the rows of graves and new clouds that have crossed the sun. They must reach Connor’s plot eventually, as Zoe turns sharply and leads him through the maze of stones until they stand in front of one that is simpler than its neighbors. Classic, he supposes, although he doesn’t know if that’s actually a thing, a ‘classic’ grave. Connor Murphy is cut into the stone, followed by a birth and death date and a short epitaph of beloved son, brother, and friend. He squashes down an unkind thought before it can really grow at all.

Zoe’s sat down on the grass, denim skirt and all. After hesitating, he follows.

“Would you like me to-”

“No,” Zoe says, but her eyes are focused on the grave, and Evan has the feeling she’s a million worlds away from him and it wouldn’t matter what he said. “You’re fine.”

So he sits quietly, and tries to think of something he’d like to say to Connor in the peace of his own head. What would he say, if given the chance? He doesn’t know if it would be worth anything. For him, he grew to learn that he was not who he thought he was on his worst days, no matter how many there were. But he doesn’t know if that’s worth saying to Connor. It wasn’t even really Connor who taught him that, in the end. He forced that message into his own brain, with the help of Dr. Sherman and his mother and even Zoe and the Murphy’s, in some roundabout way. He’s learned he can keep going.

Maybe Zoe still needs to learn that, he thinks, with a glance in her direction. She seems to be deteriorating, her hand absently twisting grass at her side, her face falling just a little more. She’s biting her lip and her brow is furrowing deeper. Or maybe this is just one of her bad days.

She stands up and sways on her feet. Evan clambers up after her, a hand reaching out to steady her almost unconsciously. “I’m sorry,” she says, and it’s only then that he notices the near-silent sobs coming from her, although there are not yet any tears. She just looks...sad. He hasn’t seen her look that sad in a while. Her non-grassy hand reaches up to her face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” Evan says, and he aches to reach out and touch her, to comfort her in some way, but he holds himself back. He attempts a joke. “You apologize too much.”

He sees tears on her cheeks, and one indents where he’s sure she’s biting the inside of her mouth.

“Please,” he says, and it’s only then that she seems further away than she was before. “Do you need a ride somewhere?”

She’s in no state to refuse, but she looks like she might anyway. He cuts her off with another ”please, let me do this” and she relents. She looks ready to collapse at any moment, and he’s terrified she will, so he keeps one hand hovering nervously hovering between her shoulder and back their whole walk as though he’s swatting invisible bugs away. He considers opening the door for her, but thinks the better of it and leaves her to fend for herself in that particular field. They’re silent as he gets into the car and shifts the key in the ignition, pulling out of the cemetery parking lot. They stay silent for a few minutes on the road as well, while Evan drives in the vague direction of her house.

“You’re driving,” Zoe says suddenly, and through the thickness of tears Evan thinks he can detect a hint of pride.

“Yeah, that I am,” he replies, shaking his head slightly.

He thinks Zoe may say something like “wow” under her breath, but a moment later she’s sniffling again and that’s all he can think about. “I have some tissues in the glove compartment.”

“Thanks,” she says softly, almost getting drowned out in the sound of tires on pavement, and the sound of her soft consonants breaks his heart. “I’m sorry,” she tries again, but Evan stops her.

“Don’t, Zoe. Don’t ever apologize. Really.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Believe me. You have nothing to apologize for.”

There’s another silence. It seems like Zoe has stopped crying, although she still seems unsteady, albeit less all over the place than when he first saw her.

“I swear I’m doing better than this,” she says. “I really am. I don’t, I really don’t know why that happened. I wish I could explain to you why. Why it’s still happening now, honestly. I’m doing better. I am.”

“You don’t owe me any explanations, Zoe.”

“I know. I mean, I don’t, but. I want to give you one, anyway.”

He nods. “Where to?” He finally says, the words stiffer than he wanted them to be.

Her voice is small, almost fragile. “Could you...maybe go to the orchard?”

He nods again, feeling a bit like a bobble head. “Yeah, of course.” He doesn’t add the anything, anything at all for you, but he thinks she might hear it anyway.

