#the character has to be Unearthly Beautiful to make a point? too bad you simply just have to act like they are despite them looking normal

[musical-chick-13]

Honestly, death to ALL portrayals of fictional characters involving Unearthly “Conventionally” Attractive™ actors, let everyone in your cast just look like a regular person.

[tothedarkdarkseas]

The way Vampire AU has taken off has really warmed my heart! So many great thoughts all round. I sent you some elaborations on my own personal headcanons for it as a submission, just for the fun of it. Enjoy!

Hi! I got your submission last night and read over it-- it's very elaborate, you've clearly put a lot of thought into fleshing this AU out and it sounds like a ton of fun. I know you mentioned at the end that you had no intentions of writing it because you're busy with other fandom projects, but I'm sure there are many who'd be interested in reading your ideas if you ever decided to make a sideblog for it. I'll post your submission for others to read below a cut here so that the post won't be too long on the dashboard, and I'll reply to some of the specifics underneath!

Yes! I have so many more thoughts on a vampire AU, I figured it would be easier to put them in a submission. Hope you don't mind.

The concept is just so fascinating to me, because so much of it lines up perfectly with the character dynamics we're given in the canon, and what doesn't has the potential to expand on and explore those dynamics in a really interesting way.

I agree 100 percent about the tone it would have to be written in. An actual brooding, dark prince Murdoc type of thing wouldn't work for me. (Murdoc would try to play up that persona, but in reality, he'd be far from it.) In my mind, the tone would be half What We Do In The Shadows and half Being Human UK. Four misfits living in a mouldering mansion somewhere, getting on each other's tits - but deep down they've got each other's backs. There's a bond, even if they can't quite explain what it is.

In my mind the bloodlust would function as an addiction. Murdoc is no Mother Theresa but he's not comfortable with indiscriminate murder either. (Guilt and self-loathing is not a good combination in Murdoc.) Knowing there is no in between for vampires - you can't have a sip here and there, it's abstinence or nightly slaughter - he stays teetotal from blood and tries to channel his desires into other addictions instead. Any and every addiction, really. Drugs, booze, sex, theft, you name it. Which is how he comes to be doing donuts in a stolen car in a Tesco car park, at the exact same time Stuart Pot is making a midnight run for condoms and Tango.

I picture Murdoc's turning of Stu would be this confusing moment that even he can't fully explain, so he's always switching his story about it. One day he'll say he didn't want to deal with the police, another day it'll be vampire enforcers he was afraid of - "total killjoys, they'll bung you in a blood-filled coffin for a hundred years over the TINIEST infraction". Other days he comes close to admitting he felt guilty, that he flipped out over the idea of killing someone after all, when he's dedicating all his energy to avoiding doing just that. Sometimes he just calls it a moment of madness.

But in every vampire movie, there's that moment. The moment where the newly-turned vamp rises from the grave as this beautiful unearthly creature of the night, and I mean . . . this absolutely would be Murdoc's experience of it. He's almost convinced himself there aren't real vampires like that, that it's all Hollywood bollocks, and then Stu rises up in front of him like some black-eyed, blue-haired god, and the part of Murdoc that isn't utterly gobsmacked by it can't help resenting the little sod for making it look so easy. Murdoc likes to take the piss out of him and claim he's like one of those Lost Boys California pretty boy vampires, but he's jealous really.

I imagine Murdoc would be similarly mercurial about how he was turned. There's always some hyperbolic story about it, designed to paint Murdoc in the best light. Sometimes he was the premier occultist of his day. Sometimes he sold his soul to the devil for immortality. Sometimes he was turned by a beautiful vampire seductress, who was bitter he broke her heart. It's all bollocks. The truth is definitely something less glamorous, and I would imagine actually much sadder as well? I'm not sure what, but I'm picturing something like Murdoc's father being some small-time occultist who sold his son to vampires, or maybe Murdoc was working some menial job and was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe he was turned by some vampire who would have drunk him dry, if Murdoc hadn't fought him off. Or maybe it's a bit of mystery, like the mystery of his mother in canon. Someone did this to Murdoc, someone made him what he is, but he has no memory of it. And all the different stories are actually partly a coping mechanism for that, as he tries on different explanations for size. (It would also explain why he would refuse to abandon Stu after turning him. Because navigating this new reality alone is something he wouldn't wish on anyone, even some dumb kid.)

I think the supernatural element would also be a great way to expand on and deepen Murdoc's relationships with Russell and Noodle. In supernatural fiction there are always two types of beings that hate each other. Usually vampires and werewolves, but often vampires and ghosts too. As, obviously, vamps can't drain ghosts, and they spend their lives running from the guilt of all the people they've killed. Ghosts are a constant reminder of that - and of the afterlife they both fear, and resent that they were denied. I can picture Russell maybe helping Murdoc exorcise the ghost of Hannibal or Jacob, and that's how they meet. (And why he has more patience with Murdoc than most. He's seen him at his most vulnerable.) Noodle would be great as a vampire hunter too. Her dynamic with Murdoc would be fraught as on the one hand, she respects Russell and venerates him for his connection to the spirit world, so to a certain extent anything he says she'll try to respect. And Murdoc is supposedly reformed, and she has moments where she even almost quite likes him. But her instinct is not to trust him. Her instinct is to put him down, and they both know it. As much as he battles his bloodlust around her, she battles her urge to put a stake through his heart, Van Helsing style.

Finding out he turned someone would be a MAJOR ruck in their relationship. But I think Murdoc would use 2-D to convince her and Russell to stick around - because he turned him, but it wasn't like he was chowing down on the lad, it was practically an act of charity, really. Practically an act of atonement. And if they both leave now, Stu is only left with Mr Bad Influence Murdoc Niccals, to teach him how to be a vampire, and restrain his urges and whatnot. And Murdoc has never been much good at all that AA, 12 step stuff, so unless they WANT poor sweet Stuart Pot to wind up spending eternity as some kind of crackhead . . . it would be a kindness to him, really, to stick around.

I could not agree more about how Murdoc turning Stu would mirror their Phase Two dynamic, with Stu literally having become "the thing Murdoc turned him into", and resenting that. But also, having moments of perverse gratitude for it? Stu is vain, and vampire Stu would be gorgeous, which I reckon he'd love. And though I think he'd hate that his normal life of footy with the boys and Sunday dinner at his mum's was over, I can also imagine him feeling this whole new world has opened up in front of him, something most people aren't special enough to gain entry to. And he likes that.

I can even see the fame thing and the band happening. Music would be a great, healthier way to channel the urges he can't act on. And I can see Murdoc agreeing. Admitting that he's been playing in bands for years, because it's actually a great cover for a vampire lifestyle. Being nocturnal is practically a prerequisite, when you're a rock star, and you can get away with looking all kinds of weird when you're in a band, because people just chalk it up to the aesthetic. Still, until he met 2-D, none of the bands he'd been in were actually any GOOD. 2-D reawakens his love of music, the same way he is the turning point for Murdoc's career in the canon.

Vampirism would also be a great way to explore Stuart's flaws. His vanity is an obvious one, but I can also see him avoiding his family and not letting them know why he'd disappeared for years. Just too self-absorbed to appreciate the harm it's caused. I can also see the pill problem happening as he imitates Murdoc's habit of abusing substances to try and blunt his bloodlust. I can imagine him saying stupid stuff like "you never even took me to the hospital!" and convincing himself he experiences phantom headaches, because he doesn't want to admit he's becoming just like Murdoc, actually. He tells himself the pills are medicine and he really needs them, and it's not the same at all.

And I can see him getting too carried away with his lusts, and having several near misses or disastrous incidents where he brings girls home and loses control of himself. Where Murdoc jumps in and saves it from getting too out of hand, but at the same time exposes how he's basically been stalking Stu "for your own protection", with a side of decidedly voyeuristic intentions. Stu has . . . strong (and somewhat confused) feelings about this.

I think Murdoc would be the same trouble magnet in the vampire underworld that he was in the criminal one. Feelings about Murdoc range from "this unwashed oik should NEVER have been allowed to become one of us" to "I WILL STAKE MURDOC FAUST NICCALS IF IT'S THE LAST THING I DO". Murdoc would definitely continue his streak of petty crime any time he entered the hallowed halls of the vampire hoi poloi. He'd be pilfering left and right. And I can't imagine he'd ever kowtow to the aristocracy, which, in a subculture as obsessed with class as vampires . . .  yeah, he's insolent, to say the least. And they hate it. They just hate Murdoc, generally. I imagine 2-D might consider crossing over to the dark side to join them, to spite Murdoc, before eventually he realizes that - amazing as it sounds - even Murdoc has higher moral standards than these people. Maybe he's better off with the devil he knows.

I love what you said about Murdoc and Stuart being hung by the same rope, for all eternity. That's exactly the dynamic I think a vampire AU would bring about. I also think Murdoc being Stu's vampire sire would be interesting in the romantic sense, as part of them would always second guess if that was the reason for the bond they feel. Are they developing feelings, or is all of this just the blood bond? I can imagine Stuart hating his own inability to judge why he feels so drawn to Murdoc, and I can see Murdoc trying to convince himself any possessiveness or pride or protectiveness he feels over Stu is just what all vampires feel when they turn someone. (Even though it's not.) It would be a potent brew.

Anyway, this was long but I will never have the time to actually write this (I have five WIPs in other fandoms already) so I thought I'd let it out somehow. Thanks for giving me the space to talk this over!

(If anyone wants to run with this and make something of it, by the way, have at it! Just credit me somewhere for the idea. That'd be good.)

This was quite a ride! I love the idea of Stuart Pot's mortal life ending when he's mowed down in a Tesco car park buying condoms and Tango. It's cruel to say it's what he deserves and frankly the complete antithesis of the whole conflict I'm begging for, but... it's what he deserves. I'm also very intrigued by the angle of treating bloodlust as an addiction: it could theoretically be overcome, but practically speaking, rarely is. This makes it easy to see how Murdoc spins off into such a cartoonishly extreme life of debauchery. I love the bit about Murdoc changing his story of what happened, both the night he hit Stuart and his own origin-- the difference being that Stu does know what happened to him, whether he ever chooses to believe Murdoc's ever-shifting justifications for it or not, but no one can ever really know where Murdoc came from except himself. I definitely agree that the truth has to be less glamorous, less thrilling, less worthy of tales and legends. I like Stuart and Murdoc best when they are not men born into greatness nor men born for greatness, not inherently, and I love the private grappling with the belief that they are special and the fear that they probably aren't. Your explanation of the foil-like dynamic between vampires and spirits/ghosts is interesting, I don't know if that's an established piece of vampire lore or if that's your own invention, but I think it's a really solid one. I don't know if I've truly seen those two creatures explored in a world together with such a direct emphasis on that ghoulish ecosystem, so to speak.

