#the problem with being a student who's rent and groceries are almost their entire living cost entitlement

[camellia-thea]

.

[starkrogerrs]

you don't have to say you love me; [chapter 2]

catch up: chapter 1 //

pairing: stevetony - modern/college au/ fakedating

warnings/tags: tooth-rotting fluff, Tony can't adult, steve is a cutie

word count: 2k+

a/n: really sorry for the late update but i hope you like the chapter!

"Can't. Breathe," Tony muttered as Sofia crushed him in a bear hug. For a five foot tall person, Sofia surprisingly packed a lot of strength. Tony smiled when she finally released him. 

"It's been so long, Tones!" she beamed from ear to ear. Tony nodded, his mouth twitching into a grin in spite of himself and took the two, heavy bags she'd bought along. Yup, she was definitely staying for a while. 

The ride home consisted entirely of Sofia filling Tony in about everything and nothing at all, with the brunet nodding here and there to let her know he was listening. While, in reality, he kept zoning out and thinking what would have happened if he had merely said, No, Sof. I don't have a boyfriend so please stop irritating the fuck out of me about it. 

He also wondered if he had it in him to be the one to invent time travel. 

"It's not much but I love the place," he said, unlocking the door, once they had reached his apartment and held it open to let Sofia through. 

His apartment consisted of one bedroom, a smaller living area and the kitchen. It was spacious enough for two people but since Tony lived alone it looked massive. Normally, there would be all sorts of metal scraps, circuits and random textbooks lying around but Tony had (with help from Rhodes) cleaned it all just this morning. 

Sofia let out a delighted yelp. "It's so pretty!"

For a college student, Tony did have a pretty decent living space. The walls were a dull ochre and almost all of the furniture that came with it, midnight black. Since his course at the university was fully funded, he could afford to pay the rent of the apartment with the earnings of his part time job. It was only an added bonus that the apartment's owner was deeply impressed by him. What could he say? He was a born charmer. 

"It's a bit noisy because it's near the road but I don't mind," he said, placing her bags by the couch.

Sofia plopped down on one of the beanbags that surrounded the tiny center table of the living area, letting out a drawn huff. 

"God, the flight was long," she mused. She looked tired now; she'd probably spent the last of her energy chatting away. 

"D'you want to eat something?" Tony asked, trying to remember if he had food in the fridge. He had stocked up on some groceries last night and could cook up quite a decent meal if required. 

"I had a good lunch on the flight," she answered. "I think I'll just sleep for a while."

Tony nodded, understanding. Flying all the way from Italy was bound to make even Sofia, practically a ball of energy, exhausted. 

"But anyway, tell me, how are you? How has college been? How is Steve?" she asked, pulling her long, dark hair into a ponytail and wriggling her eyebrows at him. 

Not this again. Tony had been dreading this since the moment he had spotted her waving at him at the airport entrance. He'd questioned every decision he'd made, questioned his own smartness and beliefs, questioned everything that led him to this very moment. Nothing like a good old existential crisis on a cold winter afternoon.

"I've been aces, Sof. College has been a breeze so far and uhh.. Steve is hot," he answered, and he knew this was crossing lines but hey, Steve wasn't here. 

Sofia was only a year older than him but she was the most motherly of all his cousins. In a way, her visit was refreshing because Tony did miss his mother at times but still, the thing with Steve outranked all of that. By a large margin. 

"I think I'll lie down for a while," she said, touching her forehead. "If you've got any plans," she added suggestively, "—please don't let me keep you."

Tony winced internally. "Nahh, it's alright. Haven't got any plans. I'll uh, be right here," he muttered, throwing her a fake smile and hoped she would drop the subject. 

Sofia frowned at that. Here goes. 

"We are meeting him today, right?"

Tony tried to hide the surprise on his face. Meet him today? 

"Uh—" Say no, Anthony! "— yeah. Yeah."

Fuck. Fuck. 

When had it gotten so easy to sway him? How was he suddenly incapable of saying the truth?

Sofia grinned excitedly at that and Tony returned what he hoped was at least half of that enthusiasm in his smile. Anthony Edward Stark when will you stop screwing yourself over?

He didn't want to admit that some part of him did want to see Steve but the other (major) part of him knew he was asking a lot from him. 

Fifteen minutes later, Sofia was dozing on the bed as Tony quietly shut the door behind him. He then ran to his couch, mind racing and rang up Steve, praying to the gods above that he wouldn't be pissed. 

He picked up on the second ring. 

"Hey, what's up?"

Tony massaged the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply. 

"Please, please don't be mad, but we have a problem."

*

Sofia woke up just as the sun was setting; the sky a myriad of colors ranging from a dark purple to a brilliant orange. 

Tony was still sat on the couch, textbook in lap, half distracted by his own wandering thoughts. He gazed at the birds chirping on the telephone line that ran outside the window, thinking of the conversation he'd just had with Steve. 

Thankfully, Steve hadn't been busy but there was something else in his voice which made Tony wish he'd never asked him of this favor. Was it hesitation? Regret? He didn't know. Really, what had he been thinking? 

"Jet lag is real," Sofia declared as she waltzed into the room, smile turning into a frown when she spotted Tony. "Are you seriously studying right now?"

"Just thought I'd get ahead on a couple of chapters. You know I've got to be the best, Sof," he joked as she settled down beside him, on the couch. 

"Whatever, nerd," she said, resting her head on his shoulder. 

Tony grinned, shutting the books. He hadn't got any studying done though, he was far too distracted. 

"So what's the plan? Are we going out or..?"

"He's coming over. We can watch a movie, eat and call it a night. Sounds okay?" he informed. 

They had decided it was better to keep their- his- stupid idea as much under wraps as possible. Which meant, they couldn't let her see them around their friends. Or anyone for that matter. 

"Sweet," she chimed, bringing out her phone. 

The doorbell rang just then and Tony felt his heart fall into his stomach. He glanced at the clock, it was only half past six. Hadn't they agreed to meet at seven? 

He stood up, breathing deeply and opened the door to a visibly awkward Steve. Steve, who was dressed in comfy jeans and a dark leather jacket thrown over a plain white t-shirt. Tony tried not to stare too much. 

His brain at the moment didn't want to tell him how couples greeted each other, so he just smiled and let him in, and let Steve shut the door behind them. 

Steve, however, had other plans. Before he could process it, the blond was pulling him into his side and pressing a kiss to his cheek. Tony felt the soft brush of his lips on his cheek, Steve's body flush against him and he thought his soul was going to leave his body. 

What the fuck. 

It was a long second later that he realised that Steve had already let go and introduced himself to Sofia. 

"Oh god, Tony has told me so much about you!" Sofia squealed as Steve reached over to hug her as well.  

Tony's brain was still lagging like a 1984 Macintosh but blushed at the mention, nevertheless. 

"Well, I am a good boyfriend," Steve replied, glancing at Tony, a grin playing at his lips. 

How in the world was he so good at this? 

"Ah.. oh.. um yeah," Tony said intelligently, as Steve sat down on the opposite end of the couch from where Sofia sat. Tony flopped beside him, their hips touching accidentally and he forgot how to breathe. He was still reeling from the kiss, and if he'd pondered over it any longer, it would've sent him into shock. 

"I am going to just go freshen up a bit," Sofia announced, and Steve nodded. She smiled at him, clearly excited and Tony cringed internally.

The moment she had locked the door to Tony's room behind her, Tony jumped away from Steve. 

"Jeez, would you relax?" Steve hissed, eyebrows knitted. "Why are you so nervous?"

Tony looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "What do you mean why am I nervous? This is fucking weird!"

"It was your idea, shellhead!" 

"I know but-"

"If you want her out of your hair, act natural man. You're gonna blow your own plan."

Tony sighed. He did have a point. And if Steve had no problem acting like this, why was he being weird? Well, he knew exactly why but he would ruin things with Steve if— You're thinking too much, he chided himself. 

Sofia returned just then, having changed into different clothes. She was also holding a small package in her hand. 

"Hey, I bought this for you," Sofia said, handing the package to Steve who looked somewhere between awkward and shocked. 

Tony nodded at him assuringly and also hoped he could see the apology in his expression. He had forgotten to tell him about how Sofia could be a little over the top, but knew Steve wouldn't mind that much. 

The blond accepted the gift gratefully, lips stretched into a thin smile. God, this was torture of the purest form. If Steve stopped being his friend after this, Tony wouldn't be surprised. 

"So.. should I put on the movie?" Tony asked, enthusiastically, reaching over for the remote. The room had a weird energy now and Tony wasn't exactly a big fan of awkward silences. 

Sofia nodded, as did Steve and Tony silently maneuvered to the Netflix app. He settled back into the couch, in between Sofia and Steve as the movie loaded. 

The title track blared into the room then, and Tony felt himself relax a little. He didn't know his muscles had been tensed all this while. 

As luck would have it, he spoke rather, thought, too soon. 

Steve reached over just then, his right hand finding Tony's and laced their fingers together. The brunet tensed at his touch immediately, eyes wide. Now, Tony and Steve had held hands before but this, this felt so different and oh, so much better.

Steve looked up at him then, bright blue eyes peeking out from under the long eyelashes. Relax, they seemed to whisper. 

Tony's body uncoiled, as if on command. He felt himself sink down further into the couch, aware that they were holding hands but it felt almost... natural. 

Steve shifted in his place a little then, adjusting himself so he could comfortably rest his head on Tony's shoulder. They were pressed together now, almost cuddling, Tony realised. He was cuddling. Cuddling Steve. 

He didn't know what the movie was about, didn't really comprehend what the protagonist was saying. He was too fixated on the way their legs were touching, the way Steve's large hands clasped his smaller ones. He flicked his gaze to Steve then; eyes trailing over the golden bangs, down to his long lashes, to the bridge of his sharp nose and then to the cupid bow of his perfect lips. 

There were little things about Steve that not many people noticed, like the fact that he had a little green in those sparkling blue eyes or that he wasn't as shy when he was with his friends or just how kissable his puckered lips looked right about now. 

He had to look away when Steve glanced up, pausing to look at him for a moment. His breath stilled when Steve relaxed back into his shoulder, sighing deeply. Tony's heart was beating really fast and he was sure Steve could hear it. 

A part of him wanted to believe that Steve had feelings for him too but the casual ease with which he was sat beside him right now, told him the contrary. 

Tony, unlike the boy leaning against him, was a nervous wreck. His thoughts spun around Steve and Steve only, in spite of him trying to switch his focus to the device in front of him. This sudden and close proximity with Steve had thrown his senses into a dizzy but... he wasn't sure if he wanted anything to make sense again. What he was sure of though, was that he wanted to live in this moment forever. 

He dared to glance at Steve again and a feeling, thick as cement, settled into the base of his stomach because, with a start, he realised that he was in deeper waters now. 

Because this wasn't an average crush. 

Because Tony had never, ever, ever felt this way before. 

Because when Sophia "awww"ed at him when she noticed him gazing fondly at Steve, he was doing anything but pretending. 

Because he had fallen for his best friend and fallen hard. 

[inviisiiblelee]

ookay so absolutely no one asked for this post but i’ve been so unreliable lately with literally everything that i figure i can at least explain what’s been going on for the last six months or so. i know i’ve briefly touched on this to others in discord and some of this has been viewable through some of my other posts and all but, here’s a big block of text explaining why i fall in and out of tumblr, discord and everywhere else i exist online

TL;DR?:  I’m depressed, anxious, & or in a panic pretty much all the time, and disability has really effed me over.

I lived in an incredibly quietly abusive home for the last fifteen years of my life. I am just now turned twenty.

when i say this, i don’t mean it in any kind of roundabout way, and it’s really only been in the last year that i realized that this is what i was living. and i will come out and say that i don’t even think my parents realized this was how they were treating me, that this was the kind of household they were building for me. and honestly, it was a way worse experience for me than it was or will be for my younger siblings (i hope).

the fact of the matter is, my biological mother was a drug addicted alcoholic, since the birth of my sister who is only two years younger than me. my mother was not a very good role model mother in really any way, and i really honestly wish i had more to offer than this basic, umbrella-like summary. but it’s so bad that i have almost no memory of what my mother was like, personally. i don’t remember her voice, her face, or any of that. she died of an overdose when i was eleven. It’s been nine years and, really, I have more memories that are worth my time remembering after the fact. i grew to hate my mother with my entire being, and her death wasn’t something i dealt with right.

even now, i haven’t dealt with it well, but i have let go of the anger that really held me back.

since that moment of my life, it seemed like an event that became who i was. i was the kid who’s mom died, i was friendless and depressed, and i acted like everything was fine, and i honestly still do. eventually, of course, things moved on --- my dad found another woman to love, who became the mother i wished i always had. of course, there was a lot of internal conflict as this happened, something that while i was never aware of it, happened no matter what i really believed. evidently, at the end of the day, losing your biological mother is something that really changes you, especially when she went by way of suicide.

my father remarried in 20...14? maybe? i really don’t remember --- my years and months really started running together in my mind, and honestly my memory has never been something to brag about when it comes to my own life. life seemed to be okay but really, there was a lot of conflict between my family and i. my father is a military man, and was heavily heavily abused as a child, and almost killed by his own mom. but he was an abusive father by way of mental and emotional abuse, especially once i entered high school. i was constantly compared to my mother, which i hated because she took her own life, and she was the worst role model of my life. my father had a habit of callling me useless, or telling me i would never amount to anything. in his mind, he was doing me a favor --- trying to make me realize i needed to change. but all he did was instill a hopelessness inside of me that he would never understand or admit to giving me or being part of. 

my self esteem tanked by the time i was a sophomore in school, and my grades began to really see a dip. i was spending less time on my schooling, because i was exploring hobbies that my father didn’t approve of, which meant i was spending more time hiding the things that made me happy than i was studying. school was becoming something i didn’t like as much as i once did --- it was getting so hard to find joy in anything, and i realize now that was the major & chronic depression that i would later be diagnosed with. but all i heard from my parents at that time was that i was sick in the head --- that i would turn out dead like my own mother, a drug addict and homeless and useless. and eventually, a thought hit --- why bother?

when i was in the summer year between my sophomore and junior year of high school, the summer of 2016, i made a plan to take my own life, because i felt like such a burden.

i was not the most aware of what would work --- and i was very against going through something painful --- so i found an amalgamation of every prescription and non-prescription drug in the house. which was quite a lot. and i would siphone pills through the day, slowly, so it was less noticeable.

when my family found them, they refused to believe that i was depressed and suicidal, instead choosing to believe i was selling pills at school, peddling fake drugs (considering there were pre-natals among my stash, which, admittedly, wouldn’t have done much). instead of ever offering and following through with counseling, they asked me one time when i was fourteen and never actually put me into a place. they make the excuse now that it would not have been beneficial if i didn’t want it, but i recall several times speaking to them about getting into counseling and nothing ever coming of it.

the next two years would be a total rollercoaster. at seventeen, a predator was contacting me and trying to get photos, my location, even so much as meeting up with me. my parents put me through hell for talking to the guy --- and now i realize that whether or not i was an older female, i was still under eighteen and being taken advantage of. my principal and secretary of the school got involved, and i became more suicidal than ever. i lost friends due to the state of mind i had.

luckily, i graduated high school and turned eighteen, and this seemed to be the end of my forseeable problems. i had been working through high school, and though my family had forced me to resign from the last workplace due to workplace drama and claiming my coworkers were bad influences, I was searching for jobs and hopeful for getting into college.