*

Sitting in the orchard with Evan again, it’s almost...surreal.

Zoe hasn’t been back since she met him a week before graduation. Being in the orchard brings all kinds of feelings of melancholy for her, a tangle of guilt and longing and maybe a little bit of hope, too.

Because when she looks across from her, Evan is there, and her own emotions are reflected on his face. They’re both sitting in the grass under one of the trees. They’re no longer saplings, which in itself is weird. The year has brought a lot of growth for them. Looking at Evan, she can’t help but think that they’re not the only ones.

He’s so much more...something than he was before. Is it happy? Confident? Whatever it is, it fills him from the inside. Even in the orchard, where his brow is furrowed and his eyes are focused on some faraway point in the distance, he’s sitting taller and fidgeting less than before. He’s doing better.

And she meant what she said to him, how she’s doing better too. Getting out and away to the city had really done wonders for her, finally being away from all of the shit that happened in high school.  

She pushes her foot out, nudging against his thigh. He angles his head to her, and suddenly she gets the same urge to cry again. Her vertigo has lessened significantly since arriving at the orchard and stumbling to sit, but she still feels unsteady even while sitting. The corner of his lip perks up a bit as his eyes meet hers.

“It’s been almost a year,” she says.

“I know.”

There’s a pause; she lets herself listen to the rustle of the no-longer-saplings.

“Do you ever wish you could go back?” she says, surprising herself.

He takes a moment to respond. “To when?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. Her eyes burn and she’s not quite sure why. “Last time we were here? Last year? The very first time we really talked? This morning?”

Evan shakes his head. “That’s, that’s a lot of times.”

“I know.”

“Maybe I’d go back to this morning,” he said. “So I could...prepare myself for this. So I’d be ready to see you.”

She snorts. “I’d like preparation to deal with me, too.”

“That’s not what I meant, Zoe.”

“Oh?” She doesn’t know where this challenge has come from in her tone. “What did you mean?”

“I meant—I meant that it’s...different seeing you now. Because of...everything. And I don’t want to hurt you more.”

At once, all the fight leaves her. She passes a hand over her face. “God, Evan. I don’t think that’s possible.”

If she had meant to hurt him-and she honestly doesn’t know herself if she did-she certainly succeeded. Evan seems to curl in on himself a bit.

“That’s not what I meant,” she adds belatedly. “I just-you make things difficult, you know? Because this entire—” and here she gestures emphatically to the orchard, “thing is so fucked, and I want to leave it all behind, since it makes me feel fucked. But then I see you, and it’s like…” she lets out a puff of air. “It’s like I’m back to being sixteen again. Which is terrible on so many levels but is really, really great on one.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Her hand picks at the hem of her skirt. “I had you, Evan. And that made everything else okay.” She blinks rapidly against her blurring vision. “And as much as I want to leave everything else behind, I don’t-I can’t leave you. And that.”

“I understand,” Evan says softly.

She doesn’t say the other part that keeps her from leaving, the total guilt that fills her mind every once in a while when she thinks about Connor. She had a feeling he may already know that part.

“And the stars are here, too. I can’t leave them.”

She can hear the smile in Evan’s voice. “No, I bet you can’t.”

She shakes her head, tears slipping from her eyes. As he leans over and swipes them away with his thumb, she represses a choking sob from somewhere deep inside her chest. “I couldn’t either,” he says, his smile morphing into something sadder and smaller. His fingertips brush against her cheeks one last time, and belatedly she remembers those nights spread out on the grass where he traced the stars from the sky on her freckles. His fingers feel just like they did then, almost reverent against her cheek, his feather-light touch sending shivers from where it lands. Her eyes close, and without the hard ground beneath her and the sunlight that’s bright on her eyelids, she can almost pretend no time has passed at all, that she can have this entirely and wholly and painlessly. But Evan’s hand, and then his whole being, moves away from her, and she is left with only the phantom of his touch and the quiet noise of the leaves behind her. She lets her eyes drift open again, once the tears have receded slightly.