And, well, I'm quite predictable but I'm ready to invest $5k in a full novel exploring Stu's estrangement from his family and friends following the transformation, the psychological toll it takes to choose-- though he may feel he has no other choice at all-- to abandon those relationships, how his own descent may mirror Murdoc's as he shelters himself in chalk-tablet excess and a vibrant, at times frightful carnal life to distract himself from the guilt. I'm dying to see how he could approach mending those fences again after years away. It isn't something one sweeps under the rug, isn't something that he can make amends for. This sort of thing shatters a family, and in my imagining of Rachel and David, it certainly shattered his. This kind of permanently-marred family drama really captivates me and is something I don't think we should shy away from in stories about addiction, and it would be fascinating to explore the human element of that against the metaphorical monstrous one.

I love what you mentioned about the "blood bond" and how it factors into the pull between them they're too unsettled to really name. This adds an extra layer of confusion, as you say, and better justifies why they find themselves orbiting each other, pretending there's a blood-coloured chain tethering them and ignoring the heavy weighted padlock in the middle that pulls them down, down, down. I've spoken a lot on this blog about why Stu is participatory in the relationship when he dislikes Murdoc in such a profound way, and while I absolutely never tire of the messy, bleak human weakness and ego of that, it would be quite special to explore that with something that almost feels like an excuse for Stu, a macabre justification entirely out of his hands; it gives him permission to be part of this broken spiral and absolves him of the responsibility of acknowledging his choice. I'd like to think he still lives with it, as Murdoc does too, but they may appreciate the safety of the smokescreen as much as they struggle to see through it.

Thanks for sending me your ideas, I hope other readers will enjoy seeing your elaborations, and if you're having fun thinking about these two goons I'd encourage you to consider making a blog. Sometimes you get lucky and draw in people who are incredibly kind!

(Lastly, unrelated fun fact about vampirism in my life: my first job was playing a vampire at a haunted amusement park. Our "Scare Zone" was designed as a junkyard taken over by a vampire gang, and I was the "queen" with a throne made of old tires. It was... a fun job and also not a fun job, haha.)

[cryptid-bloodhound]

The Phantom Agony

So, this was totally for @ajays-lullaby​ for that music ask game and uh...it got like wayyy longer than intended. So rather than put it all in the ask (bcus I can’t put a read more in there i don’t think??) i decided to make a separate post. Otherwise yall would h a t e me for the clunky ass text. anyway, hope yall enjoy! <3

Characters: Wraith, Bloodhound

Notes: It’s a total supernatural/fantasy AU. Ghost!Wraith (aka Wraith!Wraith bcus i think im funny) and Monster Hunter!Bloodhound. It can be platonic or romantic if u squint depending on your preference. Wraith has no memories, mean voices, and bad anxiety. she just needs a hug.

Read On: Ao3

Random Song Selected for the Prompt: Monster - Starset

“My heart's an artifice, a decoy soul Who knew the emptiness could be so cold? I've lost the parts of me that make me whole I am the darkness I'm a monster“

Deep in the wilds forgotten by time lurked the shadow of a woman lost to despair. It was a desolate place that reeked of woe. What life had once flourished there had long since been chased away by the tormented entity. Trees stood barren and brittle, casting long, gnarled shadows in every direction like greedy hands. Nothing but cold dirt and stones pocked the ground. Everywhere else in this forest was thriving and beautiful. Everywhere except for the den of the Wraith.

She could not remember anything; not her name, her age, how long she had been trapped here, or where all of this anger came from. It was as if she simply came into being one day full of anguish and hate. There was an endless aching in her skull in the form of callous voices. They're insidious little whispers just at the furthest reaches of her mind, tempting her with memories she could never quite grasp. Try as she might, they always seemed just out of her reach. It was maddening. She wanted to know who she was, why she was stuck here, why everything hurt, hurt, hurt-

She could recall voices, though.

So many voices.

They scratched aching grooves into her nerves when those harsh tones rose in her mind. What they said, she couldn’t catch but it filled her with a God-awful dread. Always the same voices, always the same tones.

And she could remember pain.

So much pain.

Like torn sinew and choking breath, it crawled through the ghost of her nerves. Over and over and over and over. She just wanted it all to stop! 

There had been a fear so strong in those lost memories that it branded her soul. She could still taste its acrid flavor like bile on her tongue. How utterly cruel it is that she can taste nothing but her fear. Her fear and her rage. She was but a phantom of suffering, wailing pleas and profanities into the deep, yawning abyss around her. She would grip her head and scream, scream, scream for help but no one ever came. No one that stayed, that is.

At first, she did not know what she was. Not until some hikers crossed her path, that is. They walked into her grove, a light and joy in their eyes that made her ache. She called out to them but they did not answer. She walked up to them and asked for help. Still, they did not answer. They walked around her sacred area with wide eyes, remarking on the eerie feeling all around, pointing out the oddly dead foliage, and joking as if she were not there. An ugly, pernicious feeling curdled her gut at the callous display.

Then, the man let out a loud, sharp laugh and a spike of utter terror pierced her to the core. It echoed like a record stuck on repeat in her head. That sound was so very much like the one in her sparse memories. Had she a breath, it’d be caught in her throat. Instead, that cold fear twisted and turned inside of her. It thawed and melted, kept heating up until it boiled over. This... This was one of them. All of her pain and dread and hate spewed forth like a volcano and she positively erupted. With bared teeth and clawed hands, she rushed forward. Her presence was felt like a harsh gust of wind - the herald of a coming storm. 

She could not feel her strikes land but the fear in the couple’s eyes and red lines forming on his face let her know that the manifestation of her wrath could certainly be felt. Nature trembled and bowed to her unearthly power as the people skittered over themselves to escape. The Wraith went to take chase but was held back by an unknown force. No matter how hard she pulled at the unseen tether or beat against the invisible wall, she could not leave. Those voices in her head wailed with gnashing teeth, hungry for vengeance. They were left to starve.

From that revelation came a cruel, aching bitterness. There were people out there who took her life from her. They twisted her into some sort of monster and she was stuck here, forced to live in damnation because of it. That bitterness and agony swelled like a balloon. She would chase away any who dared enter her grove because having them there was just another form of torture. She wanted to speak with them. She wanted to feel the warmth of another’s touch, a caring embrace, something . But she was denied even that simple kindness. It was the low hanging fruit she simply could not get. The oasis just beyond her fingertips. And just like the old Fox’s fable, she grew sour over that taunting temptation. It was better to push them all away than to be tormented even further. 

It was better to be alone than in agony.

She could not recall how long it had been since the last person fleed from her territory. Time seemed so very inconsistent to The Wraith. Hours, days, years. It meant nothing to her. So she stalked her lonesome grove with a void in her soul that would not leave. There were times she regretted chasing all who came here away because this desolation felt too close to torture these days.

Hadn’t it always?  

She pushed those prodding little voices back as hard as she could. There was no use wondering about ‘what if’s and ‘I should have done’s. This is the path she chose and she will stay to it with her chin up and the fierce conviction that was undeniably all her. No amount of longing or rapacious voices will make her backpedal. What’s done is done, after all.

So, when the day came when an oddly masked figure approached her grove she beat back those feelings of yearning and clamped down on the ache inside of her. The Wraith would chase this one away just like all the rest. They would simply walk by her, taunt her with the life she’s been denied, and dangle comfort like a toy. With the same hard stare and clenched fists, she drew upon her pain and prepared to bring the Heavens down once again. 

But something strange occurred.

That figure stopped just at the edge of her grove, mere inches from her invisible barrier. They cocked their head as if curious while looking around slowly. Their outfit was unlike any she had laid her eyes on before. Armor was not typically worn by any but soldiers and even then it was unlike this armor. Regardless of the oddity, she remained prepared for that inevitable moment they’d cross her threshold. They were probably another adventure seeker or ‘ghost hunter’ looking for a thrill. The frown tugging her lips only deepened at the thought. The Wraith despised those sorts the most. Her agony was not an attraction to be delighted by and she would entertain none who thought otherwise.

“May I enter your home?”

The unexpected words nearly startled the spectral being. Never before had someone attempted to speak to her. It sent a jolt through her body and that malignant current she built up wavered.

“What?”

As soon as she answered she felt foolish. No doubt this one was speaking to ‘The Ghost of the Shattered Forest’. Before she could even get back to scowling, that masked face turned to look directly at her. 

“I humbly requested entrance to your home.”

Again, she was at a total loss. What traction she had built crumbled like sand between her fingers. There was absolutely no way this individual heard her. The Wraith tried desperately not to get her hopes up as that masked gaze never wavered from her direction.

“You can see me?”

Her voice, soft and ethereal, wavered ever so slightly at the end of her words. ‘No!’ She yelled at herself. ‘I can’t hope for this.’ Had she not already been dead then surely the crushing disappointment would end her entirely. But, as she tried to smother that devilishly persistent flicker of hope, that mask gave a quiet nod of acknowledgment. She trembled with nerves she thought were long gone. 

“But... how? Nobody else can.”

There was a fragileness like ill-tempered glass in her voice that she despised . It’s just been so, so long since she spoke to someone - since she felt alive . If she had tears to shed, she feared they would get the best of her. Even now, just this small confirmation had her choke back a sob of pure joy. 

“I have been gifted with sight by the Gods.”

Their voice was just as odd as their armor. An accent curled heavily around their words in a way she was unfamiliar with. Foreign, then. She couldn’t help but wonder if they truly were blessed to see such a creature as her or if they were delusional. In her eyes, such sight would be nothing short of a curse. She cleared her throat - a useless but ingrained habit - as she composed herself. This was a stranger. One who could see her. One who may hurt her. Those snarling, snapping voices tried to tempt her to violence. It would be best to destroy this person before they had a chance to cause her more pain. 

That grotesque desire was so strong it nearly suffocated her. She would not heed them. After all, she was no one’s puppet. Still, even the chance of danger had her ghostly, almost translucent eyes narrowing suspiciously. Once bitten, twice shy.

“Who are you?”

The stranger never shifted from their spot, she noted. She had never permitted them to cross into her withered grove and they acknowledged that. Instead, they stood calm and tall, exuding a peace she can’t recall ever feeling. It made that hunger in her rise like a leviathan. She wanted that peace. Whether it was due to her desire for comfort or that damning hunger, she gestured for the hunter to step into her territory. They gave a gracious gesture and took but a few steps forward before halting.

“I am Blothhundr, a Hunter of the Gods. You may call me Bloodhound.”

That wariness didn’t wane after their introduction. If anything, all it accomplished was setting her teeth on edge. There was a war waging in her head between the desire to close the distance and drink in the company she’s long been denied and the desire to cast them far, far away so she would be safe. That inner battle caught her tongue for a moment and kept her rooted in her spot. Finally, she was able to push past the haze of violent screams echoing like sirens to get out a response.