i was not the perfect child at home (i rebelled against chores like any kid, and when i worked, i was even less reliable for doing chores because i was never home to cause the mess but somehow it was always my job to clean it up when i had a sister two years younger who was FULLY capable, but thats just another story tbh), but professional help has also made me see that i was not deserving of the kind of punishments my father put me through, including being lectured at about how much of a failure child i was for over three hours almost per night during the summer. i did not experiment with drugs as a high school student, i never attempted to run away or sneak out, i had a few thief instances that never recurred the way my younger sister’s instances were monthly. 

in july, barely a month and a half after graduating and turning eighteen, my parents kicked me out. i had nowhere to go, no money to help me, and no amount of help from them. and yet, i managed to move into a place a few weeks after the news.

it was a huge mistake.

i had found someone on craigslist (BAD IDEA PAST ME) renting out a room in their home. they lived an hour from the nearest bus stop (an hour walking) but close to the downtown area. rent was about half of what i made in a month. and very quickly, there were problems. once i had the place found, i had no other options --- the few other places that were that cheap were no longer available, and my deadline was coming up. the place itself was pretty atrocious --- dirty and gross, BUT i was told it was being fixed over the next month and i thought if i could help out, no problems.  there were cats (i was allergic, though it did eventually seem to fall out from me living there) and even a bird that was loud and annoying. the cons really outweighed any pros, but it had taken a long time to find the place, and i was not sure i would make my deadline before my parents dropped me off at a shelter. plus, i was supposed to be going to school in the next few months for college, with loans and all, and it should have been fine!

just kidding.

i moved in, met the three other roommates, and began the downward spiral. i was almost immediately out of money --- rent was far too much, and i couldn’t buy groceries afterwards. my phone bill lapsed a few times, and i never was able to finish paying off the deposit. my routine became something terrible. i only ate once a day, while at work with my free meal. and on saturday and sunday, which i didn’t work, i only ate a little bit, if one of my friends happened to give me food out of pity, or else i didn’t eat anything. i started stocking up on CLIF bars, because i could eat one and sleep the rest of the day with little issues.

i slept on the floor of the room, miserable, in a panic. the landlord (who also lived in the living room of the place but worked) was horrible. he essentially demanded that i take care of him while he was home, and expected me to just do it because he hadn’t kicked me out yet for not having the deposit paid.

eventually, i had enough. one of the other roommates, his name was Josh, was getting tired of the same treatment. and my final straw was when i found out the landlord searched through my room without asking and while i wasn’t there. so he and i got together, started looking for a place closer to town, and gave him a verbal/written notice of moving out. 

however, this fell through, too. josh lost the money he had for the apartment two weeks before we were supposed to move, and so i had to scramble to find a place. i got lucky --- a really good friend of mine talked to her mom and they took me in when he couldn’t recover the money. i left josh with some of my things until i had a permanent place.

he stole half of all of my belongings, about five hundred dollars worth of miscallaneous stuff.

josh disappeared off the face of the planet, after faking his own death to me via his ex. it got wild, and i almost (and should have) took it to the police to get my things. but because his whereabouts are really unknown to me, it was going to be a way more expensive process than i was into. 

around that same time, my financial aid for school fell through due to some change, and without any cosigner for a loan, i had no option but to drop out -- and still got footed for a bill of $1700. for school i couldn’t and never did attend. 

the following year of this was not that bad --- my friend’s mom moved out of the house and left it to us. it was a really nice, three bed and two baths with a nice kitchen. they bought me a bed and bed frame, as i had previously been sleeping on the couch, without a mattress of any kind (Josh stole it). i was so grateful.

but after a year, too, she had gotten a boyfriend and they were talking about moving to nashville for his job (they’re there now, congrats to them!) and her mom was going to sell the house.

at this point, my family was in some contact with me again --- my mother and i had less issues than i had with my father, and she found out the situation and offered me to come back home. they were having issues with my younger sister, and i think they hoped my newfound independence could rub off. they would charge me no rent.

I agreed, a huge mistake. I know this now --- but at the time, I wanted their approval and wanted nothing more than to live with my family without problems, which is what was promised to me. They acknowledged I was an adult. This was a lie.

once back home, things were supposed to get better. or be better, rather. but it was immediate to me that it was not true --- once again, all of my decisions were being scrutinized by my family. i would work most of the day, and if i didn’t come home and socialize, i was getting long talks about being part of the “family.” i tried to accomodate all of this, and still it was not enough. if i was spending my money on anything they didn’t approve of, i was getting lectured about it. from the months of august 2018 until the end of january 2019, i was miserable, and depressed, and wanted nothing more than to die.

at the end of december, right before christmas, i finally found a counselor. my family had made it a must for me --- if i wanted to continue living there, i had to go to counseling. so i found a place and someone i began to trust. not long after, i started realizing just how bad i felt in life at home, and my counselor (agreeing for the first and last time with my family) mentioned an in-patient therapy place.

SO, in January, I went to an in-patient hospital for three weeks to undergo constant watch, and this would change my life.

the most recent big event in my life had been me breaking up with my girlfriend. some of you may know of her already, known as ruby, pretty prominent in the youtube rp fandom. she was abusive. not only to me but to others, and though i was warned, i dated her, fell in love with her, and she proceeded to make me feel bad for everything i wanted to do or did. so in the months between november and january, i was being put down by not only my family, who were still calling me useless, worthless, ignorant, and made to be my mother, my girlfriend was also making me feel bad for talking to other people, for spending time playing games and having hobbies that didn’t involve her. 

when i went to this hospital, i was under watch 24/7 for three weeks. they took my vitals, watched my every move. and i was supposed to be on track for finding my weaknesses.

This experience was vital for me --- but it also broke me down.

i was suddenly feeling every emotion i ever hid from myself. i felt myself break down and instead of hiding behind the solid walls i used to have, i had nothing to defend myself with. every thought about the family that seemed to tear me down, tore me down all over again. every thought about how my exgirlfriend saw ME as abusive or neglectful for not being awake at midnight to greet her from work had me in tears and believing no one would ever love me. it felt like someone ripped out my heart and threw it down to let everyone who ever wanted to trample it, do so without a fight.

it took three weeks to come back, and i was a broken woman. i had a better knowledge about myself, how my emotions worked and what i needed to do, but i was raw to the world, and my father supposedly understood. but it was clear to me, within the next week, that this was wrong. he wasted no time continuing to tell me that i wasn’t trying hard enough, that i wasn’t putting any effort into my life. that i was content to lay around and was worthless and just like my mother. 

so i left. i called someone i met while i was away, and he helped me move out that day. but my panic was non-stop. i couldn’t work the way i used to --- panic attacks were happening more often, and i was calling out more because of it. i ended up quitting out of fear of being fired, because i couldn’t get up every day anymore and go to work the way i used to.

eventually i moved again --- i found a guy i got along with really well, liked a lot. his family was very generous --- but they eventually kicked me out too. and now, i’m living with an old friend of mine, her family like my second family. but i changed --- i have a whole slew of medicines i’m supposed to take daily in order to function without panic in my daily life. debt’s come back around, and work has become harder to find. i’ve recognized that i have a disability, in the form of major and chronic depression, bipolar, and ptsd from my mother’s death and further abuse. i don’t get job responses the way i once did, and there are days where i stay in bed (on the couch where i live now) all day, panicking about the fact that i’m considered homeless, that i have no job, that i’m losing insurance soon and college is slowly slipping through my fingers. applying for disability guarantees me nothing, and marking myself as disabled, when compared to last year when i didn’t, has resulted in less interest in my resume, whch is great

i’m trying for commissions for art or writing. i’m trying to write a novel to maybe make something of myself. but i don’t know what to do. 

so. if you’ve ever wondered why i don’t stick around all day like i used to, if you ever wonder why you haven’t heard from me in a week or longer, there’s why. 

[afjakwritesarchive]

Title: Wild Eyes Pairing: USUK Words: 5,773 AU: Human Genre: Romance(?)/Drama Story summary: A rich and obsessive Alfred will do whatever it takes to make his best friend, Arthur, his. A/N: This fantastic idea was created by @orenjineki, who commissioned me for this piece! I had so much fun with it and I thank them with all my heart for the opportunity to write this! I didn’t realize how much I’d end up liking creepy Alfred!! 

Arthur was hunched over his computer desk, one hand in his hair and the other wrapped tightly around a ball-point pen, when Alfred entered his apartment. Arthur hardly looked up from his place; he’d gotten used to Alfred coming and going whenever he pleased. They’d been best friends for several years now, and Arthur was more than comfortable enough with the man to have given him a key. Alfred, who Arthur knew to be a bit clingy at times, had delighted in this and frequently took advantage of the opportunity to see Arthur whenever he wanted. Although Alfred found himself at work quite often due to the demanding nature of his job as the CEO of a successful computer programming company, whatever time he had left over was often spent with Arthur.

The Brit thought nothing of it, really, even though Alfred hadn’t always behaved in such a way. When they’d first met and become friends, Alfred had seemed much more casual; but as time wore on, Arthur had noticed Alfred growing increasingly determined to spend as much time with Arthur as he could. Still, Arthur figured this was normal; Alfred had many friends, yes, but few very close ones, and fewer still that he hadn’t met through business ventures. Thus, Arthur reasoned that Alfred simply liked the idea that he had a friend who was his for entirely personal reasons, and had taken so well to it as a result.

Arthur too was glad to have Alfred for a friend. Not only was he kind, intelligent, and fun (if not far too obnoxious and arrogant at times), but he was also an incredibly generous man. Alfred had made his first million at the tender age of twenty-three, and his profit had only increased since then. He was twenty-eight now and a multimillionaire who seemed intent on giving back to whoever needed it. Not only did Jones Enterprises have a reputation for being incredibly charitable, but Alfred himself was more than happy to provide whatever he could to those that he cared about.

Thus, Arthur had never found it strange that their frequent meetings often began with Alfred bearing some type of gift to Arthur. Sometimes the gifts were small, such as some snacks or a cup of tea; others, when Alfred knew Arthur was struggling a bit more than he let on, it was a check for three month’s rent. Although such incredible generosity was certainly rare, Arthur had chalked it up to Alfred having an incredibly kind heart and always accepted what was offered to him by the younger man.

“Hey, Artie,” Alfred greeted, setting a steaming cup of tea with the logo of Arthur’s favorite cafe in town emblazoned on the side down on the man’s desk, “whatcha up to?”

Alfred peered down at the paperwork Arthur was currently scowling at and the elder man felt his pale cheeks flush. He quickly moved to shove the paperwork--records of the debt he had yet to pay off in student loans, among other things -- away, but Alfred reached out and took the paperwork in a strong, tan hand before Arthur could hide it.

“I-It’s nothing, Alfred, really,” Arthur said quickly, scrambling up from his seat and reaching out for the paperwork once more. He knew Alfred knew that he was facing some financial trouble, but he’d been careful to hide the extent of it from the American.

Alfred, who was almost a foot taller than Arthur, simply raised the paper up past the Brit’s reach and continued to read. As his eyes flitted rapidly across the paper, his thin brows furrowed and his usually warm blue eyes narrowed, becoming cold. His jaw was set, his teeth gritted, and it was clear that he was upset by the numbers he saw on the paper.

“Arthur,” Alfred started, his voice low. He dropped his arm to his side, still gripping the papers tightly in his hand.

Arthur huffed, reaching out and snatching the papers from his best friend’s strong hands with a glare. “You shouldn’t take things that aren’t yours, you arse. This is a personal matter and it doesn’t concern you.”

For some reason, Alfred’s eyes went wide at this and he whipped around, facing the Brit with anger clear upon his face. “Doesn’t concern me?” He echoed, voice raised and full of anger. “Like hell it doesn’t concern me! You’re mine--” Alfred cut himself off then, backpedaling. “I mean, you’re my best friend. You shouldn’t hide things like this from me, especially when I can help you.”

Arthur’s green eyes widened, surprised to see Alfred so incensed by such a thing. It was as though Alfred saw himself as being responsible for Arthur, although it was entirely untrue. Briefly, Arthur got the sense that Alfred was far too affected by such a thing to be considered a normal reaction from a friend, but he pushed it aside. Alfred had always had a bigger heart than most and he’d always seemed to take matters regarding Arthur more seriously.

“I don’t want to ask you for help every time I need money, especially not this much.” Arthur retorted, annoyed. “I can handle it on my own.”

Alfred’s hands had formed fists at his sides. “But you don’t have to,” he said through gritted teeth, clearly trying to keep his anger in check. “I’ll help you.”

What Alfred wanted to say was that he would always help Arthur, always. That he would pay for anything and everything the Brit needed, that he would take care of him for as long as he lived because that was his responsibility. Arthur didn’t know it yet, no, but he belonged to Alfred. He was Alfred’s to take care of, Alfred’s to pamper, Alfred’s to own. Arthur and those sweet green eyes of his and his gorgeous slim frame and his smart mouth just begging to be conquered by Alfred. Alfred wanted to take Arthur into his arms and cart him off to his penthouse suite and never let him leave again, but Arthur needed time. First, Alfred had to make him see that he needed him, that he could never be complete until he gave into Alfred completely.

“No! I can’t ask you to do that, Alfred, and you know it. What am I going to do, waltz into the bank with a check for some several-hundred-thousand-odd dollars and expect them to accept it without a word? No, this is too much. Even for you.” Arthur said with a heavy sigh, taking the papers and shoving them underneath a folder on his desk.

Alfred paused momentarily, taking Arthur’s words into consideration. He was right about one thing: it would be too suspicious for Arthur to suddenly have the money required to pay off all of his debts. But, as usual, Arthur was wrong about something else: the lengths at which Alfred would go to ensure his happiness. Nothing was too much for Alfred when it came to Arthur.

Thus, Alfred’s blue eyes lit up as a brilliant plan began to form in his mind. “No, you’re right, it’s too suspicious,” he agreed with a sage nod of his head. “But I can still help. Marry me, Arthur. Then no one would have any right to question you.”

Alfred couldn’t help but to be even further endeared to Arthur when the Brit’s mouth fell open in shock and he began to stutter, flabbergasted. His pale, freckled cheeks went a brilliant shade of red and he blathered on idiotically without making any real sense, chastising Alfred for making such a ridiculous joke.

Alfred could only smirk and take another step forward, slipping an arm across Arthur’s shoulders and tugging the man closer. “I’m not joking. Say the words and we’ll go down to the courthouse first thing tomorrow.”

“A-Alfred, you can’t be serious! We can’t get married, you idiot! We’re not even together! I can’t ask you to do this for me! It’s too much money, I have to figure it out on my own!” Arthur cried, starting to pull away from the American.

Alfred tightened his grip on the man and looked down at him, shaking his head and smiling condescendingly. “Sweetheart, that’s where you’re wrong. You can ask me to do it, and I’m telling you I’d be happy to. Just say the words and I’ll make all this disappear. You’ll never have to worry about money again, Arthur. You can quit your shitty job at that fucking grocery store and write full time. You can move out of this shithole, too. I’ll even make one of my empty rooms your personal study,” said Alfred cheekily.

Arthur’s thick brows were drawn downward, seeming troubled by Alfred’s offer. The American offered such things to him like they were nothing. To Alfred, money was no object; but for Arthur, money was the solution to most of his problems. Alfred’s offer was tempting to say the least, but Arthur couldn’t help wondering why exactly the American was extending such extraordinary kindness to him.

“I don’t understand,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “We’re not even together, Alfred. You don’t have to do this.”

Again, Alfred resisted the urge to inform the Brit that he did, in fact, have to do it. He had to do it because he had to make sure Arthur was beside him at all times, had to make sure that he was safe and free so that he could devote his time to Alfred.

“I want to,” is what Alfred said instead. “Why would I let my best friend struggle when I know I have the means to fix it? Besides, I’d be a pretty shitty hero if I didn’t try to save people.”