Evan stands, maybe sensing that she needs to get away or maybe just wanting out himself. “C’mon,” he says, holding a hand out to her. “I’ll drive you home.”

She smiles, albeit a watery smile, and takes his hand, ignoring just how familiar and easy it feels to slip her hand into his. His palm is warm, and he hoists her up with only a little difficulty. She smiles as she rights herself, and he steps back quickly once he’s sure she won’t fall. The faint blush that steals across his cheeks only makes her vertigo worse, but she manages to walk anyways, the blurriness fading from her eyes.

Just before they get in the car, Zoe reaches out a grabs his sleeve, the fabric of it rough under her calloused fingertips. Time slows down for the barest second, and her world narrowed to the faint, warm brown of his eyes. But the moment passes, and she tugs him in closer to her, wrapping her other arm around his shoulder. She means to say thank you, but the words never pass her lips. Instead she pushes herself up until her mouth is right next to his ear. Zoe breathes, “Watch the stars for me, Evan. Please.”

She feels him nod against her shoulder, and finally his grip around her lower back feels like more than just dead weight. “I will, Zo.”

In a moment, she’ll reach for the car door and step away from him. In a moment he’ll do the same, and they’ll sit in an almost-comfortable silence for the ride home. In a while they will be at her house, and they will say goodbye, and Zoe will go back to NYU the next day and Evan will go to his shift at Pottery Barn. In a moment, this may be the last time they just exist like this with each other, or it may not be.

Either way, she holds him close in this moment and savors the feeling of his heart beating in tandem with hers.

[every1studio]

REQUESTED: “affection” [wanna one]

genre: FLUFF

ficstyle: #whatwouldtheydo/reactions + bulletpoints

@yunaringo asked: “ Hi~ your blog is really great and i admire your writing skills so much!✨❤ can i request kissing and/or making out headcanons for wanna one? Ily🌸🌸🌸 “ + “ Can i request wanna one reaction to their s/o liking their hands so much~ s/o likes to play with their fingers and even kiss it💖❤💌 thank you🌸🌼💓 “

note: thanks for all the support and love~ hope you like it~

DANIEL

Daniel was on his way to surprise you after a long day of work

he smelled the bouquet of pink hydrangeas before knocking on your door

knock knock

(hmm? is that the pizza guy?)

hungry; you skipped to the door to check who it was

all you saw was a bouquet of flowers through the security cam 

you slowly opened the door; hoping that it wasn’t anyone creepy 

Daniel popped out from behind the bouquet

“ta-da~ your prince has arrived~”

you went from a shocked expression to a warm smile

“what are you doing here? I thought you weren’t going to be back until Sunday...”

he hands you the flowers and grabs your face

“I wanted to surprise you~ I’ve missed you so much~” 

he planted a soft but sensual kiss on your lips

then he interlocks your hand 

“wanna get ice cream, kiddo?”

JIHOON 

you were typing away at your assignment

and you barely started on it

you would’ve made it in time if Jihoon wasn’t trying to be clingy

EARLIER THAT DAY

“y/n~”

he’d poke you on your side

“I’m busy, Jihoon..”

he pouted

nothing was working

not even his infamous aegyo

there was only one thing left to do

he grabbed your face and smashed his lips into yours

when he had his way with you, he smiled as he gave you one last peck on the cheeks 

“g’night love~”

flustered; you looked back to your laptop and looked at the time

“JIHOON, HOW AM I SUPPOSE TO FINISH MY ASSIGNMENT IN 30 MINUTES~”

DAEHWI

Daehwi was teaching you how to play the piano 

but your smol fingers were not made for playing the piano

“Daehwi..”

you showed him your hands

“I don’t think my hands are made for playing the piano”

he holds your hands 

and starts to peppering kisses on your little hands

“regardless I think they are adorable so you should keep on trying to play~”

you pouted at him

“you just want to make fun of my hands..”

Daehwi just chuckles

“maybe~”

JAEHWAN

you guys were filming a “doing my boyfriend’s makeup challenge”

this boy can’t really sit still or be quiet

“so what are you doing now?”