“And what are you hunting?”

They paused for only a moment before uttering a single word.

“Monsters.”

Just like that, her hopes shattered all around her. There was something utterly devastating about finally getting just what one has always desired only for it to be twisted so cruelly. She had no doubt this proclaimed Divine Hunter was here for her head. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so harsh to the mortals who crossed her path. That bitterness mixed with a swell of fear and it reminded her of something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It came in the form of the singing silver of blades unsheathed and cruel, husky voices.

While the voices screamed for action and her body trembled to flee, she stood her ground proud and tall. Perhaps under all of that fear of what’s to come was a shred of dark relief. Anything would be better than this lonely Hell, wouldn’t it? Regardless, she would face her hunter with all of her fierce, untamed fury. She wouldn’t go quietly into the night. Not again. That ethereal energy she possessed built around her once more as she prepared for their inevitable clash.

“I take it that monster is me?”

As she spoke, she jutted her chin up in defiance, letting it be known that she would be no easy prey. Instead of aggression, however, she was met with pacifism. They raised their gloved hands in a placating gesture that once again surprised her. 

“My apologies, I have not made my intentions clear. No, you are not the one I am after.”

They sounded completely sincere but how would she know any better? Her disbelief colored her voice dark with its dry, skeptical undertone.

“Really?”

Still, the odd hunter seemed unfazed. They merely gave another polite nod.

“Já.”

That frown on her face only deepened further. They lapsed into a tense silence as she eyed them up warily. There was a barely concealed hostility just beneath her wraps as those voices implored her to act. Once more, the hunter spread their hands out wide in a grand gesture meant to convey some sort of understanding.

“Not all óvættr are wraiths and revenants. Some appear as men. They are the most monstrous of all. They are who I am after.”

Again, something in her head twisted sharply. There was a thought - a memory - at the very edges of her mind. It left her itching to chase that particular white rabbit. Still, she did not speak. She did not want to encourage this enigmatic hunter to keep raising her hopes back up. It’s a trick , the voices claimed. Her jaw clenched and she felt a phantom pain from the pressure. They continued on.

“Truly, I do not believe Wraiths to be monsters at all.”

She scoffed in utter disbelief. 

“You’d be the first.”

The sardonic, baleful words slipped from her tongue without her permission. She snapped her mouth shut as soon as the last syllable left her lips. The abrupt, almost angry cut-off didn’t seem to bother her newfound companion. They just shook their head, an almost mournful hunch to their once-squared shoulders.

“I am aware. Many misunderstand that which they fear and they fear that which they do not understand. Wraiths are born of violence and injustice. They are innocent souls who met a fate they did not deserve. So they are trapped, unable to find friðr until they find justice. “

Their words stirred up a violent hurricane within her. Flashes of faces colored her vision until it was all she could see. Voices and metal-on-metal beat in her ears. The suffocating scents of leather, dirt, and smoke choked her airless lungs. It all flashed too fast for her to catch but she knew - she knew - where all of her hate and fear came from. This one, they spoke the truth. Something utterly profane happened to her and it robbed her of all that she once was. It left that disgustingly familiar hollow ache in its place. It pulsated like a fetid wound. This wasn’t fair! The dead should not hurt so deeply!

“That’s what happened to me?”

It came out a whisper full of turmoil. The Wraith could hardly untangle this confusing web of emotions she was feeling. It left her wanting to lash out like a wounded, cornered animal as she was used to doing. Without realizing it, she had squeezed her eyes shut as she tried to push the wailing voices and barbed feelings far away. It felt like she would shake apart from the endless tide beating against her soul. 

Stop, please stop!

“It would seem so.”

The soft voice was so much nearer than it had been before. It startled her, though not nearly as much as the gloved hand on her shoulder. She could feel the weight of their hand and the warmth of the glove against her icy skin. So shocking was this gesture that even the voices were silenced for a change. The Wraith could not help but stare with wide doe eyes and gasp quietly.

“How are you able to do that?”

As if only just realizing what they’d done, Bloodhound retracted their hand quickly. She almost wanted to chase the touch, much to her chagrin. Just how starved of affection had she become? ...That was a question she truly did not want answered for surely it would only upset her further. Bloodhound was quiet for a moment before finally answering her question. The tone of their voice hedged dangerously close to uncomfortable.

“...That is a story for another time.”

She frowned slightly at the deflection. The desire to pester them for an answer was strong but then she noticed just how stiff they’d become. Their hands were curled into tight fists and they had turned slightly away from her as if contemplating an escape. A quiet desperation rose in her at the mere thought of being stuck in this lonely purgatory again. 

Wraith quickly reached out, hand hovering over the hunter’s armguard. Slowly, she reached just a bit further until she gently grabbed their arm. For an agonizing moment, she feared her hand would have passed right through them just as it had everyone else. But no, she could feel the rough, worn texture of the metal beneath her ghostly fingers. When she ached, it was with joy this time. Bloodhound slowly looked her direction, stance still ready to run.

“...I accept your help. I...want to remember. Everything. I want...”

Getting the words out was harder than she could have imagined. Asking for help - showing just how vulnerable she is - was so very, very difficult. But, she managed to get the words out there, soft as a spring breeze.

“I want to find peace.”

And by the Gods it was true. There was nothing in this world she wanted more than to finally be at peace. Wraith could only pray that this hunter was true to their word. Slowly, minutely, their stance relaxed. Finally, they gave a small nod and spoke with a confidence that instilled a courage and hope in her she didn’t previously dare let herself feel.

“Then the hunt begins.”

[dothewrite]

I CAN 30000000% IMAGINE YOU WRITING A HANAHAKI DISEASE SCENARIO OKAY CHOOSE ANY HAIKYUU CHARACTER IDEC ITS JUST HANAHAKI GETS TO ME (PREFERABLY FEMALE PRONOUNS AND THE GIRL HAS THE DISEASE BUT THEN AT THE END THE GUY FINDS OUT AND THEY'RE LIKE GOOD FRIENDS OH GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE )

This. I can’t believe I did this. Basically 10k, and apparently I torture myself for fun. I bled for this thing like some Grecian slave about to get whipped by his master, good god, and I’m still not happy with it, but it’s done, and it’s out. I hope you enjoy. I really, really hope you do.

The HanahakiDisease is an illness born from one-sided love, where the patient throws upand coughs of flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. The infectioncan be removed through surgery, but the feelings disappear along with thepetals.

“There have beencases where patients have died, yes.”

You can stillenvision the doctor’s face, drawn and tired as he delivered your diagnosis toyou in an empty room that smelled of man and disinfectant. The first hint you’dreceived was how the doctor had handed you your new medication with the ease ofa thousand-day’s repetition, and you knew you weren’t rare at all.

Looking none theworse for wear, you had made your way out of the flooded hospital feeling nomore important than you were when you had entered.

Having thisdisease- having any disease- madework difficult, certainly. The punctures in your skin were awkward to explainat first, but your co-workers had gotten over their steadfast suicideprevention printouts when they had accidentally opened the door to your officeone afternoon to find you keeled over and suffocating. The injection packetscarefully placed in a drawer at your desk had transformed into a lifesaver inthat instant, from its prior purpose for reminding you how damaged you are. Andafter you had taken the afternoon off to save everyone from the trauma ofhaving to make eye contact with you for the rest of the day, they hadn’tbothered you about it since.

Still, it wasalmost alright again. As long as you took your medicine at the instructedintervals, your life carried on in a delightfully mundane fashion. More thanonce, you’ve had acquaintances of yours exclaiming over their cheap Americanbeer at the tidbit- how fascinating your life must be with such a romanticsounding disease! Could you possibly show them some of your flowers? They mustbe stunning.

The only properresponse is to smile, and join in their merrymaking. It didn’t feel veryromantic at all that night when you had been forcibly woken up mid-dream to afit that had left you sore and aching until morning. Your injections kept theinjuries, and therefore blood, away with its material-softening properties, andthat was the single thing you could feel thankful for. Perhaps if it were anyperson other than yourself, you’d think it a beautiful sight too.

There are morningswhere the nights have been particularly painful, and in compensation, you waketo a floor of beautiful cherry blossoms basking in the early rays of sunlightat your feet.

The unearthlyeffect lasted until the clock hit eight, and your trusty alarm reminded youwith its gentle bubbling to take your next injection within the next fifteenminutes.

You’ve gotten usedto sudden pinch in your skin whenever the needle pricks your arm, but there’snever anything pleasant about the strange burn that would course through yourblood like liquid metal until it fades away. There isn’t a green light lettingyou know if it’d worked. You’d simply have to take the bet, and if you’relucky, the petals in your lungs would have softened enough for it not to hurtthe next time your coughing started.

Lately it’s becomea habit of yours to stare emptily at your bank account online. You wonder whyit suffocates you so to consider removing the affliction altogether with thesurgery funds you’ve managed to save up. Yet, the evenings always end with youclosing the webpage, reaching for your next injection and waiting for spring toarrive again in your lungs.

“How’ve you beenfeeling lately?”

Akaashi’s taken toasking you this question each time the two of you come within reasonabledistances of each other, despite your weekly phone calls. You don’t think thathe’s ever quite gotten over the scare when he’d discovered, along with you,that you’d suddenly been bestowed the magical, life-threatening ability tocough flowers. He looks every bit as serious about it now as he did on thatbefore-and-after night.

“I’m doingalright,” you answer truthfully. “Nothing more stressful than bosses withincompetent PAs, but life’s going on just about the same as it had last week,if you must know.”

“Okay, but youtold me about the PA two nights ago, drunk. I meant your body. Have you takenyour injection before coming out tonight?”

“Yes, mom,” youroll your eyes, but you’re smiling, “I have it timed and everything. I’m goingto have to start on the next arm today, I think.”

Akaashi shakes hishead, ever exasperated with the ease with which you discuss relatively seriousmedical issues, and takes your left arm in a gentle grip. He runs two fingersover the light markings that pepper your indoor skin, and although the scarsfaded quickly, they don’t fast enough to escape Akaashi’s firm scrutiny. Hisface falls ever so slightly when he roams over your arm and finds no spare skinleft.

“It’s getting easier,”you add, but your gut twists, “I generally move my schedule so I’m comfortableand alone when it comes around.”

“Alright,” he saysreluctantly, “remember to let me know if you need any help. Any whatsoever.”

“I will,” youpromise. “So cheer up, Keiji, it’s a clear night, and we’re here to party.”

“Party, pffft.” He’s tiptoeing the lineto laughter, so you consider that a victory.