Arthur paused momentarily, heart beating madly in his chest. He turned toward his desk, pulling the paper out from where it had been stowed. He glanced at the number at the bottom of the page and his mind reeled. His heart sunk at the sight of his debt, knowing very well that it would chain him down for the rest of his life if he things continued as they were now.

Arthur took a deep breath in, thinking intently as he stared at the number on the page. Would it be so terrible to accept Alfred’s offer? What his best friend described didn’t sound too terrible; hell, it sounded downright wonderful. Not only would Arthur get to leave the hellish job he’d taken up in order to pay off his steadily mounting job, but he’d get to pursue the writing career he’d always wanted. He’d even get to live in the lap of luxury as he did so! It was a prospect far too enticing to resist, even for a prideful man like Arthur.

Thus, he turned his face upward toward Alfred’s and sucked in a breath. “It would be nice to relax a bit and focus on my writing…” He said softly.

Alfred nodded his agreement. “Totally! Dude, imagine all the free time you’ll have for your novel without that shitty job of yours. You’ll have a bestseller on the shelves before you’re thirty-five! Y’know, I actually know a couple of guys over at Honda Publishing Company… Betcha I could pull some strings there for you once you get a rough draft done.”

Alfred slipped his hands up to Arthur’s shoulders and gently eased the elder man to sit down. Arthur blinked rapidly, not having noticed that Alfred had been gradually pulling him in the direction of his well-worn sofa. Then, Alfred sat down beside him and slid an arm across Arthur’s shoulders. He leaned into Arthur with his eyes set upon Arthur’s face in an intent stare.

Arthur’s heart stuttered. Usually Alfred’s eyes seemed bright and full of warmth, but now they stared at Arthur with a predatory glint in them. Alfred’s eyes were full of what Arthur could only describe as an aggressive hunger, a sight which troubled the elder man slightly. But then Arthur reminded himself of the money he was about to come into and of the kindness of the man who was providing it to him and thought himself ridiculous. Alfred clearly had no ill intent for him. If he did, why would he be so supportive?

“So,” Alfred said, looming over Arthur, “you haven’t exactly given me an answer yet, but I’m assuming this all means yes.”

Arthur’s breath hitched in his throat. An odd sensation of dread was beginning to pool at the pit of his stomach. Even so, he quickly nodded his agreement. “Yes, Alfred, I’ll marry you. Thank you.”

Alfred’s plump lips parted in an even wider grin than Arthur was used to. “Then I’ll pick you up at 8AM tomorrow and we’ll go to the courthouse.” Alfred decided immediately. Without waiting for any sort of agreement from Arthur, he leaned further in until the tip of his nose was only centimeters from Arthur’s. “Can I come clean about something, though? I’m not just happy about this because I get to help you out.”

Green eyes flickered across Alfred’s face, eyeing the dark shadows cast across it. Arthur had a feeling he knew what Alfred was about to say, and he knew what he had to do. Alfred had always shown Arthur incredible kindness; the least he could do was try to return it. Besides, Alfred was an admittedly attractive man -- there were definitely worse options than a gorgeous millionaire with a heart of gold.

Thus, Arthur raised one of his pale palms to Alfred’s cheek and smiled gently up at him. “Alfred, if you want to be more than friends all you have to do is ask,” he murmured, parting his lips slightly as he finished in an invitation.

Without hesitation, Alfred closed in the last of the space between them and pressed into Arthur, immediately taking ownership of the man’s lips. He kissed Arthur ferociously, strong arms encircling Arthur’s waist and then tightening until their chests were pressed together.

Arthur’s eyes went wide, surprised by the enthusiasm Alfred displayed. He supposed it made sense -- after all, Alfred Jones was nothing if not passionate -- but he couldn’t help but to get the feeling that Alfred was a bit too eager. Yes, he was kissing Arthur and yes, it was obvious that the man desired his best friend, but there was an element of detachment that Arthur couldn’t seem to place. It was almost as if Alfred was more concerned with taking his fill of Arthur and of getting to “stake a claim” to him than he was with making sure Arthur was enjoying the kiss.

Still, Arthur decided to chalk his best friend’s frenzied kisses up to excitement, and allowed his eyes to close. He focused in on Alfred and kissed him back, attempting to match the man’s pace. Alfred seemed to take well to this and gave Arthur a playful squeeze before tugging the man directly into his lap, positioning Arthur to straddle him. Alfred’s hands then began to roam across Arthur’s body slowly and tenderly, his kisses becoming less frenzied and much deeper as he did so.

This affirmed Arthur’s previous assumption that Alfred had simply been too excited at first and, pleasured by the attention he was receiving, he rocked his hips slightly. He leaned further into Alfred and mimicked the man’s actions, allowing his hands to feel their way down Alfred’s chest. Alfred grinned against Arthur’s lips and brought a hand down to the front of Arthur’s slacks, expertly undoing his belt buckle. Based on the way things were currently going, it didn’t surprise Arthur all too much; clearly Alfred was rather experienced in the bedroom.

Arthur quickly lost himself to pleasure, dissolving beneath Alfred’s capable hands. All thoughts of his best friend’s excessively generous offer and the odd feeling of dread Arthur had felt only moments before slipped away, lost to white-hot bliss.

Arthur woke the following pressed tightly against Alfred. They lay side-by-side on Arthur’s couch, Alfred’s arm draped over the Brit. Arthur glanced over to the clock on the opposite wall, noting that they’d slept in far past 8AM, although he didn’t mind. He let out a pleasured sigh and smiled at the memory of the night before as he twisted in Alfred’s embrace to face the man.

“Alfred,” Arthur purred gently, laying his hand atop the American’s cheek.

Alfred stirred slowly, blinking blearily. At the sight of the man across from him his eyes went wide and he seemed surprised for a moment before a sly smile slipped onto his face. “G’morning,” he purred, tightening the arm he had wrapped around Arthur to draw the man closer.

“Good morning,” Arthur greeted in return, “did you sleep alright?”

When Alfred nodded his head in response, some of his gorgeous golden blond hair fall into his face. “Never better.”

Arthur smiled sweetly at that, pleased to know that the previous night had been as pleasurable for Alfred as it had been for him. “Good.”

Alfred glanced up at the clock and then looked back down to Arthur, grinning. “Looks like we’re getting a late start today,” he said cheekily. “Whaddya say we wait a few hours, get some lunch at that little cafe down the street and then go up to the courthouse?”

Arthur was about to nod his head in agreement when a realization suddenly struck him. “Shit,” he hissed, “I can’t. I’ve got to meet Francis for lunch today.”

“What?” Alfred asked, his happy smile morphing into one of his signature puppy-dog pouts. “Why can’t you cancel? The sooner we do this the better.”

“Alfred, I told him I would be there and I don’t intend to cancel. We can still go the courthouse today if we go soon, but I can’t have lunch. Why not tomorrow?”

Instead of being appeased by this like Alfred normally was, the American’s mood only seemed to sour further. “Fine,” he said, his voice strangely strained, “but I want to go and get rings too.”

Arthur blinked rapidly. “What? Why?”

Because Francis doesn’t know how to keep his hands to himself and I don’t want him to touch what’s mine, is what Alfred wanted to say then. Instead, he forced a smile to his face and replied with, “‘cause it’ll raise some eyebrows if we get married and don’t even have rings to prove it, don’t you think?”

Arthur sensed that there was more to it and once again that odd sinking feeling settled at the pit of his stomach, but he dismissed it as he had yesterday. Alfred did have a point, after all. Thus, he nodded his head in agreement. “Alright, we’ll get some rings today, but we’ll have to be done by one. I don’t want to raincheck with Francis again.”

Arthur slipped off the couch then, turning away from Alfred. Alfred turned onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, crossing his arms over his chest. He could hardly believe that Arthur was rushing such an important event in their life all for a lunch date with another man. It was ridiculous, but Alfred didn’t want to start a fight -- at least not until they’d already gotten married. After Arthur had a ring on his finger, then Alfred would make the rules clear.

“Can you be ready in half an hour?” Arthur asked as he scooped his clothes-- rapidly discarded and scattered along the floor--up and bundled them up.

He turned to look over his shoulder at the American, noting that he was sulking, and sighed. Arthur did feel a bit bad, really. Alfred was doing him a rather large favor, after all--perhaps he should try a bit harder to appease the man.

“Maybe we can celebrate after I get back from lunch, though? I could come over and cook for you…?” Arthur suggested, smiling tentatively at the American.

Alfred looked as though he was trying hard to continue pouting, but he quickly turned on his side and grinned at the man. “I can never stay mad at you, babe,” he chirped. “I’ll send a car out for you at six tonight and we’ll have dinner in--but I’ll do the cooking.”

Arthur’s face went red with embarrassment and he tossed his slacks from the night before toward Alfred’s face. “My cooking is not that bad, git! You’ll have to get used to it if you want me to move in with you, y’know.”

“Nah, babe, no way. I like you, but not quite enough to stomach your cooking,” Alfred teased. “Now go get cleaned up. I don’t wanna be late,” he commanded.

“Bossy arse,” Arthur teased loudly as he made his way to the bathroom.

“What was that?!” Alfred cried, leaping off the couch and advancing quickly on the Brit.

Arthur let out a sharp cry that quickly morphed into loud laughter as Alfred easily lifted him off the ground and hoisted him over his shoulder, carting him to the bathroom. He was set down in the shower and Alfred clambered in after him, turning the water on. Freezing water shot from the showerhead and the pair let out cries of surprise. Arthur lunged forward and twisted the knob a few times before hot water began to rained down upon them.

“It’s temperamental,” he explained to Alfred, looking up at the man through his waterlogged bangs.

Alfred reached out, taking Arthur’s face in his strong hands. “The more I see of this place, the more excited I am to have you at my place.”

“You brag too much,” Arthur muttered with a grin still stuck on his face, leaning into Alfred.

“Mmm, yeah. But you don’t really mind.” Alfred agreed before leaning in to take Arthur’s lips.

That night, Arthur arrived at Alfred’s penthouse suite at 6:30 on the dot and was greeted with a passionate kiss from the American as he was tugged into his arms. Alfred ran a hand down the length of Arthur’s arm as he kissed him, his hand eventually settling at Arthur’s palm. He entwined their fingers and walked backward into his apartment with his other arm still wrapped firmly around the Brit’s waist.

Then, abruptly, Alfred pulled back and frowned. He raised Arthur’s hand up, scowling. “Why aren’t you wearing your ring?” He asked, brows furrowed and blue eyes darkened.

Arthur rolled his eyes and gave Alfred a small, reassuring smile. “I haven’t told Francis what happened. I figured he’d be rather shocked to see me with a wedding ring on my finger after having seen me fully single only last week.”

Alfred’s scowl only seemed to deepen as Arthur explained. “You’re not interested in him, are you?”

“What? That frog? Have you gone mad? Francis and I could be the last two people on Earth and I still wouldn’t sleep with him again.”

Alfred froze. “Again?” He hissed, his grip on Arthur’s waist tightening until his fingers were digging into Arthur’s skin through his shirt.

Arthur attempted to take a step back, but Alfred held him firmly in place. The Brit sighed, exasperated by Alfred’s reaction. “Alfred, it was a very long time ago and it meant nothing. We had far too much to drink in college and slept together. I wasn’t even twenty at the time!” He insisted.

“Is he still trying to make a move on you? Is that why he insisted on having lunch with you?” Alfred demanded, his voice a low growl.

Arthur huffed and forcefully pulled Alfred’s hand off of him, stepping away. “No! God, no, Alfred. He’s been a close friend of mine for years! He’s not trying anything, alright?”

“I really don’t like the thought of you and him alone together,” Alfred said with a scowl. “You shouldn’t see him anymore.”

Arthur’s head jerked up, shocked. “And who are you to demand something like that from me? We may be involved now, but that doesn’t mean you get to insert yourself in all of my affairs, alright?” He snapped.

Alfred looked at Arthur incredulously. God, he could be so frustrating! Alfred wanted to rip his hair out after hearing such harsh words from the Brit. How could Arthur not see that he was just looking out for him? Why was he so blind to the fact that he was far too perfect for his own good, that there were people in the world who would try and take him away? Why couldn’t he understand that it was Alfred’s responsibility to watch over him, that yes, he did get to insert himself into Arthur’s affairs! How else would he maintain his claim on the Brit? He had to make sure Arthur’s head didn’t get filled with ideas about leaving him.

Alfred knew there was no one better for Arthur than himself -- he just had to make Arthur realize that, too. Which meant that lines had to be drawn, rules had to be set. Arthur had to understand where he belonged now that they were married--at Alfred’s side, unconditionally. Alfred wouldn’t, couldn’t tolerate any other man attempting to take him away. Especially not a man that had taken Arthur in the past. They’d only try to lead him astray again.

“Like hell I don’t!” Alfred huffed. “We’re not involved, Arthur, we’re married! Does that mean nothing to you?”

“Christ, Alfred, it’s not like it was for love! You’re helping me get back on my feet financially!” Arthur huffed in return, green eyes alight with fire.

Alfred’s jaw dropped. “Then why the hell did you kiss me last night? I thought you cared about me!”

“I do! Last night was amazing, Alfred, and you’re my best friend. But you can’t really expect me to move straight from best friend to husband! There has to be an adjustment period!”

Alfred paused, taking a deep breath in. “Fine,” he exhaled. “I’m sorry, baby, I just--I mean, I’ve wanted you for so long…”

Arthur softened. “You can’t do that, though. You can’t expect me to just jump into this without any hesitation. I married you, yes, but I need time to adjust to this.”

“Would it help if I asked you to be with me exclusively?” Alfred asked, reaching out for the Brit’s hand.

Arthur watched Alfred’s hand gently take his without moving. An odd sense of panic was pooling within him as he watched Alfred place a gentle kiss to his knuckles. “I’m already your husband.”

“I know,” Alfred murmured, “but I might as well ask, since we did all of this kind of backwards. Be my boyfriend, Arthur?”

Arthur hesitated then, eyeing Alfred carefully. At first glance, there was nothing but sincerity swimming in the bright eyes he’d become so familiar with over the years. But the more he gazed into them, the more Arthur thought he saw something darker in them. Arthur couldn’t help but to get the feeling that Alfred saw him as more of a prize than a person, something to be conquered and controlled.

“Arthur?” Alfred asked.

Arthur shuddered. God, why did Alfred seem so cold all of a sudden? Something about his attitude toward Francis was beginning to put Arthur off. He’d been angry one second, possessive and jealous. And the next? Loving, asking for forgiveness, trying to appease Arthur. It was as if he’d lost control of himself for a moment and was trying to make up for it. But what was he holding back from Arthur? What did he keep hidden behind the mask of a lovestruck fool he was wearing?

“I…” Arthur paused, wide-eyed. Then, he twisted his hand out of Alfred’s grip and took another step back. “I-I don’t know.”

Alfred blinked, surprised. He stepped forward, advancing upon Arthur, and reached out for the man. Arthur shook his head rapidly and pushed his hands away.

“You don’t know? What isn’t there to know? I’m giving you everything you want, Arthur? Why can’t you give me this?”

Arthur stopped, thinking on Alfred’s words. Why couldn’t he? Why did it feel so wrong? Alfred made a good point--he was giving so much to Arthur, and it didn’t seem like he wanted very much in return. Just to love Arthur. That was all, wasn’t it?

No.

A sudden, cautious voice in the back of Arthur’s mind warned him. That isn’t all he wants. You know what he wants.

“You don’t want to be with me,” Arthur said then, wide-eyed.