“why are you putting concealer around my eyebrows?”

“is that eyeliner you’re putting on my lips?”

through out the whole time you could barely do anything

he would peck you on the lips or kiss your hands with every application

“hun, I love you and all but can I please just-”

he’d peck you and you wouldn’t even be able to finish scolding him because he’s too cute

after applying lipstick on him, he will definitely try to make out with you

“COME HERE”

“NO!”

you wondered why you decided to do a dark lip on him

then again.. 

you like having your boyfriend pepper you with kisses

even if he was going to ruin your last clean white shirt

SEONGWOO

you were at the bar with Seongwoo

tispy talking about how you’ve known him for so long and how you liked him

he just brushed it off 

(it’s the alcohol talking...)

you sobered up when you saw him ignoring what you were saying

you grabbed his hand and placed it on your cheek

“I’m being honest here, Seongwoo.. I really like you..”

he comes up with a plan; believing that it’s not going to follow through

“prove it”

you kissed his cheek softly and swiftly 

then covering your red face

his eyes widened as he couldn’t believe what just happened

you felt him cup your face and returns the kiss but on your lips

it was soft but passionate 

it only lasted a couple of seconds but it felt like an eternity 

“let’s get outta here?”

WOOJIN

it was a snowy day 

you were outside waiting for Woojin to get a bag of roasted chestnuts

he comes back empty-handed

“sorry babe.. they ran out..”

he sees you shivering in the cold

without a word, he grabs your hands and blows his warm breath into them

he nonchalantly kisses them before he looks up

“do you wanna get coffee since we couldn’t get roasted chestnuts?”

you nodded as you continued to shiver

Woojin grabs both sides of hood 

leans in to pepper you kisses

kiss after kiss, you had to tell him to stop through your laugh

“there, hopefully you’re all warmed up..”

you nodded; he made you laugh so much

it was impossible not to

he takes your hand and leads you to the nearest coffeeshop

GUANLIN

you wanted to give Guanlin a surprise visit with his dad and his sister

he’s been so busy that he hasn’t been spending anytime with you or his family

you’d thought it be a good idea 

he told you ahead of time when he was free 

so you scheduled a reservation for “2″ + 2 at his favorite restaurant

when he came to the place, he saw you waiting for him

he placed a soft kiss for a few seconds before telling you how much he missed you and how beautiful you were

once he gets to the table and sees his dad and his sister he starts to tear up

“I wanted to make sure you spend some time with them too.. they probably miss you more than I could ever..”

“you...”

“yeah I got them tickets to get here..”

he was holding your hands and he held them up to his lips

“how are these hands so small but so hardworking...”

JISUNG

you were struggling to open a bag of chips

Jisung tried not to laugh at your small little hands fumbling around the big ass bag of chips

you glared at him

“are you making fun of me?”

he vigorously shook his head; with a smile 

he reaches over and grabs your hands to cup his face

Jisung would kiss the palms of your hands

before..

reaching down to grab the bag of chips and tear the corner off

“you were opening it the wrong way-”

“AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ME!!”

he’d quickly place a peck on your lips

that calmed you down quite fast

MINHYUN

you were both super shy and introverted

sure; you guys were dating 

but you both just communicated through text

today was the day.. that all changed

Seongwoo was teasing that if Minhyun didn’t make any moves on you, he’d take you from him

that spooked Minhyun 

he asked you on a date; through FaceTiming

it was slightly awkward but you were happy he was changing it up a little bit

at the cafe, he sees you walk in 

the first thing he sees is your little sweater paws

he grabs them and kisses them before heading to a table 

Minhyun tries really hard to hold a conversation and you saw that

you leaned over to kiss his cheek but he turned his head in confusion

causing the both of you to kiss on the lips

Minhyun stopped working

and you sunk back in your seat

you hear his slap his cheeks

“hi I’m Minhyun..”

“I know...”

“I just had to make sure that this wasn’t a dream..