The walk to themassive gymnasium is a quick one. This early in the evening, the sun barelybeginning to dye itself orange, there are scarce people not occupied with workto loiter. The two of you pause at the polished gates, giving a quick wave tothe security guard you’ve rather become friends with, and he unlocks the doorfor the two of you with a cheery wave in reply.

The evening issupposed to be a quiet one, with Akaashi’s upcoming promotion (which means morework) and Bokuto’s upcoming qualifiers next week, there’s not much chance forthe three of you to go gallivanting off somewhere like in the days of yourlong-lost youth, a mere five years ago. Sometimes you find that you miss thosedays when you’re sat at your desk, ploughing your way through paperwork thatseems no more significant in the grand scheme of things than ice cream inwinter. But you’ve got a picture of the two of them sitting by your tired oldwork computer, cheering you with rather impersonal gazes. You feel pride whenyou see the excited gleam in Akaashi’s eyes when he successfully finishes acase, and you lose your voice cheering when you watch Bokuto’s matches and hetoo is roaring in victory; they’re your anchors, and it’s a possessive joy.

Today’s a goodday, and you feel inspired enough to venture that you might have a similar partin their lives too.

Bokuto catchessight of the two of you almost immediately when Akaashi pokes his head aroundthe broad gym doors. He starts to wave, almost dislocating a joint doing so,and you hear Akaashi’s laughter accompanying your own. Although you can’t saythat you aren’t thrilled to see Bokuto each time, what kind of normal personwould be so unreasonably excited to see their friends?

“Guys!!” He hollers at the top of his lungs, possibly afraid that Africa mightnot catch his voice. Bokuto the prospective opera singer instantly gets toldoff by his traumatized looking coach, and you note that he’s looking none toosorry at all.

“Come on,” Akaashitugs at your elbow, “if we stand here, he’s never going to actually make it outof the gym.”

You gesture atBokuto, trying to tell him that you’ll be waiting for him outside the gym asusual, and he nods vigorously. You see Akaashi’s point.

Plus, waitingisn’t so bad, not with Akaashi’s quiet commentary about his office woes, youroffice woes, and the collective woes of the unfortunately born middle class,against a purpling autumn sky. Bokuto’s a quick changer, you have faith.

A happy roarechoes through the empty field all of a sudden, and several birds dart away atthe sound. Noticing Bokuto’s entrance is a poor test of spatial awareness,thanks to his gift at announcing his presence. The two of you turn around justin time to see him skid to a stop behind your bench, not a drop of sweatbreaking on his temple, and his characteristic beam is exactly where it belongson his face.

“Good practice?”Akaashi asks.

“Nah.” Bokutogestures hurriedly, and you and Akaashi get to your feet upon his summoning. “Igot told off a lot today. Couldn’t focus, I think, but can you blame me? I’m super excited for our dinner!”

“Let’s not getahead of ourselves here, you’d be excited even if we went to get Burger King,”you grin.

Bokuto beams somemore at the truth of the statement, and you suspect you’re at risk of goingblind. “Yeah! But this is special, for Akaashi.”

Akaashi stares himdown. “And I’m certainly not having my dinner at Burger King.”

“You’ve changed,man, you’ve changed!”

“It’s calledaging.” Akaashi sighs emphatically. The giggles start to spill over between thethree of you because Akaashi sighing is always a beautiful scene, and it feelslike almost no time had passed at all.

You all pile intoAkaashi’s car, of course. It’s a no brainer, with Bokuto holding the worldrecord for the most indecisive car purchase in history, and you with your wreckof a car sulking in a garage somewhere for repairs. It’s a united decision;besides, there isn’t an excuse good enough in the world not to lounge in apolished Audi when the opportunity arises.

It’s only a shortride, but it’s a happy, lush one that has you humming and sighing insatisfaction as the soft leather rumbles around you. Bokuto in the front seatis valiantly attempting to hold in his delighted howls each time Akaashi spurshis ride on, and alone in the back seat, you watch the life around you pass by.You press the heel of your palm against your mouth to keep in the laughter.

When Akaashi pullsup in front of the entrance of an extravagantlyexpensive hotel, both you and Bokuto share in a collective prayer for yourwallets. Akaashi takes his time unbuckling the seatbelt and hands his keyspolitely to the valet, but Bokuto is the one who scrambles out of his seatfirst. It takes him no time at all, despite being tied and wrapped up in a suitand tie and the whole package, for him to walk over briskly and open your doorfor you. You’re far too occupied with not staring at his let-down hair todecline, and the arches of your feet groan in pain from your pointed heels asyou step out of the car.

“Those are prettyhigh,” he comments, not meeting your eyes either.

You rub your neckawkwardly. “Yeah. I probably shouldn’t wear them the next time we do somethinglike this.”

“No-“ he cuts in,and you’re surprised by how insistent he sounds, “-they look nice on you.”

“Oh… Thank you.”

Bokuto looksmildly conflicted. “I mean, if it hurts, then of course you shouldn’t wearthem. Doesn’t seem too great to be in pain just to look pretty- I’ll carry youhome if it hurts too much!”

The laugh you’reholding in between tightly pressed lips starts to push at your cheeks, and toyour relief, Akaashi steps in looking amused.

“Koutarou, you’rejust digging yourself in deeper.” Bokuto nods in full agreement, equallyrelieved, but looks pleased when you snort with laughter. “Let’s get going,shall we?”

You slip betweenthe two of them, and proffer your elbows to them as gentlemanly as possible.They slip their hands into the crook without hesitation, and the three of youmake your way towards your table like children without a care in the world.

“You look verynice today, Koutarou,” Akaashi murmurs later over his wine.

“Since you told meoff last time for not having anything nice,” Bokuto says, “I had this made.”

You look up from yourfood. “Don’t you have suits for your press conferences?”

“Yeah, I do, but‘Kaashi says they don’t fit me well.”

“You’re twice thesize of a normal human being,” answers Akaashi, nonplussed, “you can’t walkinto a store and expect their suits to fit you without getting them tailored.”

“You have changed, Keiji,” you grin. Bokutocheers when you manage to dodge a well-aimed flick from Akaashi’s wine glass.

“And I’m not twiceyour size. You play volley too!”

“I hadn’t noticed,Mister Wing Spiker. How you manage to fit into your shirts is beyond me.”

“I’ve heard ofsome elastic sports bras for men or something,” you add, “you think we shouldget him some?”

“I don’t need a bra!” cries Bokuto as heburies himself into his napkin.

Akaashi begins tochuckle, and you follow with a poorly hidden snigger. It’s not long untilBokuto’s dragged into the maelstrom of contagious laughter by the ankles, andhis is the loudest of all. It’s a chain reaction, and you laugh so hard thatwine sprays out of your nose (the waiter comes by with a napkin looking veryunimpressed), and although you’ve instantly become their new target, there’s nostopping the ridiculously elated burn that begins to hurt your chest.

Saying no todesserts turns out to be a wise choice. Wine, is a much more acceptablealternative to sugar, and you’re all thankful for the space left in yourstomachs for more alcohol. After dinner activities include some tired, oldscenic view rather than any raucous activity; it’s a well-known place, awaterfront hideaway a couple of streets away from the car. The three of youlook a little out of place with your immaculate do-ups next to the couples andgroups of teenagers in the late evening, but that’s what the Pinot Noir is for.

A small enclosureis all you need, and at nine in the evening with minimal, environmentallyfriendly lighting, the steps leading down towards to where the water breaksagainst bare concrete seems to stretch on for miles on either side of yoursmall group. Akaashi settles in behind you, handing you your drink, and Bokutoshifts to make himself comfortable beside you both.

You’re tempted tolean back just an inch more to dump all your weight on Akaashi’s legs, but youknow how he’d respond: he’d talked your ear off for half an hour about creasinghis clothes the first time you’d done it.

Still, you do itanyway. Bokuto grins at you conspiratorially, almost egging you on, and youstick your tongue out at him and way just to act your age.

“Alcohol certainlymakes us mature, doesn’t it?” says Akaashi dryly.

You’re the firstto laugh, and Bokuto joins shortly after. Your wine swirls dangerously in yourglass as you shake, balanced precariously between tipsy fingers.

“It’s a goodnight,’ you shrug. It’s a shite excuse, but nobody cares.

“It is,” agreesBokuto.

It’s its owncertainty of the universe tonight that Bokuto Koutarou looks beautiful againstthe shimmering lights of high rise buildings. It’s too dark, they’re too happyand you’re too drunk to police your urges in the heat of the moment, and yourquiet defeat takes the chance to transform itself once in a blue moon, back intothe longing that it was born as. Bokuto’s hair is down, a good enough reason initself to stare, and the gigantic billboards, worth only in the colour thatthey exude, paints itself on the slivers of white that dash against Bokuto’sblack hair.

You hope you’restill looking in the general direction of ‘forwards’, because this imperfect,sideways image would be enough to haunt you for several evenings to come. Hispristine sleeves are rolled up on his forearms, almost a sacrament to how muchit probably costs, and Bokuto leans back in a way so casual that it can onlybelong to him. His wine dances on imperceptibly gentle fingers as ink does on acrystal dish, and he looks like a king, admiring his drink.

He brings it tohis lips to take a sip, and you force yourself to avert your eyes.

You can guess thatyour room will look like a florist’s dream tomorrow morning, yet somehow, youcan’t bring yourself to regret looking.

“What do you thinklove is?” Akaashi asks, all of a sudden.

“What?”

He looks asmysterious as ever when you turn around with a frown. Bokuto’s eyes remainfixed right ahead, brows furrowed. You choose not to answer this trickquestion.

“Are you in love,Akaashi?” Muses Bokuto, and he grins at the idea.

“No.”

You sigh into yourglass. Bokuto glances at you, but you miss it with your eyes downcast.

You venture asmall daydream of getting on a boat, and sailing far, far away from yourtroubles, so far that your lungs forget that you were ever in love at all.

Despite your longefforts, there has always been something wild and untamable about the mattersof the heart. You can no more keep what beats in you silent, for love is not aquiet affair, not even unrequited love, and its jail takes your days tomaintain.

“I’d better getgoing.” Akaashi gently pushes you off his legs, and gets to his feet.

“Already?” Youblurt out, but he only presses his empty glass into your hand. Now you havetwo.

“I had funtonight,” he nods, “but it’s my cue to leave. You two enjoy the night a littlelonger.”

Bokuto looksconfused, startled by the sudden announcement, but he doesn’t protest. Althoughit would make it easier on your nerves to follow up with your own departure,you know that there’s no way you’d be able to leave Bokuto alone here. Not evento make it easier on your own nerves.

All the while,Akaashi’s eyes bore into you.

“Goodnight!” Hecalls when he’s almost out of view. You wave weakly, and consider abandoningthe wine glasses altogether for the bottle itself.

He’d expect aphone call when you get home safely, of course. More often than not, you’vewondered how you’ve managed to land as good a surrogate mother as AkaashiKeiji.