Alfred frowned. “What? Of course I do! Arthur, baby, listen to yourself. Why else would I do all of this? I’ve wanted to be with you for so long I can hardly stand it. I know I act crazy sometimes, but that’s why! I’ve just wanted you for so long that sometimes I overreact, and I’m sorry, baby, I am. But you have to understand that I just want what’s best for you!”

“No!” Arthur shouted, growing angry. “You don’t want to be with me, damn it! You just want me! You want to control me!”

Alfred’s jaw dropped. “Arthur, are you hearing yourself?!”

“I’m hearing myself perfectly well, Alfred! It’s you who isn’t listening! You don’t get to own me just because you have money! You have no right to tell me who I can and cannot see!”

Alfred growled aloud and suddenly stormed forward, grabbing Arthur by the shoulders. “God, Arthur, I wish you would just understand. I don’t want to control you--I just want you to understand. I want to take care of you. I can take care of you, damn it. You just have to let me.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me, idiot! I can take care of myself perfectly well! If I’d known this is what I was walking into when I agreed to marriage, I would have never done it!”

“Oh, can you? Because the thousands and thousands of dollars of debt you’ve racked up say otherwise, Arthur. Weren’t you about to be evicted? Weren’t you working overtime and still struggling to make ends meet? Are you seriously telling me that was better than this?” Alfred asked, gesturing wildly toward his luxurious apartment. “Is it really so bad to have a rich man at your beck and call, huh?”

Arthur looked into Alfred’s face, eyes widened. The American looked every bit a wild animal in that moment, eyes gazing at him hungrily as he spoke in a frenzied tone. He looked as though he was coming apart at the seams, gripping Arthur tightly in one hand and waving his other about wildly.

“You’re not entitled to me, Alfred, even if you buy me whatever I want. I still get to tell you to fuck off!” Arthur shouted, shoving Alfred off of him once more and storming toward the door of the apartment.

“Oh? Even if it meant that you’d have to go back to your shitty apartment and your shitty job? If you walk out now, you’re fucked! You’ll end up broke on the street!”

Arthur stalled with his hand on the doorknob, his pale hand trembling. God, what was he going to do? Alfred was right--the debt was burying him no matter how hard he worked to dig himself out. He was so stressed he could hardly sleep, let alone write--the one thing he’d always dreamt of doing. Being able to live without worry would allow him to devote his time to his dreams. He wouldn’t have to struggle anymore. He could settle down, let someone else hold the reins. Besides, Alfred would buy him whatever he wanted. He’d never have to worry again.

Then, Alfred’s warm hands were snaking around his waist. “Baby, you know I hate to fight with you,” he murmured, his breath hot against Arthur’s ear. “‘S just that you drive me so crazy sometimes. I just want to do what’s best for you, Arthur. Are a couple simple rules really so bad?”

“Wh-What are the rules?” He asked, his voice weak and shaky.

“I just don’t want you let anyone else have you the way I do, alright? That’s all, Arthur. I just want you to be mine and mine alone.” Alfred purred, placing a gentle kiss to the Brit’s pale neck as he spoke.

“I-I…” Arthur bit down at his bottom lip, his grip on the doorknob loosening.

Alfred rested his head on Arthur’s shoulder. “Where’s your wedding ring, Arthur?” He asked, his voice cold.

Arthur felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. “M-My pocket,” he murmured shakily.

One of Alfred’s arms fell from around Arthur’s waist, instead slipping into the pocket of his slacks. After a moment, Alfred’s hand emerged with the ring gripped tightly in his fist. “Do you still want it?” He asked.

Arthur’s trembling hand fell away from the doorknob entirely. It didn’t seem as though he had any other choice. He nodded his head slowly.

“Tell me you want it, Arthur.” Alfred commanded.

Arthur closed his eyes and exhaled unsteadily. “I-I want it.”

“Good.” Alfred said, turning Arthur around. He grinned as he slipped the wedding band back onto Arthur’s finger. Arthur stared down at it with a heavy heart. “See? It’s not so bad, belonging to someone like me. I just want to take care of you, Arthur. I’ll give you whatever you want. All you have to do in return is follow a few little rules.”

When Arthur didn’t respond, Alfred reached out and took the man’s chin in his hand, gently forcing Arthur’s head up. He met the Brit’s gaze, ignoring the sorrow clearly swimming in the green eyes he was so infatuated with. Arthur stared at him, unable to ignore the satisfaction in Alfred’s eyes.

“C’mon, honey, I went shopping today so I could cook for you. I even got you your favorite wine to celebrate.” Alfred purred, slipping an arm around Arthur’s waist and pulling him to the table.

As Alfred pulled a chair out for the Brit, Arthur looked around. This would be his new home soon--a gorgeous, glittering penthouse with all of its resources available to Arthur. And Alfred--he too would be available to Arthur. A gorgeous millionaire, fully dedicated to keeping him as happy as can be. He would never want for anything within these walls--at least, not anything money could buy. But there was something off about the pristine apartment, something that unnatural about the shining glory of it all.

Alfred leaned over Arthur, grinning down at the Brit. “Y’know I love you, right?”

It was a prison. A shining prison, built to keep Arthur trapped within. Equipped with everything he could want to keep him from being tempted by the outside world.

Arthur forced a smile onto his face and nodded slowly.

“I know.”

[echoes-of-realities]

be my fire in the cold (and I'll be waiting by the mistletoe) - 10/25

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[From the Start] // [Fanfiction] // [ao3]

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Chapter Summary: Brittany’s pretty sure she just might be the luckiest person in the world because she gets to have Santana’s dimple-cheeked, scrunched-nose smile directed at her for most of the day; Santana might be really sneaky, but she’s also really sweet.

Chapter 10: bad jokes and brandy and music and games

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For the first time in possibly months, Brittany jumps right out of bed as soon as her alarm goes off, even before Mercedes is awake, humming as she brushes her teeth and hops into the shower. After staying up gushing with Mercedes about the fact that Santana also wants today to be a date, even if neither of them had actually said the word date, she had thought she would be too giddy and excited to actually sleep, but after eight shows in six days, Brittany’s body was more exhausted than her mind was excited, and she ended up falling asleep quickly.

When she gets out of the shower she quickly dries her hair and rubs moisturizer into her skin before she grabs her phone, smiling widely as she responds to Santana’s morning text. Her and Mercedes are lucky enough to have two bathrooms in their apartment and still not pay a ridiculous amount in rent, but Mercedes has the double luck of having the room with the ensuite while Brittany commandeers the main bathroom. Brittany’s never minded having to wander down the hallway for the bathroom because she generally keeps her stuff pretty neat, so there’s no cleanliness problems. The only issue they’ve ever had about it is the fact that the main bathroom is right at the beginning of the hall to their bedrooms and the storage closet, which means that as soon as Brittany steps out of the bathroom she’s practically in the living room and kitchen. The set up of their apartment has led to many embarrassing introductions as Brittany stumbled backwards to her bedroom, tugging her towel further down her legs, while Mercedes’ friends sat, wide-eyed, on the couch and Mercedes hovered between the two with an awkward And this is my roommate, Brittany. Thankfully that hasn’t happened since the first year they lived together, and nowadays Mercedes is always careful to warn Brittany when she’s inviting people over.

Brittany quickly runs a brush through her hair before she heads out of the bathroom to go get dressed, planning on drying her hair after. Mercedes is already in the kitchen, and she blinks in surprise as Brittany emerges from the bathroom in a swirl of steam, checking the clock and then glancing at Brittany a couple times in shock; Brittany barely notices her, hovering in front of the bathroom door and texting Santana. Mercedes remains dumbstruck until she finally registers something even stranger than Brittany being up and showered by this time. “Is that—” she gasps, “Are you humming Christmas music?”

Brittany rolls her eyes, caught, and shrugs. “So what if I am?”

“Are you kidding?” Mercedes laughs, “Ms. I-refuse-to-let-you-decorate-since-you’re-going-away-for-Christmas-and-I’ll-be-stuck-looking-at-it-Humbug voluntarily humming Christmas music? And Mariah Carey no less? Hallelujah, it’s a Christmas miracle!”

“You got it stuck in my head the other day,” Brittany accuses, pointing threateningly at Mercedes.

Mercedes’ smirk widens. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain production stage manager, would it?”

Brittany rolls her eyes again and tightens her grip on the hem of her towel where it’s tucked neatly against her breast, tapping her phone against her thigh. “She doesn’t really like Christmas either,” Brittany says.

“Hmm,” Mercedes says in a tone that implies she has a lot more to say, especially if her sparkling eyes are anything to go by.

“What? What’s hmm?”

Mercedes shrugs and drums her fingers on the counter, waiting until Brittany is shifting impatiently and about to leave before she continues. “Well, it does seem like something right out of a Hallmark Christmas movie.”

Brittany’s about to retort when she pauses, tipping her head to the side as Mercedes’ words fully process. “How so?”

Mercedes’ grin widens as she straightens. “Are you kidding? This could be a plot straight-out of a movie airing at nine p.m. on the twenty-second: Two Christmas humbugs learning to love the holiday again with each other?”

Brittany sighs and shifts a little, studying her toes for a long moment. “Hallmark Christmas movies always have a happy ending, right?” she asks shyly.

Mercedes melts as she rounds the counter and crosses the apartment until she can grab one of Brittany’s hands, soothingly working the tension out of the soft parts of her palm. “It’s not a Hallmark movie if the two leads don’t smooch their way to a Christmas miracle,” she whispers.

Brittany takes a deep breath before she meets Mercedes’ eyes, one side of her mouth quirked up in a dreamy, lopsided smile. “Then I’m okay with being the lead in a cheesy, mediocre Christmas movie that people only watch because it’s the season and there’s nothing else on,” she says cheekily, and Mercedes grins at how soft and warm and adoring Brittany’s eyes go, “as long as Santana’s the other lead.”

Mercedes laughs and tugs Brittany into a quick hug, damp towel and clammy skin and all. “I don’t think you have to worry about that,” she says easily, “I don’t think you have to worry about that at all.”

///

Tina, Mike, and Santana are already sitting in the corner booth by the time Mercedes, Sam, and Brittany arrive; they look the exact same as when Brittany spotted them last week, with Mike’s arm stretched across the back of the booth and Tina curled into his side, Santana sitting across from them as they all fondly tease each other. Mike catches sight of them first and waves, and everything is the exact same as last week except Santana looks less like she’s got thrown in the river and more like an actual goddess.

Her hair’s down again, like it was at the grocery store on Tuesday, and it falls in soft waves around her shoulders, and when her dark eyes meet Brittany’s across the restaurant as she cranes her neck over the booth to wave at her, Brittany almost swallows her tongue. She’s almost certain that Santana holds the position of the prettiest person in the entire world, and when she directs that dimple-cheeked, scrunched-nose smile at Brittany, Brittany pretty much feels like the luckiest person in the entire world.

Mercedes nudges Brittany and Brittany manages to blink out of her dimple-induced daze in time to wave back at Santana before the long pause gets too awkward. Mercedes chuckles knowingly at Brittany as they head across the restaurant, and Brittany just sticks her tongue out at Mercedes in response.

As soon as they reach the booth and greet everyone, shrugging out of their jackets and hanging them on the coatracks attached to the walls dividing booths, Sam looks expectantly at Mercedes, waiting for her to slide into the booth beside Santana so they can sit together. Before she sits, Mercedes makes the mistake of glancing at Brittany, who has that pleading kicked puppy-dog pout of hers, and instead Mercedes just rolls her eyes fondly and ushers Brittany into the booth to sit right beside Santana, nodding at the open space beside Tina for Sam to slide into. He looks a little confused, but just shrugs and complies; Brittany wants to hug Mercedes, but instead she just squeezes her hand in thanks as she slides in beside Santana, their thighs and arms pressing together. There’s a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee already on the table for Brittany, and she looks at Santana in question.

Santana gives a one armed shrug and smiles at Brittany, soft and breathless, and Brittany’s pretty sure if she lifted a hand to touch Santana’s cheeks they would be blush-warm. “Thanks,” Brittany whispers.

Santana just shrugs again, her eyes darting down to the table for a moment before catching on Brittany’s again. “You’re welcome,” she murmurs.

Their attention is drawn across the table as their waitress, the same one from last week, appears with three menus, handing them out to Sam, Mercedes, and Brittany. “Wow, these guys managed to keep you around for a full week,” she teases, “The holiday season really is full of miracles.”

Mike and Santana both stick their tongues out at the waitress in perfect sync, while Tina just rolls her eyes and takes a sip of her hot chocolate. Brittany giggles at the exchange; she loves watching how worn into each other Santana and Tina and Mike are, because they have this teasing easiness between them that makes her feel completely comfortable with them. The waitress winks at them before taking Sam and Mercedes’ drink orders, eyeing the orange juice and coffee in front of Brittany before casting a sly glance at Santana, who instantly flushes, before disappearing back to the kitchen. The restaurant isn’t that busy, there’s a couple of exhausted looking college students nursing coffees and their heads, a couple of nicely dressed businesspeople with their laptops and notebooks shoved to the side of the table so they can eat, a group of seniors taking advantage of their breakfast discount, and a mom out with her two kids, all three of them colouring on the placemats as the older girl narrates her coming day and the younger girl quietly sings along to the Christmas music crooning from speakers hidden around the restaurant. Sam starts wondering whether to get an omelet or pancakes again, while Mercedes quietly reads the menu, pretending she doesn’t know her boyfriend or Mike, who have gotten into a friendly argument about the best item on the menu over Tina’s head.

Brittany just grins at them, exchanging an amused glance with Santana at their bickering friends. She feels warm and full, the garland along the back of the booth tickling her neck a little as she sighs and leans back into her seat, taking in the warm scent of breakfast food and coffee, Christmas spices and sweets, citrus and vanilla. Santana casts a small smile at her as she reaches for her coffee, and the warmth in Brittany’s chest blooms a little bit. It’s been years since she let herself actually enjoy Christmas, what with her family on the other side of the country every year and Mercedes always back home for the week before Christmas, it’s usually just another day for her, and aside from a couple gifts for a couple people, she doesn’t even do holiday shopping past October.

But there’s something new about this year, a spark she hasn’t felt since the last Christmas she spent with her family in her first year of college, and she finds herself actually starting to look forward to the coming weeks as the joyful chaos of the approaching holiday descends on the city.

She’s so lost in thought, that she doesn’t even realize that so much time has passed until the waitress is teasing the regulars at the table again, and she glances up with a start. Mike, Tina, and Santana have already placed their orders, and Mercedes and Sam are still looking over the menus, so the waitress turns to Brittany. “What can I get for you, hon?”

Brittany grins and hands the menu back to the waitress without ever having opened it. “The Sunshine Special, please.” The waitress nods and tucks the menu back under her arm before turning to the other two.

Santana’s hand falls briefly on her thigh, the pressure feather light and ticklish and tingling, retreating as soon as Brittany turns her attention to her. “You don’t want to try something else?” she asks quietly.

Brittany shrugs and ducks her head down before she manages to meet Santana’s eyes. “You said it was your favourite,” she admits, “So now it’s my favourite too.”

Santana sucks in a sharp breath as she stares at Brittany, and Brittany gets that falling feeling she sometimes gets when she catches Santana’s eyes, tingling at the base of her spine and spreading throughout her body, like she’s free falling without a parachute and her nerves are all alive and electric. Santana opens her mouth to say something, but snaps it closed a moment later, shaking her head and offering Brittany that smile that scrunches her nose and reveals those adorable dimples. “You’re something else, you know that, Britt?”

Brittany grins and pretends to buff her nails on her shirt, ignoring how her face flames. “Well, I do so try,” she teases.

Santana just pokes playfully at her shoulder, her grin so wide and happy Brittany’s pretty sure she’s going to see it in her dreams.