JINYOUNG

it wasn’t that long since you’ve seen Jinyoung

you literally saw his that morning

but he was dying to see you again after his classes

you were waiting for him in front of the school yard

then, you were approached by some of your seniors in your majoy

“y/n, what are you doing here all by yourself?”

“I’m waiting for-”

“don’t tell us that you’re waiting for that BaeJin?”

“yeah! he shouldn’t even be having someone as cute as you wait all by yourself out here...”

just then you heard the fast tapping of footsteps behind you

right when you turned your head

you were face to face with BaeJin as he smothered his lips onto yours

then he looks up to see the guys in your major

“what can I help you guys with?” he’d say as his arms are around you

“no-nothing-”

“AWH Y/N I MISSED YOU SO MUCH~”

he’d start peppering away at your face until the other guys would leave

you pouted as you looked up at him

“I’m not an oxygen tank..”

“but you’re my oxygen tank~” 

SUNGWOON

Sungwoon forgot that he let you sleep on his bed from the party last night

he didn’t want you to walk home by yourself 

and you were in no shape to walk home anyways

so he offered his bed.. 

but later in the night he forgot that you were already in his bed 

he woke up, shook asf

but he couldn’t move from his spot

you looked too angelic and he was scared he was going to wake you up if he got out of bed 

he leaned over to kiss you on the head

BECAUSE HE’S LIKED YOU FOR SO LONG AND IT WOULDN’T HURT IF HE DID IT AND IT WASN’T GOING TO AFFECT YOU AND LIKE NO ONE WOULD KNOW BUT HIM

...

right?

you felt a soft touch on the top of your head and you opened you eyes

“Sungwoon?”

you caught him off-guard and he started panicking

“THERE WAS SOMETHING IN YOUR HAIR..”

“why would you use your lips to get it off then..”

“UH.. UM.. ER...”

you just wanted to joke around with him

“what? you did it because you like me?”

...

...

you slowly got up from laying in bed and you sat criss-cross

you held your tiny hands into his

“I like you too-”

right away he started to kiss your hands

“THANK THE LORD, THANK BUDDHA, THANK YOU!! I LOVE YOUR CHEEKS AND YOUR EYES AND YOUR HANDS OH GOSH YOUR LITTLE HANDS AND YOU AND-”

you shushed him up with a kiss

“o..ok”

END + [masterlist + guidelines]

[elleiam]

Fulbright Korea ETA: Fall Daily Schedule

I’ve been wanting to type this up for a while now, as I saw one on another Gakri blog from way back when that calmed a lot of nerves when I was looking forward to what life might be like past the bubble of Orientation. 

But, of course, if you are reading this right now either as a prospective applicant or someone who just found out you’ll be at Gakri (welcome to the chaos), keep in mind the mantra of Fulbright: it depends. My schedule is just one of 115 for this current year, and what my life is like at my placement has differences from everyone else’s, as theirs is different from mine. Regardless, this is what a weekday generally looks like for me!

7:40: Eyes open - it used to be 6:50 in September, 7:20 in October, 7:30 in November, and here we are in December. I still leave the house at the same time though. I no longer wake up to an alarm, just my host mom saying “지후! 일어나 일어나!” (Jihoo! Wake up! Wake up!) followed a minute later by a louder “지후!!!! 일어났어?? 일어나!!” (Jihoo! Did you wake up? Wake up!) She then blasts the news from the kitchen, which thank goodness for because that’s usually what’ll finally convince my brain that it’s time to start the day.

7:50: Eat breakfast - my host mom comes up with different menus every day. It ranges from manduguk (dumpling soup), to egg and spam sandwiches, to udon, to kimchi fried rice. 

8:00 or 8:15: Leave for school - I try to leave at 8 when it’s the start of a new lesson and I have to set up the computer for my first period class. The computer in my classroom is ancient and runs so slowly that it generally takes me 20 to 25 minutes to do the following four actions: 1) turn on the computer 2) open chrome 3) get to google drive 4) open my ppt. That’s crazy, right? My co-teacher and I both mourned together when her application to get a new computer was rejected. If I don’t have a first period, I’ll leave at 8:15.