“Is everythingalright with him?” Bokuto wonders, “that was strange.”

“He’s fine,” youmumble, “he’s probably just scheming, as usual.”

Bokuto doesn’t askmore.

You carefullyplace Akaashi’s glass to one side, and trace your fingers along the edges ofyour own. Now mostly empty, the little flashes of colour from the skylineparade themselves on the colourless canvas. Your chest is aching all the while,as Bokuto waits for you to feel comfortable enough to speak again.

Always with manyoptions, they tap at your mind. You could talk about the evening, dinner, orhis clothes- even work, or volleyball or anything at all, just to fall intowhat would be a companionable lull. But it would be a discourtesy to fill agift with white noise.

“It’s gettingworse lately,” you begin. Liquid courage can only help so much. “My coughing. Ithink Akaashi wanted me to tell you more about it, rather than sit around andkeep things from my friends.”

“And?” Bokuto askssoftly.

Your head is stilllowered, but you shift to face him a little more with your body. Bokuto,however, is already miles ahead. He already has; attention only on you.

“I… also I decidednot to get the operation,” you say. “You know I’ve been on the fence about itsince I found out. I’m… pretty terrible when it comes to things like these.”

“Operations areserious things,” Bokuto reassures.

Perhaps. Bokutodoesn’t push further than this, giving you some breathing space. He’s beenthere for you whenever he can, you come to a slow realization as you count themoments uncountable, and it makes you lack. The nights, the quick afternoons ofexistentialism and Bokuto’s worried expressions are not easily forgotten, andyou feel apologetic for putting him in such positions constantly.

He’s waiting now,for you to decide that it’s okay to be vulnerable for him.

Little does heknow.

“I’ve been savingup for it since it’s not really a part of my projected expenses, and therearen’t many specialists. I’ve got enough now, and more, but there’s somethingthat holds me back.”

Bokuto fills inyour blanks for you kindly, and without impatience.

“What is it?”

You open yourmouth, and you close it again. “It’s… not something I can say just like this, Ithink.” You gesture vaguely at the sky. “Maybe another drink.”

“If you drink somuch, you’re gonna need to pee pretty soon,” Bokuto says, but his hands arealready reaching for the bottle on the concrete step behind you. You both watchin silence as the stream of burgundy slowly fills the wineglass in unevensplashes.

“Koutarou,” yousay slowly, “if I make it to the bathrooms this drunk, in this outfit, Ideserve a reward.”

“I think that notpissing your pants is a pretty good reward,” supplies Bokuto with a wide grin.

“I’ll ask you tocarry me then,” you answer easily, and Bokuto laughs and agrees like itwouldn’t be any trouble for your struggling little heart.

It’s always Bokutowho’s larger than life, larger than possibility, and his laughter is enough tobrighten several days’ worth of mist, rain, and whatever storms that decide tosettle themselves into your day.

“You’ll be thedeath of me,” you admit, tone fond and warm despite the crisp evening chill.

“There are worseways to go.” Bokuto grins, and all of a sudden you think of the number in yoursavings account, and the photograph of the pulmonologist on your laptop eachevening. The website had been polished and clean, and you imagine your lifeafter surgery to be quite similar in semantics to whatever you’re living now.

Pristine,sanitized, and a weary announcement of the time of death.

“Speaking ofgoing.” You allow yourself a second attempt when Bokuto makes no move to sayanything more. “I think that’s the closest reason why. Why I wouldn’t want thesurgery.”

Bokuto frowns atyour vague suggestion of ‘going’. “Are you worried about the success rate? Ithought that it was a minimally invasive surgery. You won’t be at much risk ofuh, dying, not unless there’s someone who majorly screws up.”

“You’ve done yourresearch,” you say, surprised.

It surprises youwhen instead of the enthusiastic ‘of course!’, or the bashful ‘yeah’, Bokutotugs the wine glass out of your tight grip (unfinished, you note) and frownssome more.

“I’ve doneresearch, and more. It’s a serious thing for you, and you’re a serious thing tome. Of course I’m gonna do all theresearch; I’m worried for you, even if I’m not around all the time like Akaashiis. So don’t you think that I’m okay with you coughing your lungs out all thetime.”

“Technically, it’s not my lungs I’mcoughing out-“

“Aw, shut up,” Bokutohuffs, but you’ve managed to pry a small smile out from him. “Your beautifulflowers, then.”

“You think they’rebeautiful?”

“Not when they’rehurting you. But I guess this whole thing- it’s like one of those things out ofa story, those super old ones with dragons and virgins. It’s romantic in apretty shitty way.”

Bokuto’s neverstruck you as particularly romantic, nor nostalgic for lost tales, but thismust simply be another way life decides to remind you that even you, someonewho thinks they know everything there is to know, miss things in cracks.

Yet, youunderstand his feeling. Sometimes in the mornings, or dusk, in the safety ofyour own room where your injections are always a comfortable distance away, thepetals fall from your mouth without pain and seem to change shades as the sunshifts across the sky.

“I like the purpleones the best,” says Bokuto.

You blink. “Oh,the bellflowers?”

“No, aren’t thebellflowers the really light coloured ones? I mean the velvet looking ones; thereally dark purple petals. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Oh,” you breathe,because Bokuto’s shifted closer and his earnestness glows in his amber eyes.“You’re talking about the gladioli.”

“Yeah!” He snapshis fingers. “Those! I’ve always liked their name, but I keep forgetting it.”

“It’s okay, nobodyreally mentions them.”

“I don’t see themmuch in flower shops though,” muses Bokuto.

“You’ve looked?”This time he does look slightly embarrassed, and you find it endearing in waysthat conjure up a whole new myriad of floral species in your body. “I couldprobably have brought you some if they came up again. You should have told me!”

“No, no,” Bokutoshakes his head firmly. “I’ll keep looking for them. I don’t want anything thathurts you.”

You suppose not.He’s a better man than you are, and although there’s rarely a day that passeswhere you consider your illness ‘pretty’ and nothing else, Bokuto’sencouragement on nights like these somehow imbue you with the miraculousability to talk about it as if it’s nothing more than nature. It would be toomuch, to ask Bokuto to simply continue his fondness for your purple flowers,and forget about the rest that comes with.

“You’ll have towait then,” you tell him softly, “gladioli are summer flowers.”

You don’t evenlike flowers, which is the true irony of all this. You’ve only ever researchedevery different type of flower that you’ve ever coughed up to find anacceptable reason to despite them, but you can hardly do that now. Not whenBokuto wants to find them in flower shops.

“Will you tell mewhat you really meant by ‘going’?” He asks, finally.

“What I meant bygoing…” you murmur. It’s as if the longer you sit in silence, the further timewill stay still. “You… you know I don’t keep the feelings, right? Once I getthe operation.”

“Mhm.”

You can’t deciphera single thing from Bokuto’s pinched expression, and your fingers itch forsomething to crush.

“It’s a shame,”you say, “to have suffered this long and for everything to disappear. Does thatmake sense?”

“Not yet,” Bokutosays. “Like, I kinda get where you’re coming from, but you’re usually reallylogical and rational. I don’t get how you’re not gonna do a surgery that takesaway what could kill you, just because you don’t want to waste your efforts.That just doesn’t make sense to me. Wouldn’t you get a surgery to cut out atumour you’ve had for two years if you got the chance to?”

“That’s the thing.” The back of your eyes burn.“This- my feelings aren’t a tumour.Koutarou-“

“Yeah?”

“I’ve never hatedmy feelings. Never regretted them. Not once. And I never will.”

“Doesn’t it hurt,though?” He asks. His voice is aching, as if it’s his heart that’s blisteredand battered from an unrequited love. For a moment, you forget your ownstruggle and careens into the tumultuous sea that is Bokuto; he wears heartachethat isn’t his own, and it is just so.

You smile, becauseit’s a question asked from kindness, and it’s Koutarou. “Yeah, it does, but I’mused to it. Have you never had a one-sided love before?”

“Not really,”Bokuto admits, “I just tell them when I like them. If they don’t like me back,then I get rejected.”

“Then they clearlydon’t know what they’re about,” you shake your head. “Nobody would ever loseout on a chance with you if they knew how you really are.”

“Right?” Bokuto’s beam is back. “That’swhat I tell them all the time, but nobody seems to believe me. I’m awesome.”

“You are,” youwholeheartedly agree.

He calms down alittle, and looks at you. “And so are you, y’know that? I’m starting to getwhat you’re trying to say now.”

Your smile beginsto hurt on your face. “And what’s that?”

“You wanna keepyour feelings for this person because you still like them.” He pauses. “Okay,wait, that sounds really dumb and obviously, you do, but I mean it like, you want to keep liking them.”

And nothing haschanged. Not the fact that you’re still not getting the surgery, you’re stillsick, and you’re still in love, but your heart doesn’t give a shit about allthat. It incites its own riot against your ribcage, pounding against its ownimprisonment; it wants to be free,like it was born to be, like all love is free and to experience everything foritself in the big wide everywhere.

Now, you knowyou’re no longer insane on your lonesome. You’re not just making any ridiculouschoice and losing yourself to one-sided passions that dictate your life anddeath, because Bokuto gets it.

And is that notwhat we all want in life? To suffer, and to be understood for it?

“Yeah,” you reply.“That’s it.”

Bokuto doesn’t sayanything for a while.

For a man with somany words to say, his silence is more damning than any of the endless hoursyou spend in front of your desk, head empty and soul evacuated from thepremises. When he finally opens his mouth hesitantly, you can’t help but leanforwards on the edge of your seat to catch it.

“I guess I getthis whole thing from both sides now. Of course I still want you to get theoperation and everything, because I’m always worried about your health, but Iget it. Even if I’ve never been hurting like you have before.”

“Thank you,” yousay, and your breath steals a position in your throat when Bokuto takes bothyour hands in his.

“I’m happy ifyou’re happy,” Bokuto tells you. “I’ll support you, no matter what you choose,and I want you to tell me if you’re ever lonely, or really sad, okay? ‘Cuspeople make such a big deal about being brave and letting go and stuff, butthey don’t know what you know. It’s not like I do, like, all of it, but I believe in you. You’re not being acoward and running away from doing the brave thing, ‘cus for you it’s probablyscarier to hold on than to stop feeling, am I right? So I think you’re brave.Really brave.”

Are you? All thetimes where you’d pulled up the webpage, or tapped your clinic’s number intoyour phone, only to let your fingers slip from their place. Those moments leaveyou miserable, knowing that you’re so close, and the only thing that stop youis you, and you can’t take that. Isthis bravery?

Bokuto doesn’tlook so stern anymore. Although your eyes aren’t meeting, he’s watching youflip your emotions through your fingers like a worn card deck, and he takesyour silence as acceptance. After all, you hadn’t said no. If it were anyoneelse, they would have been able to tell that you’d believe him even if he toldyou that the sun sets in the east.