///

By the time they get to the mall it’s almost ten thirty, and despite it being a Monday the stores and corridors are packed and more than a little chaotic. Santana presses close against Brittany as a woman with a stroller narrowly avoids running over Santana’s toes, earning a glare from the blonde as she tracks her movement through the crowd over Santana’s head. Santana grumbles something under her breath that sounds more like cursing than anything, and it brings a tugging smile to Brittany’s lips as Santana straightens and draws half a step away from Brittany, still close enough that their jackets scratch together where they’re draped over their arms. Their group of six huddles together, deciding on a meet up place and time. Mike and Sam want to go check out Radio Shack (Brittany’s pretty sure Sam is looking to get Mercedes a nice pair of headphones, otherwise she would be pushing for them to all go together), Tina needs a new pair of shoes and wants to look for a purse for her mom, and Mercedes wants to look into getting some skin care stuff for her brother, who’s been suffering a flare up of eczema with the cold weather; when the group turns to Brittany and Santana to find what they’re looking for, they both just shrug and respond with nothing in particular. They all decide to meet back at the food court in a couple hours to grab a snack and figure out whether they need to reconfigure the group divisions for certain stores, and certain gifts, and what else to do for the day.

Mike and Sam take off in one direction, while Mercedes and Tina discuss the best way to hit the stores they need, before they’re taking off in another.

“I didn’t get a chance to ask before,” Brittany says, and Santana has to press close to her again to hear her over the crowd as they trail behind Mercedes and Tina. Brittany tips her head down so she can speak almost directly into Santana’s ear, but she nearly goes careening into an old man as she takes her eyes off the crowd around her; Santana solves this by placing her hand on the small of Brittany’s back to guide her through the crowd. Brittany might be biased, but she’s pretty sure Santana’s warm palm pressing to her back through her thin knit sweater is, like, the best feeling in the entire world.

“What did you wanna ask, Britt?” Santana prompts.

Brittany manages to shake out of her daze, which is more than a little difficult when Santana’s fingers dig gently into her skin to guide her out of the way of a large family with kids no taller than their knees running around and carelessly tripping up strangers. “Oh!” she says, leaning a little closer until she’s practically breathing her words right into Santana’s ear so she can actually hear them, “Just, uh, are you buying gifts for anyone?”

Santana shivers, and Brittany pouts a little because she knows how easily Santana gets cold; the urge to wrap her into her own warm embrace is nearly overpowering. “Not really,” she says, her eyes on the crowd around them as they dodge an adorable old couple who must be collectively about a hundred and seventy years old. “Just Tina and Mike,” she says. “What about you?”

Brittany blinks at the change in subject. “Just my sister and Mercedes and Sam. My parents don’t let my sister and I get them presents, so. But I already got all their stuff months ago since I have to ship my sister’s to California, and it’s just easier to get Mercedes and Sam’s gifts at the same time. What about your family?”

“Um,” Santana hesitates for a long moment before she draws her attention away from the crowd to glance up at Brittany. “Most of my family didn’t take it very well when they found out I was gay.”

Brittany just stares at Santana, searching for something, anything, to say, before landing on what feels like a completely inadequate, “I’m so sorry.” Santana shrugs but before Brittany can question her further, Mercedes and Tina are calling for them, urging them into some nearby department store. Santana gives Brittany a warm smile and guides them through the rushing crowd, safely navigating them to the other side before gesturing for Brittany to enter the store first with an overdramatic bow.

“My hero,” Brittany giggles, and Santana flushes but gives Brittany that dimpled smile that makes Brittany’s stomach swoop like she’s falling as they follow Mercedes and Tina into the store.

They trail after the other girls, making a game of pointing out the most ridiculous items they see, trying their hardest to make Mercedes and Tina break and start laughing, while Mercedes and Tina try their hardest to pretend they don’t know them.

They pass the toy aisle on their way to the men’s clothing department for Mercedes to pick out a tie for her dad, when Santana spots a toy nutcracker at the end of the aisle. She gives Brittany a wide smirk as she grabs it and quickly starts to reenact one of the scenes they all know by heart; Mercedes and Tina stare, horrified, for a beat, before their loud laughter joins Brittany’s and Santana’s. Brittany spots a stuffed mouse just a couple steps down the aisle and swipes it, quickly taking on the role of the Mouse King to Santana’s nutcracker. Tina even does her part for the reenacted scene and dings Brittany in the head with her shoe, except said shoe is actually a package of Kleenex, for which Brittany is grateful for because Tina’s actually wearing boots that would probably really hurt if she got hit in the head with them.

A middle aged women gives them all looks of disapproval as she passes them, sharply turning the corner and sticking her nose up in the air, and Tina and Santana both stick their tongues out at her, much to Mercedes and Brittany’s amusement. Mercedes and Tina wander off towards the men’s clothing department, while Santana backtracks a couple aisles to put the nutcracker back with the others, leaving Brittany in the deserted stuffed animal aisle as she tosses the mouse back with its stuffed brothers and sisters.

She’s just heading back up the aisle when a small box of animal keychains catch her eyes; there’s dolphins and dogs and lions and wolves, but what really stops her in her tracks and makes her heart ache is the plump brown tabby that sits on top of all the others. Brittany pauses and glances around, finding this section of the store still deserted, before she grabs the charm and holds it up to the light. It looks just like Tubbs, right down to his pale green eyes and seemingly permanently curled tail. She can’t stop the smile or the tears she feels prickling her eyes as she fingers the charm, tracing over the swirling patterns of dark stripes against the dusky brown.

She doesn’t hear Santana come up behind her until her voice is right in her ear. “You should get it,” Santana says, and Brittany only barely contains her jump. “Sorry,” Santana mumbles, but the soft, amused look in her dark eyes means she’s anything but, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Brittany shakes her head a little. “You didn’t scare me,” she lies.

Santana snorts a little. “Sure.”

“You startled me, at most.”

“Right,” Santana drawls, drawing out the word until Brittany giggles.

“Fine, fine,” she concedes around a wide smile, “You scared me, a little.”

Santana smirks at her, but it softens as soon as she meets Brittany’s eyes. “I meant what I said,” she says, her body swinging a little bit closer until their jackets scratch against each other as she nods at the charm, “You should get it.”

Brittany fingers the cat’s tail with a small smile. “It looks just like him,” she agrees, “But I dunno. It’s kind of childish, isn’t it?”

Santana’s eyes are steady on hers, and Brittany fights the clenching in her chest. “I don’t think it is,” she says honestly.

Brittany shrugs, and is about to respond when Mercedes voice calls her attention away. She puts the charm back on top of the pile on auto pilot and trudges over to her best friend, exiting the toy aisle and walking the short distance to the men’s clothing department to help Mercedes pick between two ties for her father, Santana trailing behind her. Mercedes ends up deciding against both of ties, and they all wander to the front of the store empty handed. She gets caught up in texting her sister for a moment as she distractedly trails behind the other girls, slipping her phone back into her pocket as they emerge back into the rushing crowd, and only then does she notice that they’re missing half of their group.

“Where’s Santana and Tina?” she says aloud.

Mercedes shrugs. “Tina wanted to buy something and she dragged Santana along with her, something about needing Santana’s opinion, I dunno. They said they’ll meet us in the next store.”

Brittany cranes her neck to glance back in the store, but she can’t see the cash registers at this angle so she just shrugs and follows Mercedes into the next store. Barely two minutes later, Santana and Tina are wandering in the front of the store, Tina’s eyes quickly alighting on a purse in the display case as Santana’s eyes alight on Brittany, both of them brightening as they cross the store to the respective object and person who has caught their attention.

“What did Tina get?” Brittany asks as Santana steps up beside her.

“Huh?” Santana says blankly.

“At the last store,” Brittany clarifies, “Mercedes said Tina needed your opinion on something.”

“Oh!” Santana says as they slowly move to the next shelf of shoes, “Uh, she got—”

“Just a lipgloss colour,” Tina chimes in from behind them. Santana and Brittany glance over their shoulders as Tina reaches them. “Santana’s always making fun of whatever colour I choose,” she explains to Brittany, “So I forced her to help me so she can’t complain anymore.”

“Oh, I’ll still complain,” Santana promises. Tina goes to shove her but Santana dances out of the way, right into Brittany, who quickly reaches out to steady her. There’s many things about today that Brittany’s really enjoying, but she thinks perhaps the best is the blush-hot shy smile that Santana gives her every time she falls into her personal space.

When the leave this store, again empty handed, Brittany decides its her turn to guide Santana through the crowd, and catches Santana’s full-body shiver against her palm as she rests it over the small of Santana’s back. Santana glances at her with a soft smile, falling in perfect step beside Brittany until their hips brush together with every step.

Brittany’s pretty sure she could get used to this.

///

They emerge from the mall a couple hours later, everyone with at least one bag aside from Santana and Brittany, who had been too busy huddling together and giggling to actually pay attention to anything in the stores. They trail behind the others, only half listening as Sam starts to excitedly talk about some arcade they should all go to. Mike and Tina glance at each other and shrug in agreement, and Sam launches into a long and over-informative explanation of the arcade, including how the prize system works, most of the menu of the attached restaurant, a list of all the games, and even their physical layout.

“Nerd,” Santana calls teasingly.

Sam turns so he’s walking backwards and gives Santana a broad grin, his arms spread so wide he almost takes out a couple of unsuspecting pedestrians. “You know it. You in?”

Santana shrugs and glances up at Brittany, and it takes Brittany a couple moments to realize that Santana’s asking for her answer first. She smiles widely and nods, a thrill arcing through her at the thought of her and Santana being a package deal.

“Sure,” Santana says as she turns back to Sam, “Why not?”

Sam cheers and finally turns back around to lead them down the sidewalk. They make it about a block and a half when Brittany realizes that Santana’s shivering, her shoulders up by her ears and her jaw trembling a little. Brittany grins and gently touches Santana on the back of her hand to get her attention; her nose is red and her cheeks are pinked and raw from the cold wind. Brittany holds one arm up in invitation and Santana doesn’t hesitate before she tucks herself into Brittany’s side, her arm snaking around Brittany’s hip as she cuddles closer, Brittany’s own arm settling comfortably over her shoulder. Brittany’s always ran more hot than most people, which always makes her the best cuddle buddy in winter, something both Mercedes and Sam have told her many times during their movie nights. Though she’s only wearing a light jacket, like Santana, she’s still comfortably warm, unlike Santana. And honestly, having Santana tucked into her side is kind of a dream come true, because she can feel every single breath Santana takes and every giggle she lets out, and it makes Brittany feel even warmer than she was before.

Mike holds the door open for everyone once they get to the arcade, and though Brittany is reluctant to let Santana out of her embrace, she’s actually pretty excited for the arcade. The last time she went to one she was in elementary school and her dad was treating her for doing so well at one of her dance competition; usually they would have gone camping in celebration, but her mom was eight months pregnant with Brittany’s little sister at the time and too far along, and much too uncomfortable, to do any camping.

Sam bounces to the front counter and deals with all the logistics while the rest of them crowd off to the side of the door so they aren’t in the way. Sam returns barely five minutes later with everything they need, passing out Power Cards for everyone and giving a brief rundown on how they work before leading them into the actual arcade. There’s an entrance to the restaurant attached off of the first room they enter, but the rest of the arcade is huge, so much bigger than the small town one Brittany’s dad had taken her to all those years ago. There’s barely anyone else here, on account of it being a Monday afternoon before school lets out, so they just wander through the arcade first, pointing out games to each other and reminiscing on old memories of playing them what feels like forever ago. There’s old retro games like Pac-Man and Skee-Ball and Super Shot mixed in with some newer games like Candy Crush and Angry Birds and Mario & Sonic at the Rio 2016 Olympic Games; Brittany even spots a Dance Dance Revolution, and she already knows that as soon as their group spots it that it’ll be where they spend most of the afternoon.

Sam and Mike spot some old game that they both used to play when they were kids, and they drag the rest of the group over to crowd around and watch them. They crush the game, despite it probably being over a decade since they last played it, and manage to edge out the last two players who were in tenth place, their names proudly displayed on the scoreboard. They urge Mercedes and Tina to go next, and they barely make it through the third level, much to everyone’s amusement, and before Brittany knows it, her and Santana are being pushed to the console next.

Their names flash as Britt-Britt and Snix, and Santana’s nose crinkles up. “Snix,” she says, directing her glare at Tina.

Tina just shrugs. “You gave yourself that name, not me,” she teases.

“Yeah, when I was drunk and crying.”

“Not my fault you’re an emo drunk.”

“Emotional drunk! Not emo! You’re the one who had a goth phase, not me!”

“Santana!” Sam shouts, “The game’s starting.”

Santana’s attention snaps back to the game, and Brittany is a little distracted by how adorable Santana is when she’s flustered from being teased and determined to win the game, her cheeks flushed and tongue poking out between her teeth just a little bit. Brittany’s so distracted that she loses a life before she manages to refocus on the game, and then Brittany and Santana are breezing through the first couple levels.

They don’t place or anything, they don’t even make it to the final level, but Brittany’s stomach flips over when she sees their names, even if it’s just some dumb nicknames their friends put in, flash together on the screen.

Santana shoots another glare at Tina when Snix shows up, but she glances at Brittany with a curious smile. “Britt-Britt?”

Brittany laughs and nods. “Yeah, it’s what my sister used to call me when she was really young and it kinda stuck,” she explains, “Mercedes overheard her use it once and now she uses it too.”

Santana casts that bright, dimples-deep grin at Brittany and her stomach flips over again. “That’s cute,” she says, and then they’re being pulled away to the next game by their friends.

They work their way through the games, heading back to the front to add credit to their cards and redeem a couple prizes, before everyone finally spots the Dance Dance Revolution machine and, just as Brittany predicted, they spend the next hour or so there, working through every possible combination. Santana whines that Brittany and Mike and Tina and Sam all have an unfair advantage, but Mike and Tina both roll their eyes and brush her off, and Brittany soon finds out why, because Santana can definitely hold her own. Even Mercedes, despite having told Brittany for years that she doesn’t do that dance stuff, is nimble and precise and gives Tina a run for her money. Santana laughs and tells Mercedes that it’s no wonder she’s so good at the game since she is a Park and Bark after all, and though Brittany doesn’t really know what Santana means by that, she laughs along with everyone because Mercedes looks affronted for all of three seconds before she’s bursting into bright, stomach clutching laughter.

It’s not until Sam gloats Tina into a battle, Mercedes and Mike distracted and attempting the worst and most amusing trash talk that Brittany’s ever heard, that she has a moment to think. She glances down at Santana, who’s grinning and laughing, and she realizes that this is her chance to ask Santana about what she said earlier, about her family. She leans closer to Santana and nudges her with her elbow. “Can I ask you a question?” she whispers.

Santana glances up at her, her face glowing blue in the arcade lights and her dimpled smile still wide as she nods. “Course you can, Britt-Britt,” she teases.

Brittany glances around them before spotting a secluded corner. She points in its direction and Santana’s face clears, her smile fading a little, as she realizes that Brittany’s grown serious. She nods a little, and lets Brittany draw her away by her wrist, the others too caught up in the game to notice their absence. It’s a little quieter, and the music doesn’t pound as loudly, but Santana still has to step into Brittany’s space so they can talk without yelling. Santana stares at Brittany expectantly, but the words catch in Brittany’s throat for a long moment as she tries to sort out her thoughts.

“Brittany?” Santana murmurs, “You can ask me anything.”