8:15-8:29: Get to school - I’m supposed to be at school before 8:30 and I’ve yet to get to my office after the bell rang (go me!). Since I don’t have homeroom, which is from 8:30-8:40, it really doesn’t matter if I’m late, but it’s the principle of it! If it’s a set-up-a-new-lesson day, I dash to my classroom as soon as I drop my stuff off in the office praying the computer will cooperate.

8:50-12:20: The first four classes of the day. Each class is 45 minutes with a 10 minute passing period. Sometimes 45 minute goes on forever, and sometimes it’s like where did the time go?? I always have a co-teacher with me in the classroom but usually they just glare at loud students and help translate when I look at them pleadingly. They let me have full control of the classroom, which I really appreciate! I always feel like they’ve got my back but never feel like they’re crowding. #dreamteam

I generally teach 3-4 classes a day of 30-33 students each (that’s 500+ students total and no I haven’t memorized names), which means I have a lot of time at my desk. Up until November, I pretty much spent all my time lesson planning. I didn’t understand the concept of desk warming because I was always busy. As the semester comes to a close though, I definitely have a lot less stress and therefore a lot more free time at my desk. Usually I’ll do Infusion stuff (now that gmail consistently works woot woot) or read ~

12:00-1:35: Lunch officially starts at 12:20, but if I don’t have a 4th period, we get to go grab lunch 20 minutes earlier. It’s nice because then you can eat and hear your thoughts at the same time. Gakri is giant with over 1,000 students, so they have to make lunch 75 minutes in order to make sure every student eats. It’s such a long time, but so nice when you just ain’t ready to teach those afternoon classes just yet.

1:35-3:15: The next two classes of the day

3:15-3:35: Cleaning time! Gakri is a really dirty school. There’s just too many kids and they’re at that age where dirt just doesn’t bother them. They drag their shoes along the walls and roll around in the hallways even though it’s covered in dust and hair. shivers. Some lovely girls from class 9 are in charge of cleaning my classroom, and we usually have a good time. I’ll sneak them some candy, play music from the speakers, and complain about how gross the boys are... I love when one of them comes in and just goes “Uh, Lauren. What happened today? The classroom is so.... messy...”

3:35-4:20: The final class of the day. Thank goodness I only teach this period once a week because no student is ever thinking about school during this time.

Here is video evidence of that crazy. (I love this class btw). Things to note: the volume of the students and the fact that these two girls were straight up jumping like frogs back there before I threatened (and then obviously followed through) to film them.

4:30: Time to go home! Sometimes I’ll meet up with Louise, who teaches at a high school nearby, for tea. If not, I go home and just chill out in my bed for an hour... or two ~oops not productive~

Anytime between 5:30 and 8:00: Dinner time - because of hagwons and my mom’s job running her own class, our dinner times vary every day, but I think after four months I’ve finally figured out when we eat each day. Mondays 6:30, Tuesdays 8, Wednesdays 7, Thursdays 5:30/6, Friday 8. Boom. The dad eats at his company and comes home late often, so it’s just the four of us, but it’s nice to get this family time! 

After dinner: I often help with the dishes and then go back to my room to do any of the following: study Korean, watch youtube, do some stuff for Infusion, write a blog post, read. Sometimes you can catch me playing games or just talking with Jaehee, my host sister.

9:00: Four times a week I teach my host siblings English and Chinese, twice each. English is fun because it’s an excuse for me to dig into my host brother’s life and actually get him to tell me things about his life, sneaky huh. Chinese is a little more stressful because they knew nothing before we started, and I’ve never taught fundamental Chinese grammar before, what even is that! I worry that I often make it harder than it needs to be because I’m trying to figure it out myself still... 

11:00: Time for bed - Just kidding! Fooled ya. Actually in September and October I actually slept at this time, but now I’ll just tell my host fam that I’m off to bed and then stay up for another hour or two reading.

And that’s my day! Weekends are a whole different story, but generally from Monday to Friday you can find me following this pretty much to the tee. Gotta love that routine, amiright? And somehow because I’m in a different country not a single day feels quite like the one before.