It’s instantlycolder when Bokuto’s fingers fall away from yours.

“I’ll go get ussomething warm to drink. Something that isn’t alcohol.” He grins, but it’sgentle. A nursing smile, soothing an injured deer. “Maybe a cake too, if theysell those by the snack cart.”

“Kou, you’re an athlete,” you remind him, but it’s fartoo late and he’s walking away with a small skip in his step at the idea ofactual dessert.

Still, it’sprobably not too bad of an idea to stop drinking your problems away. At thisrate, it’s not impossible that you’ll end up passed out with your skirt aboutyour neck.

It’s stilldifficult, arguably even more difficult now, to tear your eyes away from hisloosely set hair and the way he walks with the confidence of a man who knowsexactly where he’s headed in life. It’s still a fact that everything’s notquite alright yet, but you feel redeemed enough. The bulk of your burden hasbeen scrubbed away.

A tickle forms inyour throat, and you worry for a brief second that Bokuto might catch youcrying.

However, youdidn’t need to worry about the tears. You’re too distracted by the entireemotional fanfare of yours to notice the familiar sensation of flowers creepingup on you, utterly unaware.

Your first feelingis a damning, fucking, hatred forthis godforsaken disease, unwilling to leave you with a single night’s peace.The second, is a mind-numbing panic that sets into the corners of your visionwhen, after fumbling through your meagre excuse of a handbag, you realize thatyou’ve brought no spares.

You know that you’ve timed it carefullytonight, especially tonight, and Akaashi’s even asked. Calculated to within amargin of error of half an hour, and yet, you feel the petals multiplying inthe dips of your lungs, and you know that it’s only seconds until you’recoughing fully blossomed flowers up your windpipe.

Inhaling, to noneof your surprise whatsoever, is becoming more of a struggle, and you slap ashaking hand over your mouth to muffle the ragged gasps, struggling for oxygenand trying your best not to make a scene.

Your coughing isnever quiet. It’s always a filthy, deathly sound that accompanies thesupposedly elegant petals, and you can feel your capillaries beginning to burstin your cheeks. Your eyes begin to swell when the first fits arrive, and yousee that they’re bellflowers, covered with threads of your own spit.

You disgustyourself.

“Holy shit-“ you hadn’t noticed him returning at all, andBokuto’s audibly short circuiting behind you. Did he manage to find cake? Youhope he doesn’t spill the drinks. “Where’s your shot? Is it in your bag?! Fuck, fuck, fuck-“

You shake yourfree hand at him. Your right is far too occupied with covering your own mouth,although it’s helping with absolutely nothing except for the outpour of yourown saliva, and you gesture at Bokuto to sit down next to you.

Bokuto doesn’t, ofcourse. He almost kicks over the wine as he breaks out into a stressed littledance behind you. “Phone, I need myphone, where the hell is Akaashi when you need him?!”

It’s anexceptionally brutal night, as if the disease had simply lost its temper withyour emotional progress and decided to give you something to choke about.You’re not quite sure what’s burst in you when a sudden coppery tang hits yourmouth, and the smell starts to sink into the back of your nasal cavity untilit’s the only thing you can smell in the air. Your elbows are on your knees,the only thing propping you up and your head is cradled in-between your kneesin an excellent example of in-flight safety.

“He’s not pickingup,” Bokuto gasps, “he’s not picking up.Shit, no shot, no car, oh my god, I’mcalling 911-“

Immediately, youuse your first breath of air to rasp as loudly as you can at him.

“Sit down!”

He does, he does, and that combined with yourimpending doom is enough of a kick up the arse for you. Who doesn’t want to diewithout regrets? And maybe you will, maybe you won’t, but it most certainlyfeels like death, and this is going to be the best excuse you’re ever going toget.

“It’s you,” youtell an absolutely terrified Bokuto. “The one-sided thing.”

“Huh?”

Bokuto’s obviouslychosen a fantastic time to slip into a moronic version of himself.

“Love. You.” You grit. The flowers are slowing,but their size is growing, and the watery liquid pooling around the back ofyour tongue is definitely blood. Without your injection, the petals have becomefirmer, more solid, and it’s enough to scrape a great deal of skin off youresophagus, making the urge to cough stronger. “Idiot!”

And that might bethe last word you ever say, because fully fledged flowers are spilling out ofyour mouth, forcing your jaws wide apart for them to fit through, whole. Youcan feel a stem forming in the back of your throat that scrapes like nailsagainst your flesh, and the horrific image of you pulling and pulling at itlike some fucked up magic trick terrifies you into sobs you can’t properlysound.

Bokuto- he’s the worst person to see you in this state- a slobbering, bleedingmess and there’s nothing you can do to stop everything splattering onto the hemof his slacks.

You can hardlyfeel it yourself when he throws himself into your radius, and crushes his lipsagainst yours desperately.

It doesn’t lastfor long. You’re gagging, and he’s shaking, and you shove him away instantly.Bokuto reels backwards in abject terror as one does, watching a train wreckitself against a sheer rock face, and his hands stretch out towards you, stuckin the middle as he tries to make his mind up as to whether or not to drag youcloser.

“I’m calling anambulance,” he whimpers, and points his phone threateningly in your face,daring you to stop him. “You’re gonna die!”

It’s the stem,it’s the stem! Ignoring his hand, yousteel yourself and shove as many fingers as you can fit into your mouth, andscramble for the end of the remaining flower. It’s the size of your palm, andyour jaw feels like someone poured gasoline onto your neck and set you on fire,but you grip onto whatever you can and pull.

Squeezing youreyes shut makes the feeling ten times worse, but you’re not going to look likea damned freak show, tugging and tugging on what feels like roots that have grafted themselves alongyour lungs.

It lasts minutes,maybe forever, but all you know is that it’s slime, and blood, and a fuck loadof pain when it all comes out of your throat. You can breathe, but with the pain of a thousand needles, andphlegm makes your breaths choppy.

You glance once atBokuto’s traumatized face with red-rimmed eyes, and promptly empty your stomachall over his shoes.

“Oh my god.” Youwipe your face with your ruined sleeve and take a generous gulp of the nearestglass of wine. “I really thought I was going to die.”

Bokuto looks as ifyou really did. You’ve never seen him so pale in his life.

“Ambulance,” Bokuto says weakly, “Ididn’t manage to call one.”

“It’s stopped,”you insist, “please, I really don’t want to end up in another hospital.”

“You could have died! I just- I just sat there anddidn’t do anything-“

“That’s not true!”You fall to the irresistible urge to look away. There was one thing about theentire catastrophe that wasn’t on you, and your embarrassment leaves youfeeling shattered enough to almost forget that the contents of your stomach arestill marinating Bokuto’s loafers. “You stopped my cough. It would have gone onfor a lot longer if you hadn’t.”

“You mean-“ Hiseyes grow to the size of lanterns. “You mean if I hadn’t kissed you, you wouldhave actually died?”

“Er, I… can’t saythat’s not a possibility,” you say into your wine.

“Oh my god.”

“I’m alright now,I promise!” You promise, because there are a dozen other things running throughyour mind that are infinitely more worrying to you than your health. “Wait-Kou, did… did you kiss me because you were… scared?”

It takes severalstunned moments, but Bokuto looks absolutely furious.

You can count onone hand the number of times you’d seen him genuinely angry, and none of thosetimes had been at you.

“We’re goinghome.”

He stands up,blood, mucus, vomit and all, and turns on his heel towards the main roadwithout once looking back.

And what can youdo but follow? Your feet no longer drag but sting, and as you leave your messbehind on the pavement, you wonder if this would’ve all been better if you’dsimply suffocated instead.

The taxi rideserves to be some very awkward twenty minutes.

The driver hadmade no comment when two customers, in the dead of night, asked for a liftsmelling like curdled milk. Bokuto had still held the door open for you, insilence, but his thunderous expression had kept your lips sealed shut and bodyleaned away for the entire ride.

Even now, you onlyfeel as if you’d been wrung through an out of body experience, surreal, andfrom a third person perspective. You remember little more than the first fewseconds and the last, everything in-between a sort of blur of lots of differentfluids mingling on your face. Your worn throat still scratches at you with eachbreath you take as quietly as possible, and along with your ruined clothes andyour furious companion, they slide together into a puzzle piece of utterdissociation between you and your disease.

When you canbarely wrap your head around the entire wreck that was this evening, your fearof Bokuto’s reaction buzzes around in your mind in pulses of static.

It isn’t hisrejection you’re afraid of. You’ve been living with your feelings for so long,and his kind and pained ‘I’m sorry’ is something you’ve taken to envisioningmultiple times a day for practice, its only impact on you now is the gentlecoldness of someone pressing ice against your skin, nothing more. However, youmost certainly hadn’t expected him to be angry.

The car finallystops, and the car seems to rumble even more when it parks itself poorly alonga silent pavement. The very marrow of metropolitan Tokyo fills the gapingsilence of a tuneless ride, and Bokuto’s apartment complex looms ominouslyahead of you.

He turns sideways tostare at you, and gestures with a hand for you to follow. It’s late, and thefoyer is empty of its rich, city-dwelling inhabitants, either already asleep,or not returning home for the night. With each flicker of the lift climbinghigher and higher and its infernal elevator music, Bokuto unwinds his hardedges with each trill of the violin in slow, smooth movements. The loose knotsof his unraveling anger drapes over what remains of the tension between youtwo, and when the elevator dings, Bokuto presses a hand to the small of yourback and quietly guides you forwards.

“Wait here,” hetells you. You stay where you are on his pristine sofa in quilted leather,amazed at how much an apartment can fall so far from its inhabitants. It’suntouched, polished with his superstar salary, and its tidiness is telling ofexactly how much time Bokuto has to spare to spend relaxing in his house.

He reappearsquickly from around a corner, carrying a small plastic case and several wettowels with him. He places the box in your upturned palms.

“I’ve thesespare,” he says, turning the box over with his fingers, “but I don’t know howto do it properly.” It clicks open with a twist of a lever, and you pull out afamiliar looking needle. Bokuto reaches out, tempted to feel the point, butpulls back just before he makes contact. “Can you teach me?” He asks.

“Kou… you havethese?”

“Yeah,” and hesays it like you’ve just landed moons away from the point, “what if you cameover without your shots? I gotta be prepared.”

“Kou.”

“Why- should I nothave? Why are you crying?”

“These are prescription only,” you warblemiserably, “oh, you make things so hard for me. Always.”