Brittany blinks, catching brown eyes with her own and sighs a little bit. “I— You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, like, at all. I’ll completely understand and I won’t bring it up ever again, I promise,” Brittany trails off, only now realizing that her fingers are still wrapped around Santana’s wrist when she feels the steady thrum of Santana’s heartbeat pulse a little quicker against her fingertips.

“Britt, you’re making me a little nervous,” Santana says slowly.

“I—” Brittany pauses and swallows. “That first day you brought me lunch you said that everything at the theatre with Finn and the snow corps leader was nothing you hadn’t dealt with before?”

Santana nods slowly.

“And then earlier, when I was asking about Christmas presents?” Santana nods, her brow furrowed in confusion and, standing this close to her, Brittany desperately fights the urge to kiss it away. “You said that your family didn’t take it very well when they found out you were gay?”

“Yeah?”

Brittany takes a deep breath and steels herself. “Not came out. Found out.”

Santana’s face clears and she glances away, biting down on her lip as she nods. “Um, yeah. I was outed my sophomore year of high school,” she explains, and Brittany feels the sharp sting of anger punch low in her stomach. “I grew up in a pretty small, conservative town, and I wasn’t the nicest person in high school and I guess I made enemies with the wrong people, because when they found out that I liked girls the way they thought I should have liked guys, they outed me in front of most of the school. I knew that I didn’t have much time before it got back to my family, so I decided to tell them myself.”

When Santana’s silence stretches on longer than a couple rotations of the theme song playing on the machine closest to them, Brittany gently squeezes her fingers still wrapped around around Santana’s wrist, and Santana starts at the feeling, her eyes drawing back to Brittany’s from wherever in the past they just were. “A couple people took it well, most people didn’t,” Santana shrugs nonchalantly, though Brittany can tell she’s anything but, “I had a cousin about my age who was really cool about it, but his parents weren’t. And before I could control it, the entire thing had snowballed out of control. I’m sure my entire family and half the town knew before I managed to even see my mom that day, let alone tell her.”

Santana shrugs a little again, and this time her smile turns nostalgic and fond and genuine. “My parents split when I was pretty young and I think I’ve only seen my dad, like, twice since then, so my mom raised me and honestly I am so much happier that it was just us two. And so when she came home that night and I told her, ‘cause somehow she hadn’t heard, she was amazing about it. She knew I was gay long before I did and was just waiting on me to come out. She was way more upset and angry by how everything had been taken out of my control. I had one really cool auntie too, my mom’s favourite sister, who’d also known I was gay long before I did.” Santana laughs a little and shrugs, and Brittany can’t help the smile that tugs at her lips in response. She really likes how Santana says auntie with a little bit of a drawl, as if she’s saying haunt without the h. “I mean, my life and my mom’s life got pretty bad for a while there, between the harassment at school for me and at work for her, but there was only a couple weeks left of the school year, and as soon as I was free my mom packed up our lives and emptied her savings and moved us to New York so that I would have a better life far away from everyone in our small town. My mom tried to get my family to come around, but once my abuela officially disowned me the following Christmas she never forgave them and never let them hurt me again, even once some of them started to come around years later.”

“Your mom sounds amazing,” Brittany murmurs, her own heart swelling at the obvious admiration and open love in Santana’s voice as she talks about her mom.

Brittany thinks it must be a trick of the flashing arcade lights, because Santana’s eyes seem to glisten wetly in the flickers of blue and red and green as she nods. “Yeah,” she says thickly.

“So then,” Brittany says slowly, “you sound really close to your mom. Why aren’t you looking for a gift for her?”

“Oh,” Santana shrugs and her eyes drop away, her voice dropping to a whisper that forces Brittany to lean even closer, “I already have something for her, actually.”

“Oh that’s cool,” Brittany says, even though she can tell that Santana’s not telling her the whole truth based on the way she tugs on the hem of her shirt because she can’t play nervously with her hands, as she is wont to do, since as her other hand is still caught in Brittany’s. She’s about to say more when Sam’s voice draws their attention away. His expression is genuinely innocent as he asks what they’re doing squeezed into the corner, Mercedes’ and Tina’s and Mike’s suggestive looks are anything but; he declares that it’s time for Mike to finally take on Brittany in the Dance Dance Revolution battle of the century, and Santana laughs and quickly drags Brittany over.

Mike pouts when Santana tells him haughtily that she’s cheering for Brittany, and Brittany’s stomach flips over as the music starts, casting Santana a quick grin that has her ducking her head breathlessly before she gathers herself and starts to cheer Brittany on.

Mike and Brittany attract a small crowd as kids and teenagers and adults alike look on and cheer as their combos start to hit triple digits; Brittany only really hears one voice cheering for her though.

///

They end up just eating at the restaurant attached to the arcade once it starts to get busier in the arcade itself; the restaurant is busy too but not completely packed, and none of them have anywhere else to be so they don’t mind the wait. Brittany really doesn’t want the day to end, especially as Santana beats Tina to sitting and squeezes into the booth beside Brittany, their sides pressed together again, Santana shooting Tina a small smile that’s somehow both smug and apologetic for forcing Tina and Mike to sit across from each other instead of beside each other.

Brittany’s not the only one who doesn’t want the day to end, because before she knows it Tina and her are huddled over Santana’s phone, looking up movies playing at a nearby theatre while Mike, Sam, and Mercedes do the same on the other side of the table.

Their food arrives just as they decide on a movie, and everyone quickly digs in; they had only grabbed a quick bite at the food court earlier, and with all the games, especially Dance Dance Revolution, their stomaches were all growling by the time they entered the restaurant and caught the scent of food. Sam asks about Christmas traditions as they slow in their eating, and they quickly go around the table with nostalgic smiles.

Sam starts, explaining that since his little brother and sister are so much younger than he is that he’s spent most of his life believing in Santa for his siblings’ sake, writing letters with them and setting out cookies and carrots and staying up with them while they waited for Santa, even if they always fell asleep before it was eleven. Brittany nods and before she can stop it she’s chiming in that she believed in Santa until she was like fourteen for her sister’s sake too. She bites down on her lip as embarrassment flushes hotly through her, but unlike all her friends in high school, no one makes fun of her; Tina tells her that it’s cute, and Santana’s fingers brush hers under the table, hooking her pinky over Brittany’s with a small smile, and the conversation devolves into how long everyone believed in Santa. Mercedes’ older cousin told her that Santa wasn’t real when she was nine; Mike’s family never really celebrated Christmas, both because his parents immigrated from small towns in China and because his father has always been really distant to both his wife and his son; Santana learned that Santa wasn’t real when she was six after her parents split a couple weeks before Christmas; Tina’s parents told her that they were actually Santa once she turned ten.

They turn back to Christmas traditions shortly after. Despite not really celebrating Christmas, Mike’s mom always took him out for a nice supper the day before Christmas Eve, just the two of them, and then took him ice skating afterwards, before warming up with some hot chocolate and giving him a couple gifts. Since Santana’s mom was a nurse and often worked the holidays, Santana would always watch Home Alone when she was home alone, and she would always go to midnight mass with her abuela and mess of extended family before spending Christmas Day with them, but when her mom wasn’t working they would always make homemade cinnamon buns in the morning, just the two of them; Brittany notices that Santana grows small as she explains this and Tina catches Santana’s other hand and squeezes it comfortingly, and Brittany wonders if it’s because of what Santana told her about her family earlier. Mercedes interrupts her thoughts when she starts talking about staying up too late with her older brother and cousins, playing card games with their family, all of the cousins having been taught with no mercy by their grandma, messily passing around nuts and little cakes and getting overexcited whenever the games tipped in their favour. Brittany explains that her and her sister always watched How the Grinch Stole Christmas, the live action 2000 one with Jim Carrey, and she always had to hold her sister’s hand when she was really little because she always got scared, and how they would always go out an have a snowman making contest with their cousins on Christmas Day, after supper when the sun was just starting to set and turn the world orange. Tina’s parents adopted her a little bit before Christmas, and she says it’s always been extra special for her family because of that, and she would always get to spend Christmas at her grandparents house with her aunt and uncle and two cousins, allowed to open one present each on Christmas Eve and baking cookies for Santa that day.

Before they know it, all their plates are being taken by the waiter and they’re rushing to pay their bills so they aren’t late for the movie; Brittany pays Santana’s bill when she’s not paying attention, too busy playfully arguing with Mike, and she refuses to take the money Santana tries to shove at her. Brittany does finally accept Santana’s mint as payment, even if she slips it back into Santana’s pocket with a wink at Tina, who just beams at them while Mike pays their own bill. Mercedes takes the machine last, and then they’re all sliding out of the booth and distributing jackets from the coatrack on the booth wall before rushing out the door and down the sidewalk into the cool night air.

///

When they get to the movie theatre, they find that they actually still have plenty of time given that they’re seeing a movie that came out a couple weeks ago and it’s a Monday, so the theatre really isn’t that busy at all. Santana manages to squeeze her way in front of Brittany to pay for their tickets, playfully shoving Brittany away when she tries to protest.

Brittany and Santana offer to go save them all seats while the others sort out snacks, collecting everyone’s jackets until they’re weighed down by them and struggling to hand their tickets to the bored worker, who directs them to Theatre Three.

They pick the first row after the large walkway, right behind the designated places for people in wheelchairs, and Brittany claims the farthest left seat that they’ve thrown jackets on, one in front of the short railings so she’ll be able to prop her feet up on them and stretch her legs out. The theatre is deserted aside from a small family with excited teenagers and a couple of college aged students tucked into the farthest back corner of the theatre, and as Santana falls into the seat beside Brittany, Mike’s jacket on her other side, she nods in their direction and makes kissy faces at Brittany until Brittany’s gasping for breath around her laughter.

Brittany’s laughter fades as she realizes that Santana is staring at her, and she feels heat flame in her cheeks at the soft look on Santana’s face. “What?” she whispers.

Santana shrugs a little, her eyes dropping away from Brittany’s face. “You’re cute, is all,” she mumbles.

Brittany’s breath catches and she smiles as she nudges Santana gently. “So are you.”

Santana’s cheeks dimple and she finally lifts her head to catch Brittany’s eyes again. “I, um, have something for you.”

“Really?” Brittany excitedly sits up further in her seat so she’s not slouched anymore.

Santana nods and fumbles with her jacket, draped over the back of her chair, for a moment until she finds the pocket. “I just,” she says, pulling her fisted hand out of the pocket, “you seemed to really like it and I thought it would be a good, I dunno, memento, I guess.”

Brittany glances down at Santana’s hand as her fingers uncurl and reveal the small cat charm that reminds her so much of Tubbs. Something deep in Brittany’s chest spasms and eases itself as tears spring unbidden to her eyes; she reaches out, slowly and haltingly taking the charm. She gasps as her fingers close around it, realizing she hasn’t actually taken a breath since Santana presented the charm. She looks up at Santana with a soft smile tugging at her lips even as tears threaten to spill down her cheeks, not quite able to believe that someone like Santana could even exist, and that she was even lucky enough to meet her. “Thank you,” she rasps.

Santana gives Brittany a slightly lopsided smile. “I thought you could use it on your keys or something,” she mumbles, “That way he’d always be with you.”

Brittany curls her fingers around the charm and throws her arms around Santana, barely noticing the arm rest digging into her stomach as she pulls Santana into the cradle of her body. Santana sighs and melts into Brittany’s embrace, nuzzling her nose against Brittany’s neck. “Thank you,” Brittany repeats.

Santana just sighs against her again. “You’re welcome.”

They remain locked in the other’s warm embrace until they can hear their noisy friends opening the door to the theatre and heading down the short hallway that opens into the rest of Theatre Three, and they reluctantly pull away from each other. Brittany clutches the charm before she smiles and digs her keys out of her jacket pocket, quickly hooking the string into place so the charm rests against the key to her apartment. Santana gives Brittany a wide smile even as she distractedly takes the drinks and popcorn and napkins from Mike as he passes them to her. They bought a couple bottled waters, a small bag of candy, and a medium popcorn for Santana and Brittany to share, and as Brittany tries to offer money for the snacks Mike waves her off, telling her that Santana had already given him money for it as he finally sits down on the other side of Santana.

“Sneaky,” Brittany mutters in Santana’s ear as the lights start to dim.

Santana gets that breathless, bright look even as she smirks at Brittany. “You know it,” she whispers.

Santana and Brittany make it about halfway through their popcorn as the previews end and the actual movie starts, and by that point they’re both too full, so Santana neatly rolls the top of the bag and tucks it under her seat before settling back into her seat. Between the long day and the even longer week and the darkened theatre and the plush seats, it doesn’t take long before Brittany’s eyes are drooping and she’s snapping herself awake every couple scenes. She’s drifting off for about the sixth time when she feels something land on her shoulder and she snaps her eyes open again.

She shifts a little as hair starts tickling her chin, and it takes her a couple moments to realize that Santana’s head has fallen to her shoulder, her breathing deep and even as she sleeps. Brittany glances down the row of their friends to find everyone’s attention captivated by the screen, and Brittany turns her head to breathe in Santana’s shampoo before she eases further back into her seat, her feet propped up on the railing, to get more comfortable. Santana shifts and sighs a little, but follows Brittany’s movement, and it feels like Brittany’s eyes are even heavier than before as she drops her head to rest atop of Santana’s, surrounded by a soft scent of citrus and vanilla as she drifts to sleep.

///

It’s the clicking of a camera that wakes Brittany what feels like seconds later, and she blinks awake into the bright light of the theatre, the house lights on and the screen playing the ending credits. There’s another click and she blinks as she manages to focus on what’s going on around her; Mercedes stands on the other side of the railings, her phone held in front of her as she aims the camera at Brittany, Tina grinning beside her, Mike and Sam discussing the movie to the side even as they eye Brittany fondly. She’s still a little disorientated, but as she becomes more aware of her surroundings, she’s delighted to realize that the prettiest girl in the world happens to be drooling on her shoulder.

Santana mumbles as she wakes, nuzzling closer to Brittany for a moment until the click of Mercedes’ camera startles her fully awake. She sits up quickly, wiping at her chin and glaring fiercely at Tina and Mercedes, who just grin smugly back up at her. “What’s with the paparazzi routine, Wheezy?” she snaps, and Brittany doesn’t need to feel Santana’s cheek to know it must be blush-hot.

“Trying to gather evidence that Satan herself has a soft side,” Mercedes shoots back with an easy grin.

They continue to bicker, and Brittany just smiles at Santana, delighted to find out that Santana’s even grumpier than Brittany is after waking up; it’s a piece of information she tucks away and desperately hopes will come in handy, eventually.

Santana finally glances at Brittany and softens instantly, the retort on her lips fading mid-sentence. Mercedes and Tina seem to take that as their cue and fade away. “Hi,” Santana says breathlessly.

“Hi,” Brittany giggles.

Santana glances down before catching Brittany’s eyes again, the brown still sleepy and softer than Brittany’s ever seen them. “Sorry about falling asleep on you,” she mumbles, flustered and bashful.

Brittany just smiles. “Anytime,” she says, ignoring her own blush prickling heat in her cheeks. Brittany tactfully doesn’t mention the drool on her shoulder because she has a feeling that it might make Santana’s blush burst into flames. They gather their jackets and shrug them on, collecting their half-eaten bag of popcorn and drinks before filing out of the aisle, wondering about what they missed on the movie; Brittany thinks there was probably some major plot twist that was overly predictable, Santana thinks that it was probably boring the entire time, which is why they continued to sleep instead of waking to explosions or something.

They catch up with the rest of the group just as Sam and Mike are leaving the bathroom and Mercedes and Tina are discussing Uber arrangements; Mercedes and Brittany are obviously sharing one, and Santana’s close enough to them that it makes sense for her to join them, Mike and Tina share one too, while Sam just grins and says he likes chatting with Uber drivers.