Bokuto reaches outwith his sleeve to wipe away the snot trickling down your nose. “Are you madthat I got mad at you? ‘Cus I’m not mad anymore. But I was really pissed off when you didn’t let me call an ambulance, andwas like ‘oh, look I could have died butthat’s okay’ because it’s not okay for me if you did! I’m still supertraumatized, so you’d better not be such a piece of crap for the rest of thenight, okay?”

“I’m sorry,” yousay. And you really are. “I should have thought about your position more. I wasselfish.”

“You were,” henods.

Kiss. Kiss. Kiss. Bokuto Koutarou kissed you.

“But…” you ask becauseit’s driving you insane, “what did you mean by kissing me?”

Bokuto frowns atyour question. “I was mad at that too. Asking me things like that as if I goaround kissing people for experiments. Do you think I’d do that to you?”

“I… uh… no?”

“Good.” He narrowshis eyes. “’Cus I wouldn’t. C’mon man, what do you think it means? It wasn’t a super great one ‘cus you were busydying and I was busy trying not to piss myself and all that, but a kiss is akiss, isn’t it?”

“So you… you likeme? Just like that?”

This time Bokutolooks a bit perplexed. “Why not?”

You huff at him.“It’s not called an unrequited love for nothing, Kou. There’s a whole point tothis disease.”

“Are youdisappointed that I ruined your mojo by liking you back? Really?”

“I-“ fumbling dreadfully,you can feel the tell-tale creep of heat crawling up your spine like a monsterfrom the depths bringing with it the plagues of mortification and disbelief.Now that he’s put it like that, you do sound pretty ludicrous. “I’m not…disappointed. It’s just that… well, people really have, died, from hanahaki.”

Bokuto clicks histongue. “And you’re still alive. It’s a win-win?”

“Yeah, but Inever- you’re reciprocating, likesome shoujo manga, and this feels like something from The Notebook and not realat all! How am I supposed to know what to do if you like me back?!”

“Dude, dude,”Bokuto presses a cool hand against your forehead worriedly, “you’re blowingup.” He hands you a towel, and you press it to your cheeks. “It’s notunbelievable,” he continues, “not all of it. Don’t you think this is all real,at least? The towel? My sexy sofa?”

You laugh, a weaklittle hiccup, but Bokuto looks infinitely pleased with your reaction. “See? Myvolleyball biceps are always real. Besides,” he lets his hand drop down to yourlap, and pushes away the box of needles to make space for his own callousedfingers, “we’ve always been right here next to each other. I know I’m notreally good with feelings and things-“

“-yeah you’rereally freaking dense-“

“-thanks. But what I’m trying to say is-there’s different types of love, right? They taught us that in Lit back inschool, and maybe the line between them isn’t as big as we thought. I’vealways, always, loved you as one ofmy best friends,” Bokuto peers firmly at you then because he’s told you thisbefore, but you’ve brushed him off every single time, “you know that, I tell you all the time. But that’s like, the basis ofeverything to me. I mean, falling in love with someone- it’s never been thatbig of a thing for me. No explosions or background music or anything, just-kinda a push off what’s already there. Do you see?”

Although Bokuto’snot really the most organized orator, he speaks with the conviction of a King.His thought process is absolute, the conclusion certain, and Bokuto’s voicewasn’t designed to wax poetry with his gravelly, scorching sound. It’s a timbrecrafted to ignite embers, come hell or high water. You could have shoved a sockin his mouth and he would have powered through his confession all the same.

“That’s… that’s soprofound.”

“I’m Bokuto,” Bokuto grins. Somewhere abovehis head, there’s a flashing neon sign begging to be framed, announcing hisexistence. “Also I’m not suffocating, so it helps. You’re not too shabbyyourself.”

You roll your eyes,and he sees right through you.

“When did youstart?” You mumble. “Feeling… things. I’ve no context for this.”

“I didn’t sufferor anything,” he confesses, “not like you did.” His face presses closer toyours. “It hasn’t been that long. But I’m not saying that it’s a reaction thingthat just happened tonight. I just… don’t think you noticed. Akaashi did,though. That’s probably why he left early tonight.” He starts to trail off, butsomething catches him just in time. His gaze refocuses, and he grips your shoulderstightly. “But I wouldn’t have done anything to you if I didn’t mean it. I mighthave freaked the fuck out and called the police, but I wouldn’t play with youlike that.”

And you get itnow. It never meant much to him that you didn’t notice. He liked you too, andthat was it.

When the worldhumbles a man, it isn’t up to them to refuse. Bokuto has always been on anotherworldly plane of forgiveness all by himself, untouchable by mortal men’swishes. The facts had finally caught up to you while you took a breather fromthe race towards your unhappily ever after, and had brandished an order tellingyou that you’ve been unfair.

They say that‘love is blind’, with little beyond that, but misery masks with equal skill. You’venever given Bokuto a chance, because nobody’s told you to.

He’s smilingsoftly at you. He’s never believed that there’s anything for him to forgive.

“I’m sorry.” Youoffer it so belatedly that it no longer makes a difference. Perhaps it neverdid, not to Bokuto. “I shouldn’t have thought the worst of you. I… shouldn’thave asked that. You didn’t kiss me because you were scared. I asked youbecause I was scared.”

“I know,” he says.“It’s harder for you too. You’re the one who has to take shots just for likingsomeone who doesn’t like you back. I know. I mean- I didn’t always, but I’vebeen trying to get better at thinking about other people.”

Your heart swells,bloating with a fragrant blend of pride and helplessness. “You’re doing good,Kou. Way better than me.”

“But- that’s notwhat I want, though.” Your eyes follow as he lifts his hand, and runs itthrough your hair. He looks slightly pained, urgent, controlled. “You’ve got alot of problems, you know? And it’s all heavy stuff: one-sided love andvolleyball are kinda on different levels. So, if I can make it easier for you,I will.” The tips of his fingers brush against your temples by accident. You shudder.“We’re all trying our best, and who knows if it’ll work out or not?”

“We’re all tryingour best,” you echo. A wisp of a prayer with no addressee.

“Yeah,” he smiles,“you get it. Even though you usually don’t listen when I say these things.”

“That’s not true!”You protest, but you know he’s right. He knows he’s right. Bokuto’s shaking hishead because he’s right. “Just…” you slowly admit, “not many of the goodthings. They’re… harder.”

He looks at youintensely and opens his mouth with something to say, but changes his mind atthe last moment.

“You gotta trustyourself more,” he says after considering his words, “I think you’re great.Akaashi thinks you’re great. You’repretty great.”

“Yeah, yeah,alright,” you laugh, at a loss with the onslaught of positivity, “what is this,a self-help session?”

“Nah. I mean, ifyou had let me help you in the first place, like, for real, you’d be in ahospital and not in my apartment asking me about my feelings.”

Your brows knittogether and you pull away from his grip. “What’s wrong with asking you aboutyour feelings?”

“It wasn’t thepoint, though!” Bokuto exclaims, “c’mon, we were talking about how selfish youwere being.”

“Yeah, I know already.” You know what no matterhow many times you change the subject or apologize, Bokuto’s never going to letit go until he’s drawn the right amount of contrition from you. “I’m justreally sick of hospitals, and it’s not like they can do much for me anyway.It’s not possible to make the petals softer without preventative medicine, andhonestly, they’d just give up and intubate me, and I hate that feeling.”

“I’d rather see atube down your throat than you dead,” Bokuto says sullenly.

“I would just’vepassed out,” you insist, again, “I would’ve been okay.”

A flash ofexpression startles you, and Bokuto’s fury returns briefly enough to sharpenyour nerves a second time.

“Don’t say you’llbe alright.” His fists are tightening around your shoulders. “Don’t say that.Not tonight.”

His hands areholding you upright, but they don’t stop you from instinctively shrinkingfurther into yourself in shame.

“I’m sorry.”

Bokuto’s chesthitches mid-breath, and his hands release you in slow motion, lingering alongthe lines of your bones before reaching towards the almost forgotten plasticbox. He takes a shot out, and holds it out towards you.

“Will you show mehow to use this properly? Where do I inject?”

“Well…” if itmeans that much to him, “my left arm is all taken up, so it’ll be my right.”You move to roll up your sleeves, and feel a bit silly when you realize thatyou’re wearing a dress tonight, not your usual work clothes. “But… you… Kou,you’re sure you like me?”

“I love you.”

Your cheeks eruptto a magnificent temperature. “I- okay…” Put something into your mouth, andyou’d probably be able to bake pottery.

Bokuto, on theother hand, only grins extra wide.

“Yeah. So, whatabout it?”

You swear thatthere’s steam; your forehead feels a lot more humid than usual. “I mean, if… ifyou love me, and you were the one that I’ve been worked over… technically, Ithink that I wouldn’t need the shots anymore.”

“What do youmean?” He lowers the injection, puzzled.

“It’s an unrequited love that causes theflowers,” you explain, “if… now that it’s requited, I should be alright.”

His brow twitchesminutely at the word ‘alright’ leaving your mouth again, and squirmsuncomfortably.

“There’s no harmin doing one more just in case, right?”

Truthfully, you canhardly blame him for not believing you when it comes to matters of your ownhealth. Akaashi is a very reliable mother, and you’re a pretty terriblesurrogate friend-sized kid.

You sigh, lettingit seep through your teeth like a dragon. “I feel like I should be celebrating-or crying- and not discussing medical repercussions, though?”

Bokuto looks upfrom his examination of your right arm. “Want to date me?”

“Uhm. Uh. Yeah.”

He beams. “Same!Now that we’ve solved that problem, I’m going to jab this in your arm, you’regonna take a shower and we’re going to get some sleep.”

Nothing finds itsway out of your throat. Bokuto cocks his head to one side, a knowing crinkle inhis eyes.

“I’ll check onyou, okay? I’m still kinda shell shocked, so I’m not like, super in touch withmy feelings right now, but I don’t think anything has to change just yet. I’mnot expecting anything right now, and you just puked up like, a whole babyshower arrangement. So take all the time you need. No rush, nothing.” Right.He’s right. Bokuto watches you mull his words over with exhaustion, and cupsyour cheek with one hand and leans in for a soft, final kiss. “I’m still BokutoKoutarou,” he smiles broadly, “and I’m still your best friend. You can count onme.”

And you absolutelycan. Leagues better than any hospital, Bokuto’s smile and cheesy lines can healbones, burns and bruises alike with regular exposure, and your figurative cropsare flourishing as he blinks guilelessly at you.

“I’ll leave it inyour hands,” you answer.

“Okay.” Pleasedwith your acceptance, Bokuto seems to sit taller beside you, and glows a littlemore from his eyes. “You go clean yourself up, I’ll grab some of my clothes foryou when you’re done.” He points towards his guest bathroom down the corridor.“Afterwards, we can give you your medication and I’ll call Akaashi. You canstay here tonight, and we’ll go get you checked out tomorrow. Good plan?”