They’re all piling into Ubers what feels like seconds later, which probably has more to do with Brittany’s still half asleep brain than it does with the actual amount of time that has passed; that and the fact that if Brittany turns her head to the right she can catch a whiff of Santana’s citrus and vanilla shampoo lingering on the shoulder of her sweater, and it’s more than a little distracting. Brittany ends up in the backseat with Santana on her right again and Mercedes up in the passenger seat. They direct the Uber to Santana’s apartment first, and Mercedes gives them a quick rundown of everything they missed in the movie. Brittany just sinks back into the seat as Santana gives her opinion on a movie she slept through and Mercedes just laughs at her. She’s pretty sure this entire day has been one of the best days ever, because the entire day has just felt easy and comfortable and everything she never really thought friends could be back in high school, or even college, really, and the girl she kind of really, really likes seems to really, really like her in return, and all of it makes Brittany feel like she could fly.

They’re pulling up in front of Santana’s apartment far too soon, and Santana quickly un-clicks her seatbelt and leans forward to say goodbye to Mercedes and press money into her hands before Brittany can try to protest and pay her fare. She turns to Brittany and the air seems to thicken as brown catches on blue, but with the meter running she doesn’t have time to linger, and they both know it. She smiles at Brittany, her dimples creasing her cheeks and her nose scrunching up just a little bit. “See you tomorrow, Britt,” she murmurs.

Brittany smiles softly in return. “Bye,” she whispers, and Santana lingers for a moment more, before her smile softens and she quickly slips out of the car; they both feel that they’re missing a part of their farewells, but Brittany really doesn’t want to give Santana a goodnight kiss, their first kiss, when her best friend and roommate is engrossed with watching them and a bored Uber driver is watching them in the rearview mirror. Brittany ducks down a little so she can watch Santana walk up the stairs and fumble through her pockets until she finds her keys. Mercedes coughs something in front of her that sounds suspiciously like smitten, but Brittany ignores it even as her cheeks flame.

As soon as they see Santana make it safely into her apartment complex Brittany turns to Mercedes. “Can you send me those pictures?” she asks.

Mercedes grins and holds up her phone to display her messages app, Brittany’s name at the top of the screen and pictures currently being sent. “Way ahead of you,” she says.

And if Brittany gives what is definitely a completely smitten sigh as she gets the picture—her and Santana curled together and sleeping peacefully with the tiniest of smiles playing on their faces, and makes it her lock screen—well, only Mercedes and the taxi driver are there to witness it.

[ashencreature]

Important Update for partners across the board

This is long, and I’m sorry, but I just wanted everyone to know what’s going on. Honestly, I’m not expecting anyone to actually waste time reading through all this, but it’s just so I can try to ease my own anxiety in case the worst case scenario does come and I left some sort of explanation.

Ok, so, some of you know there’s been a lot going on for me at home in the last 3 or 4 years. But everything’s kind of getting worse by day and at this point, I’m not sure what to do anymore. 

When I was 14, I moved in with my dad. We moved quite a few times in the first few years I was with him. Hell, that first year alone, I was in 3 different schools. All for Freshman year. And the last house we were in that year, we stayed in for maybe 2? 

But when I was 16, the factory my dad worked at closed and he lost his job. That’s kind of where all this starts. Instead of getting a new job, he decided he wanted to spend all day drinking with his new friends and occasionally doing odd jobs for them or things with them. We had to move out of that house, take my dog to the shelter, and move into a trailer. It was only supposed to be for a year. But nearly 14 years later, and we’re still here. 

Now the landlord here is a real prick. More like a slumlord if you ask me. He jacks the rent up for the dumbest reasons and acts like he’s god’s gift to humanity or some shit. He told us himself, and had the park manager tell us, that we couldn’t fix our roof to stop the leaking because the walls would collapse of we tried to move it. So literally the entire 14 years we’ve been here, the roof has been leaking. My dad tried everything he could think of, short of tearing it out and redoing it, to fix it. Nothing worked. 

And in that time, the entire back half of the house got destroyed by mold. My bedroom, being the very last room, was the first to go. I think I slept in it for a year? And ever since, I’ve had to sleep in the living room because the walls had to be torn out due to the mold. It’s right down to the studs and the scant insulation. It’s been like that for over 10 years. Well, now the mold is spreading and getting worse. The bathroom is destroyed pretty much. The back hallway is the same. The floor’s rotting away, and the toilet is falling through the floor; again. 

Now, I think my dad went to the garage he was at for the first time when I was maybe 18? I don’t remember exactly. I do remember being in junior year and my friends either having to buy me lunch, share theirs with me, or pray that we actually were cooking in cooking class; which happened a lot less than you’d think. Other than that, I didn’t eat. Senior year was a little better because I at least would get money dropped off to eat. Not that the cafeteria had a lot of choices for me to pick from. I pretty much ate nothing but gross excuse for pizza and occasionally pretzels, fries, or Belgian waffles. 

Anyway, so senior year rolls around and we’re all prepping for college. At the time, I wanted to go to AMDA for musical theater, and managed to get an audition there for that March. I had to force my dad to go to the meeting about FAFSA and to fill out the paperwork. Which he said he did, but I don’t believe it because he says they denied me. And I’ve never heard of FAFSA being denied. Not that it mattered anyway, because I bombed the audition and didn’t get in. So graduation rolls around and all my friends go off to college. I haven’t seen or spoken to most of them since. They never stop to visit when they come home and they never try to reach out on Facebook. Eventually, I got sick of being the one to initiate and maintain all conversations, so I just gave up. 

The 2 friends I still had at that time helped me to get jobs when I was 20/21 and living with them, in 2011/2012. This was because 2 of us and their mom were in a car accident on the way to my friend’s college at the time. We all nearly died. My friend had a concussion, their mom needed surgery, and I nearly got impaled by a fake Christmas tree. I ended up going to the hospital a lot later than they did with a copy of the report in the doctor’s hand and got told I wasn’t in an accident I had the flu, go home. Anyway, so after my friend’s mom’s surgery, I moved in to help around the house and look after my friend’s youngest sister. These jobs weren’t the best; Wendy’s and the deli department of one of the local grocery stores. But it was money. 

For all the good it did. Because by that time, my dad had quit working at the garage. So here I was, paying for rent, bills, gas, food, and child support for my brother. All on $200 a week. My anxiety was driving me insane. And I came to find out that my dad was going in and threatening one of the store managers, which was probably why the guy was such a scumbag to me. But I digress. So I was in the store for a month shy of 2 years. I started at maybe $7.45 or $7.50. an hour when I started. It was slightly over the minimum wage at the time. By the time I left, 2 years later mind you, I wasn’t even making $8, and I was working full time hours while only being part time. Everything that went wrong got blamed on me, even when it was my day off and I wasn’t anywhere near the store. I liked most of the people that I worked with, even if I hated the job, and the assistant department manager became a really good friend. She was 2 years older than me, and we hung out a lot. I’d spend the night at her house, I was at her wedding, I’ve been to her daughter’s birthday parties and so on. 

At one point, I was supposed to get training to be an assistant specialty cheese shop lead. They sent me to one class, told me about another, but never gave me any more details about it, even when I asked. Then they said they were going to train me over there, but never did. That was just the first of a long list of grievances. The culmination of which was on a Sunday night, our busiest day of the week. There was just me and 1 other guy in the department. Then 1 lady in the hot food section, 1 lady in the beer store, and no one in the bakery. But they expected me to take care of all 4 departments and still wait on the 20+ people that were at the counter the whole night. And I had an order to make and put away for the assistant department manager. Needless to said, I had a panic attack. I told my partner, and both of the other people nearby. They told the assistant store manager, and he didn’t care. They made me work for 3 and a half hours, through a panic attack, without a break. I couldn’t breathe and was on the verge of fainting. I finally had enough and told one of the ladies that I didn’t care what the store manager said, I was going to get my inhaler in the break room and get a drink at the water fountain, or I was going to faint. 

A few days later, I got called to the main office to speak to the store manager, who I usually didn’t have a problem with. And unfortunately, since my anger receptors are evidently attached to my tear ducts, I broke down in tears when I wanted to be furious. He basically told me that I was going to the bakery or I was getting fired. So the next day, I quit. There was a lot of other stuff too but that doesn’t really matter. Including being so sick that I couldn’t eat for over a week, fainting in the back room because they wouldn’t let me take a day off, and not being able to talk for over a month. The assistant department manager almost called the ambulance when I fainted, but you know, I’m clearly the problem here. 

So there we were, I didn’t have a job. My dad didn’t have a job. I was 23, and feeling just as helpless as I did at 16. I spent a year filling out job applications for a bunch of different things from craft stores to fast food to jewelry stores, but never heard back from any of them. The only interview I got was for Chipotle. But they wouldn’t even hire me. Naturally, cue the anxiety and depression getting worse. And around this time, our electric got shut off. This was in May I believe because it was just before my birthday. 

At that time I started thinking about going back to school. So I looked at schools and degrees you could do all online, because I knew I could never afford to go on campus. And, as most of you know, I started at CTU in July of that year. Now the program I did was an accelerated one, which meant I could finish gen ed classes faster, be done faster, and lower my tuition. I did as many as I could, but only my admission adviser was any help. My actual student adviser was never around, never responded to my emails, never called me back. But whatever. 

So for 3 years I spent pretty much all day, every god damn day doing schoolwork. I’d be at my local Dunkin from 3 in the afternoon until they closed at 11. Sometimes I’d be working even later next door because I still had stuff to do. The first year and a half I was fine. It didn’t bother mine, just like working didn’t bother me at first. But then, a year and a half after I started, I got sick. I couldn’t eat anything without my stomach cramping up and getting the worst migraines. It got so bad that one day at Dunkin, I felt like I was going to puke, and got up to go to the bathroom and almost fainted. Personally, I think it’s a combination of anxiety, depression, Celiac/gluten intolerance, anemia, and asthma. But I don’t know for sure because I haven’t had a doctor since I was going to the pediatrician. And even if I did, can’t afford it. 

So I’ve just been getting sicker and sicker. I was 125 pounds in January of this year. 11 months later, and I’m down to 108.5 the last time I checked. I think the lowest I hit was 107, and that was all 6 months after the weight loss started. There’s times it’ll go back up, but I can’t get past 110 or 111 tops. Neighbors who used to live down the road came to visit earlier this week, and all the lady could say was how skinny I got. I’m like yeah, malnourishment’ll do that to you. 

And to make things worse, my dad at some point went back to the garage and was working again, so things were slightly better. I say slightly in the loosest way possible. But, just after Christmas last year, my dad quit again. I’ve seen him apply to 1 job and go to 1 interview in the year since. Other than that, he’s been collecting scrap and doing shit for people who refuse to pay, including the landlord. In the last 7 or 8 months, despite how many times I’ve told him that my refund checks from the school aren’t free money I can spend however I want, my dad’s made me spend it. The $5,000 I had that was supposed to set me ahead for my student loans are gone. And I’m $5,000 deeper in the hole than I should be. Which means instead of being like $45 or 50 grand in debt I’m about $55 grand. 

Then, because we haven’t had electricity in almost 4 years, and with the mold problem, everything in the house is ruined. We had only cold water, and I took cold showers for as long as I could. But last winter, the shower pipes froze and burst. So even if I wanted to, I can’t do that. Plus, because we can’t use the washer and dryer, or hook up a generator thanks to the scumbag landlord, or afford a laundromat, our clothes have gone unwashed for over a year. Most of mine were sitting in the tub, which got filled with mold and bugs. I have practically no clothes left, with no way to wash them, and no way to shower unless I go to someone else’s house. And even when I do, I still don’t feel clean. Even after washing my hair 4 times or more. 

We were supposed to move into the place next door and tear this one down. But the landlord and my dad made a deal that he’d give it to us for the cost of the title transfer. Then suddenly, he wanted $600, then like $800 or $1,000. But he won’t stop asking about it, no matter how many times we tell him no. Him and his wife keep trying to say we’re $5,000 behind on rent which isn’t possible because with what rent is now, you can’t even get $5,000 as a total for a whole year, and this last year is the only time we fell behind because everything else was caught up. He gave us a bill full or errors. Payments that were made aren’t marked. Payments that weren’t made are. There’s random charges after the monthly rent cycle. Which I think are from when he was bitching about us paying the taxes for a place we didn’t even own and was still in his name. He told us we can’t run the generator for power because it was too loud. Though the noise ordinance here is 11, and it was always off by then. And when one of the neighbors asked how we were supposed to live, he told them it “Wasn’t his problem”. 

So when I started getting really sick, and unable to leave the house to go to Dunkin for school because I was too gross, the neighbors next door let us run an extension cord over to their place. Not a lot. Just enough for the light in the living room, the fan, a mini fridge, and to plug in my phone and computer. OH WANNA HEAR A GOOD ONE. THE LANDLORD TOLD MY DAD 3 SEPARATE TIMES IF I NEED TO PLUG IN MY COMPUTER TO GET A LANTERN. YES THE OLD FASHIONED OIL OR CANDLE TYPE LANTERN. WHICH YOU CAN TOTALLY PLUG AN ELECTRONIC COMPUTER INTO. So because of that, I was able to finish school and graduate in June. 

But, because I still can’t bathe or do laundry and have no clothes, I still can’t go to interviews. If I walked in with my arms, face, neck, and legs literally black from dirt, and reeking to high heaven, I’d fucking get laughed out of the place. My dad still refuses to get a real job and insists on hauling scrap or doing shit for people who won’t pay at all, or want to pay less than it’s worth. And guess what’s due this week? You got it, my first loan payment. 

I can’t figure out how much I have to pay, work on getting it lowered or delayed, or even access my account info because there’s an issue with my birthday apparently, and they can’t find it even though they have my name and social and keep emailing me. I’ve been telling him this for months, and he still won’t come with me to try and sort it out. Because what he needs has to taken care of then and there and everything else can fuck all. He blew up at me the other day about it, blaming me for going, leaving him with payments, for my mother walking out 20 years ago even though they hated each other, and pretty much for being born. Because he resents having to take care of kids he made the choice to have. Not like I asked to be born, and I’ve been wishing I was dead since I was 9, but whatever. 

Anyway. 

So, the neighbor’s dad was diagnosed with lung cancer over the summer. Like 2 weeks later, he was dead. And she’s struggling just as much. We’ve been trying to help her and she’s been trying to help us. But her ex was paying her rent and some of the other bills until she found a job because they have a young son. But he started refusing to do that, which I honestly wouldn’t be surprised it if was the landlord’s doing cause they were talking. And he was telling her to “pull the plug” on us. And his wife started harassing her about rent like 2 weeks after her father died. Then, she went to Domestic relations earlier this week and then like the day after she goes, her ex somehow gets an emergency custody on the little guy. They came for him yesterday. 

She’s most likely going to have to move, which means that we’ll be losing power and internet unless we can figure something out to get our power back on. But even then, the bill’s supposedly at least $1300, and that won’t fix the internet problem. 

So... Needless to say, if I disappear suddenly in the near future, that’s why. I don’t want to go. I’ve spent too much time here, made too many friends, and put too much work into my muses. But everything is going to shit all at once. It’s just been building and building for the last 3 years, especially the last year, but my dad refuses to see and do anything about it. Instead, he’d rather blame everything on me and expect me to fix it. As if my mental health wasn’t bad enough from childhood abuse and being sick and stressed all the time. Now I’m too fucking scared to leave the house. I haven’t been outside since the midterms when I went to vote. But I honestly don’t know what’s going to happen now. And I just wanted everyone to know that I love them. And even if I do disappear, I still plan on keeping my muses and coming back when I can. Granted Tumblr doesn’t die before then. In which case the only blog i’m worried about losing is Elizabeth’s because of all the worldbuilding, metas, and headcanons I’ve done.