“Yes, captain.”You raise your hand up in a small salute and Bokuto laughs. He leans in topress a kiss to your forehead, and wanders away to find some spare clothes foryou with a warmth to his face.

You remember toclose the lid of the plastic box before you get up. You follow the trail ofBokuto into an untouched bathroom, sparkling clean, and for a second you’re overwhelmedwith the urge to simultaneously run from its perfection and to make as much ofa mess out of it as possible.

You settle fortaking a normal, sane shower.

The rest of theevening goes unimaginably smoothly, as Bokuto had taken it upon himself to makeyou as comfortable as possible, which meant that he’d left everything you’dpossibly need out for you, and by being so busy doing so, you hadn’t been ableto exchange much of a conversation. He’d forcibly taken the couch, almostshoving you onto his bed in his insistence that you’re the guest, and he’sgonna treat you right, and had zoomed out of the room immediately after.

His bedroom is theonly part of the apartment that feels like Bokuto, and it’s that thought thatallows the tiredness to seep through your muscles, and everywhere you turn,you’re soothed by a familiar scent.

It doesn’tsurprise you either, to find that he’s stuck glow-in-the-dark stars onto hisceiling in the shapes of his favourite constellations.

Tomorrow’s anelusive thing, tonight barely hinging on reality, but as you point out theluminous yellow of a plastic Lupus, you consider that even if the world hasshifted one step to the right, everything in it keeps the same radius. You’restill sleeping over at a friend’s, and you’re still going to the doctor’stomorrow, and the night has still fallen.

Sleep comesslowly, but sooner or later your brain slows to the deep rumble of a starry skyreplica. You fall asleep, and it’s been a long, long day.

Bokuto closes thecar door behind you, and takes your hand before you can object. You’re stiff,fidgety, and he stands right by you in the scorching midday heat until you takeenough breaths to lead the way. He falls into step beside you, letting you pullhim, fingers laced and tightened, through the doors of the hospital.

He has to pull youout of your reverie when the speakers finally call your name, but you get toyour feet without stumbling.

When the doctorcalls ‘come in’ from the other side of the baby blue door, you feel Bokuto bumpinto you slightly when he dodges a quick wheelchair down the corridor. A bravesmile curls itself against your cheeks, and you slide the door open.

This time, it’sokay.

[justincharlacher]

My Favorite Stuff of 2016

I was asked today if I had any favorite records of 2016, and after some consideration, the answer is no. I just didn’t listen to much music this year, and I’m actually relying on the year end lists of others to rectify that. I did watch a bunch of stuff and listen to a bunch of podcasts this year, so here is a list of stuff that moved me in those media, as well as two live music events that rocked me to bits in 2016.

Live music

The Local H reunion with original drummer Joe Daniels for a tour celebrating the 20th anniversary of their second record, As Good As Dead, kicked off in Chicago at the Metro on the anniversary weekend, April 15 and 16. I was there, and it was huge for me. Folks who know me know that Local H has been the band I’ve most consistently followed ever since seeing them touring for AGAD opening for Stone Temple Pilots in Philadelphia in November of 1996. So to be in their hometown for two sold out shows with Joe behind the kit for a set comprised of the entire AGAD record was amazing. It was made only better by the fact that current drummer Ryan Harding and singer/guitar/bass lunatic Scott Lucas kicked off the proceedings with a blistering set, and Lucas was then flanked by both drummers beating the ever-loving fuck out of a pair of quivering drum kits for a finale heavy on tunes from my favorite H record, 1998′s Pack Up the Cats. I would catch up with the tour a few weeks later in DC and Philly, a night that ended with a cheesesteak outing with the band and began with the fellas even tighter and more comfortable playing together. These dates were the highlights of my crappy 2016.

Nearly as awesome was seeing New Oreans sludge weirdos eyehategod in a tiny club in New York City in the fall. I’ve certainly seen EHG in tiny clubs before, but on this tour Lamb of God’s Randy Blythe was filling in for the ailing Mike Williams, and he was insane. I haven’t been into LoG for many years, and they long ago grew out of playing clubs, but this was a reminder of why I loved them so much. Blythe was a force of nature, a wild animal unleashed on a stage to a small room 2/3 full. Dude is the truth. Williams had a successful liver transplant at the end of the year, so hopefully he’ll back out croaking his unearthly vocals for the band soon enough, but catching the Blythe version was a real treat. 

Podcasts

Extra Hot Great remains my favorite podcast. The crew who brought you Television Without Pity and Fametracker brave tech issues and thousands of miles of distance to bring discussion of television and ridiculous games. David T. Cole, Sarah D. Bunting, and Tara Ariano are the best thing I pipe into my earholes every week. 

Slate’s Panoply network has expanded to include a wealth of great content, but I still gravitate to the OG lineup of The Culture Gabfest, Hang Up and Listen, and The Political Gabfest, which I turn on as soon as I wake up on Friday mornings. Each of these has three hosts with unique points of view and awesome chemistry, though they aren’t afraid to disagree. 

The Read is Kid Fury and Crissle. Angry. Black. Queer. Put on your helmet!

The Film Pigs have the only podcast about movies on the internet, and certainly the only one that Chuck D. composed theme music for. Just ask them. 

The Cracked Podcast often retreads ground covered in the articles on the site, but it’s worth it to hear Jason Pargin aka David Wong talk about anything. Dude is smart, thoughtful, and the kind of voice that needs exposure behind a humor site. 

We Hate Movies. Start with the Boondock Saints II  episode. You’ll thank me.

Television

Fleabag (Amazon Prime): This show you guys! Six episodes. Three hours. I dare you not to do it in one go. Phoebe Waller-Bridge is a revelation as the eponymous hero with a foul mouth and the need to nervously chat with the audience throughout her adventures. To say too much would be doing disservice to the fantastic narrative that Waller-Bridge, who also created and wrote the show, has constructed. Just brace yourself for a wallop of an ending--and the urge to start over again as soon as you’ve finished. This was my favorite tv thing in 2016.

Catastrophe (Amazon Prime): Season two. Rob and Sharon are parents. What could go wrong?

Banshee (Cinemax): This show aired its fourth and final season in 2016, though I only caught up with the first three seasons earlier in the year. It’s the show for folks (like me) who love the kind of R-rated, big dumb action pictures that Hollywood doesn’t make anymore. An unnamed thief gets out of prison after 15 years and hauls ass to small town Pennsylvania to meet up with the woman he left behind. By chance, he witnesses the death of the town’s new sheriff, and using quick thinking and a hacker best friend dressed in drag, assumes the sheriff’s identity. As sheriff Nate Hood, our hero fights crime and corruption, and an apostate Amish kingpin. The action is filmed spectacularly, the violence would make Kurt Sutter blush, and it’s Cinemax, so you know the sex is sultry and plentiful. This show is an underrated gem.  

Rectify (Sundance Network): Like Banshee, this one wrapped a four season run in 2016, and I had only just caught up with it. The tale of Daniel Holden, a man sentenced to death at 18 and released nearly twenty years later on a technicality (the show is cagey about his guilt), this is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen on television, full stop. With standout supporting performances from Abigail Spencer and Clayne Crawford so powerful that I followed the actors to lesser network dramas, this show creates a portrait of people just trying to work through an emotional bomb that as been dropped as the shattered son, brother, friend, and step-brother they thought they’d never see again walks among them. Powerful stuff from Ray McKinnon, who I still think of as Reverend Smith on Deadwood. 

Better Call Saul (AMC): Season two finds Jimmy with the opportunity to settle in as a legit lawyer and partner to Kim. Watching him willfully blow it is agony. 

Search Party (TBS): So yeah...TBS is making quality dramedies now. Alia Shawkat leads a group of painfully self-involved friends as they search for a missing girl who they sort of maybe knew in college. Being lost in life is the real thematic game here, and the show finds a fresh way to engage this age-old trope. 

Bojack Horseman (Netflix): I’m not sure that there has been a show as depressing as this one. Bojack Horseman wraps the self destructive tendencies of Walter White, Don Draper, and James McGill together and multiplies them. It’s made worse because he also really feels things, kind of. The third season dropped on Netflix in 2016, but you have to start from the beginning and give the show some time to hook you. It’s well worth it.

The People V. O.J. Simpson (FX): Never in a million years did I think I would even like this, but boy howdy... I loved it. Sarah Paulson is jaw-dropping in bringing Marcia Clark to life and her chemistry with Sterling K. Brown’s Christopher Darden is scorching. Whether or not Darden and Clark hooked up in real life, I can’t imagine many folks who didn’t want these two characters to just get busy already. Courtney B. Vance crushed the role of Johnnie Cochran. And what in God’s name was Travolta doing?! I hate Ryan Murphy products. I loved this show!

Finally, I’m going to toss out a group of good but not great shows that also watched intently in 2016. The Girlfriend Experience on STARZ expands on Soderbergh’s film with a real actress this time (though I think Sasha Grey did what was asked of her in the film). Quarry on Cinemax tells the story of a man who returns to Memphis after two tours in Vietnam and finds himself drawn into a mysterious underworld as an assassin. Lethal Weapon on FOX is far better than it has any right to be, and casts Rectify’s brilliant Clayne Crawford as Riggs to Damon Wayans’s Murtaugh. And Timeless on NBC tells the story of a hijacked time machine and the ragtag crew sent to chase it through American history. Abigail Spencer shows up in this one, so score another extension of Rectify. None of these shows is going to compete with greats like Rectify or Breaking Bad or The Wire, but even in a crowded tv market, I think they are worth a look. They are solid. 

Movies

This is a short one as I saw very few new movies in 2016.

Green Room: Jeremy Saulnier brings the hurt with this tale of a hardcore band touring the Pacific northwest who get caught up with group of violent skinheads after a gig. Practical gore. Psychological horror. Patrick Stewart bringing soft-spoken menace as the cool leader of the neo-Nazi group. Also, one of Anton Yelchin’s final performances before his tragic death. This one had me watching through my fingers in the theater.

Brand: A Second Coming: This documentary chronicling the ups and downs of Russell Brand was probably the most thought-provoking film I saw all year. Directed by Ondi Timoner, who has made a career of examining male hubris, this film depicts a man who seems to truly mean well but simply cannot get out of his own way. I found it to be a very powerful character study. 

The Nice Guys: I’m in the bag for Shane Black. He still makes the big dumb action pictures. I even liked Russell Crowe in this one.

The Conjuring 2: Patrick Wilson and Vera Farmiga are terrific. These films are legit scary. James Wan expertly uses his camera for maximum tension.

Blue Jay: Sarah Paulson again. I love her. And I’ve also become very fond of Mark Duplass the actor. I’ve mentioned this film before. A lovely two-hander about what could have (and maybe should have) been. 

So that’s it. On to 2017! Thanks for reading.