[missmentelle]

hey i hav a question regarding ur post abt giving houses to homelessness and 100% agree with everything u said and thoroughly believe in it, but had the thought that how do you stop people from manipulating that system to get free housing? would it not then lead to the government providing a free house for everyone? just some food for thought

Almost every community in America gives away free food at a food bank, so why are you still buying your own groceries?Whenever we talk about the possibility of people abusing social programs, we tend to dramatically underestimate how much people value their pride, independence and autonomy. The vast majority of people do not want to use social programs, even if they are eligible for them. One in four Americans who is eligible for food stamps does not sign up for the program, largely due to the shame and stigma of being on social welfare; that is 13 million struggling people who would rather go hungry than get government assistance. Whenever possible, people tend to prefer to fend for themselves. It’s often much more difficult to convince people to sign up for social programs that they qualify for than it is to keep fakers out. Canada has a federal program to provide free orthodontic work (which is insanely expensive) to poor children, and only 16 children in the entire country are signed up for it, despite the fact that hundreds of orthodontists have signed up to do free work. Fears of “freeloaders” are grossly exaggerated. People also place incredible value on being able to make choices for themselves; the vast majority of people would rather pay to get something they like, rather than be given something for free that they don’t care for. When you get social assistance, you don’t get much choice in your life. You get what you’re given. You can’t show up at a food bank and say “I’ve got a real craving for eggplant Parmesan, give me the ingredients for that” - you get whatever’s available, whether you like it or not. People in housing assistance programs don’t get to shop around to find a place that’s in a good school district and within walking distance of their favourite restaurant - they get whatever housing is available. For people who are in desperate circumstances, choosing between “sleeping on a park bench” and “having a free apartment that isn’t what you would have chosen” is a no-brainer, but people who do have the ability to choose things for themselves want to exercise that choice. I’m a full-time grad student living in Manhattan, one of the most expensive places on earth; my financial situation is best described by several long screams, and I was still able to shop around and choose an apartment that was in a convenient location for me, near the things I needed. Social programs also have ways to figure out who needs their assistance and who doesn’t. It’s not difficult to work out how much money a person needs to earn in a particular area to be able to afford housing and set an income cutoff for assistance. All existing housing programs do this; you can’t show up with a 6-figure income and declare that you’re tired of paying rent. Free housing also isn’t intended as a permanent solution; it provides a safe place to land, get your feet back under you, and figure out your next steps. Most programs do charge people a percentage of whatever income they earn to help recoup some of the costs of running the program, but this is always done at a level the person can afford, and they do not lose their housing if they lose their source of income. Once you start to approach the income cap, the program works with you to transition you out of their housing and into regular housing. There are some people who might end up relying on it permanently, which would mostly be the elderly, the disabled, or the severely mentally ill - frankly, I have absolutely no problem with that. For the most part, though, housing-first programs work hard to help people regain their independence. They don’t just park people in housing units and forget about them. These programs provide mental health counselling, addictions counselling, educational programming, job training, job search assistance, parenting classes, and anything else a person might need to get back on their feet. Again, this is a reason why people would not want to “game the system” - having social workers, counselors, nurses and support workers constantly showing up at your front door to check on you and help you find a job is a breath of fresh air when you need those services, but if you’re “faking it” to get free housing, that’s going to get annoying pretty quickly.And ultimately, we as a society have to decide where our priorities lie. It might not be possible to ensure that zero people who could support themselves end up benefiting from these programs. But frankly, if I have to make a choice between housing 100 needy families and supporting one “freeloader”, or putting 100 needy families out on the street, I’m going to house those families. I want to live in a compassionate society where a sudden mental illness, job loss or personal crisis does not mean that people have to go live in tents in public parks; if that means that an occasional “freeloader” slips through and takes advantage, well, so be it. Sometimes we have to look at the big picture, and the only big picture I’m interested in seeing is one where everybody has homes. 

[reekierevelator]

A Visitor

A short story by Brian Bourner in times of covid

We had been in the grip of the covid-19 pandemic for well over a year but the new vaccines finally had it on the run. The country was opening up again. We were at last officially allowed to mingle freely. But the world had changed.

Radio and TV still talked endlessly of the problems faced by students who had missed out on education, of how domestic abuse cases had soared and mental health problems had multiplied. The light the pandemic had thrown on endemic problems of race and poverty constantly reverberated. People had reached a new appreciation of who were society’s real ‘key workers’ and knew they were undervalued and criminally underpaid. Floods, fires, and murders, still barely achieved a mention even in the local news.

Business practice had also changed radically. Companies like mine now saw no reason not to allow employees to continue to work from home. Like many other firms they were in the process of selling off their office building for conversion into much needed housing.  Visual contact with other people via computer technology had become the normal mode of interaction. Lack of interpersonal social contact no longer singled you out as unusual in any way. The exotic video meetings and video phone calls of a couple of years ago had long since become boringly routine.

I had always been asthmatic and a brush with tuberculosis a few years back had hardly helped. The constant pandemic fear of infection had marked my psyche indelibly. For people like me, at high risk from the virus, shielding and self-isolating for months on end had become second nature, the new normal, and was psychologically imprinted. I lived like a medieval hermit in a cave, dependent on local villagers to bring me food. At thirty-seven I was otherwise self-sufficient, happy to live alone in isolation. The last thing I wanted was to risk infection from physical meetings with other people.  

Occasionally new variations of the virus still cropped up here and there. Announcements of quarantine arrangements and local lockdowns had become mundane, barely newsworthy.  Likewise, there were still deaths and hospitalisations, but not the thousands experienced at the pandemic’s height. Health was no longer top of the government’s agenda. Despite innumerable ‘long covid’ cases, and people suffering long-lasting psychological after-effects, the government’s focus had shifted inexorably back to the economy.  

 When the doorbell rang on Monday morning I was slaving over my laptop, just as I had been all morning, trying to complete a company report. I was still in my pyjamas. I still needed to wash and dress ahead of a video business meeting scheduled for 12.00 noon.  But the doorbell was insistent. Angrily I threw open the front door expecting to find yet another box of groceries on the doorstep, or some hot food I’d forgotten I’d ordered, or even some parcel delivery man waiting for a signature.

Instead I found myself facing a woman dressed rather shabbily who was carrying a grubby old holdall.  Initially shocked at the lack of face mask I remembered that things had moved on. Her mud-spattered black coat was buttoned to the top and flapped around a slender body. Though hairdressers had been open for a few weeks now she had clearly been unable to secure an appointment. Her frizzy auburn hair sprouted from her head like weeds. A long narrow face attempted a smile but her skin was lined and weather-beaten. She looked exhausted. Her dark eyes, set far back in her ruddy crumpled skin, bored into mine, pleading and watery. When she opened her mouth and said “Hello Martin” recognition slowly began to dawn.

Over the course of the pandemic I had virtually forgotten what manners and social niceties were appropriate for visitors. “Gina,” I spluttered in surprise, “how nice to see you.”  I cautiously ushered her into my flat, squeezing myself against the wall in commemoration of the recently abolished two metre distancing rule.

“I’m sorry if I got you out of bed,” she said, entering the living room while I rushed to throw a dressing-gown over my pyjamas. And even before sitting down she launched into her tale of woe. “It really drove me crazy. I’ve never ever been stuck indoors for that long before.  Shops, restaurants, pubs, galleries - all shut down; nothing to do and nowhere to go. Work all disrupted too; jobs furloughed or disappearing. Just watching endless murder dramas on TV, or reading books about murders, or listening to radio presenters I’d like to murder.  Still, you look well. I knew I could rely on you.”

It was strange because in fact I had not seen Gina for three years, and it felt like far longer. I searched my brain for her surname and eventually came up with McLaughlan. We had met at Manifest Destiny, a large advertising and design practice. Though we were in different teams there our paths crossed occasionally. She never said much, only once or twice mentioning that she could only bear the work there because the building was almost entirely glass so that inside she almost felt she was outside.

From what I could remember she had mostly been attached to another colleague, Ruby Maguire. She seemed to trail around after Ruby a lot. And Ruby was someone else I had not seen for a three years, not since I’d left Manifest Destiny for an administrative post with Box Clever, the cardboard box manufacturer. It had proved a wise move. The firm had done great business during the pandemic. It had expanded and I had been promoted.

Gina told me she too had moved on from Manifest Destiny, not long after me. She had gone from billboard designs to helping organise and design outdoor film sets. It had entailed working freelance but sounded a lot more interesting than designing cardboard boxes. “But,” she went on quickly, “the pandemic killed it all off stone dead.” She turned towards me with an angry grimace. “And when the wok vanished the pandemic ate all my savings. No official help for the likes of me. I couldn’t even pay my rent. No more sleeping in my lovely sun room. I ended up in a cramped hostel. It was hellish.”  The resentment and hatred in her tone was palpable. “It drove me demented. And when the hostels closed to prevent the virus spreading I tried sleeping on the floor of anyone who would let me. It was unbearable, often like being stuck in a cupboard. Sometimes I couldn’t find anywhere at all suitable and just lived rough, outdoors in all weathers, but at least not suffering, lost in some little, dark, unknown room.”

“Good grief Gina, that’s awful, I’m so sorry.” And having commiserated I told her that of course she was welcome to take a bath and stay the night. I rustled up a quick meal for her which she ate looking longingly out of the window. And later I dug out some spare pyjamas. When I showed her my tiny windowless spare room her face froze and she stood rooted to the spot.  She looked about to turn, dismiss the offer and run away, but recovered herself in time to mutter vague words of thanks.

I showed her round the rest of the flat then raced to turn up just in time for my video conference. My hair was uncombed, I was still in my dressing gown. On screen my boss and our potential customer both wore worried frowns, obviously thinking I would have been as presentable wearing a large cardboard box.  

Gina slept through the rest of the day.

After finishing the meeting, writing up notes, dressing, and grabbing a sandwich I phoned the old unit at Manifest Destiny. I hoped someone here could give me a bit of background since I barely knew anything about Gina.

“Hello, Manifest Destiny, Terry Ryland speaking.”

“Hi, it’s Martin Hislop here. I used to work at Manifest Destiny.  I wonder if there’s anyone there who remembers Gina McLaughlan. She’s popped round to see me unexpectedly, obviously regards me as a friend, and might stay a day or two. I don’t want to seem a total socially inept  idiot but I’m afraid I can’t remember anything about her. I don’t want to put my foot in it. Is there someone who could spare a few minutes to fill me in?”

“Well there’s me I suppose,” Terry replied noncommittally. “All the staff work from home now. It’s my turn to be the telephone exchange today. It’s a rota system. I can’t shout a question out across the office floor any more. I’d have to contact staff individually.”

“Well, do you remember Gina yourself?”

“Yes, I think so. Worked on billboards. She always kept close to Ruby. Ruby Maguire sort of looked after her. She had some kind of problem, couldn’t stand being indoors, got wound up with it. So Ruby would take her for regular breaks outside.”

“You mean she was claustrophobic?”

“Yes, that’s it, good worker but a little bit off her trolley. They called Ruby her mentor but she was more of an unofficial carer.”

I thanked Terry for talking to me and understood why my spare room had not seemed as attractive to Gina as I’d imagined.  It would be much better if she stayed with someone who understood her condition, say Ruby.

 It was later in the evening, just as I’d pulled out my mobile to search for Ruby Ellison’s contact details,  that I heard Gina emerge from her room and rustle around in the kitchen. I was thinking that if she stayed a while I’d need to order more food and my expenses would increase when Gina slipped into the living room beside me.

“I was wondering,” I began brightly, “since my flat’s very small, why not ask Ruby Maguire if you can stay with her for a while?”

The suggestion generated no immediate response but her eyes narrowed and I caught a mean and suspicious glint.

She stared at me silently, her lips curling, and eventually muttered, “No, I’ll be happy enough here.” It came out as a sort of low growl as if she was daring me to argue.  

I looked back at the phone screen.  The search for Ruby Ellison had found dozens of references. But I was shocked to see they were all about Ruby’s death. Police were continuing to investigate the case of thirty-two year old office worker, Ruby Maguire, found dead in her flat. Apparently she had lain there for over a week until her manager had noticed she wasn’t bothering to log in for Zoom calls any more. The circumstances were suspicious. The police were requesting information on anyone seen entering or leaving Ruby’s flat in the week before her death. I looked up from the screen and blurted out “Heavens above, it seems Ruby has died!”

I was even more startled as Gina suddenly leaned over me, grabbed my phone and threw it at the wall. I was flabbergasted. I stared at her in shock.

“If you’re not happy about me staying on here, maybe you better leave yourself,” she said as if it was the most natural suggestion in the world, an entirely reasonable proposition.  As normal as smashing mobile phones against walls. There was a manic undertone to her voice.  Ignoring the question I jumped up and tried to brush past her. But she grabbed hold of the dressing gown I was still wearing and I saw the blade of my own kitchen knife flash in her hand.

 Fortunately, I managed to twist myself around, allowing my dressing-gown to fall to the floor, and rushed out the living-room door as she came after me.  I barely managed to reach my bedroom and slammed the door shut. The door had a lock and though I’d never used it before, I did then.

She was outside the door, fumbling with the handle and breathing quickly. ‘Ok, let’s get together,’ she panted. ‘Ruby always said you liked me. She said you only ignored me at work because relationships had to be kept on a professional footing.”

“Ruby was good to you,” I shouted. “Why did you do it?”

“Ruby tried to lock me up. All night in a tiny room.  I was only allowed outdoors for one hour a day. She tried to blame the government, said it was a lock-in, a government ruling.”

“A lockdown, it was a lockdown.”

“She made me live in a room the size of a cupboard.  Said it was all she had. Said I couldn’t go outside.  We argued more and more.  Struggled. Then she died.  And I left.”

“And came here.”

“She said you were a good man, knew your address.  I thought it would be different for us.  We’d be good together. We could live together, sleep in the living room with the curtains open. But you want to lock me up in little room too. You’re just as bad as Ruby.”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” I yelled, and then the carving knife was thrust in through the door jamb.

The woman was delusional. God knows what had got into her. I opened my bedroom window and yelled “Help!” over and over at the top of my voice.

Fortunately, neighbours called the police.  By the time they arrived Gina had escaped through the back door but the neighbours had spotted her leaving and the police soon picked her up.

I was still trembling, partly from the shock of the knife attack and partly from seeing several people occupy my flat for the first time in ages. I went over the details several times answering the police questions.

“It was unbelievable,” I kept repeating. “The woman seemed almost normal but she was clearly deranged. She came at me with a carving knife. You wouldn’t think a little thing like claustrophobia would be enough to tip you over the edge like that.”

One of the policemen commented matter-of-factly, “Oh yes, we’ve seen a lot of that kind of thing recently. Mental health problems. Old people’s dementia worsening till they’ve completely forgotten their relatives. A chap round the corner said life wasn’t worth living if he couldn’t meet his old cronies in the pub. Topped himself.  The coronavirus, eh?  It drives people mad.” Then to change the subject he asked “What’s your line of work?”

“Oh, at moment I’m designing cardboard boxes shaped like coffins. Natural burials. Environmentally sound. There’s been a big increase in demand recently.”

[awed-frog]

This is going to be a mess - I had to erase the original post because the bots just wouldn’t stop coming, so here is how it all started -

And here are your kind requests -

So - thank you for your lovely asks and PMs - here we go. 

(Keep in mind that those moments were hugely embarrassing to me, so you shouldn’t find them funny or anything. They’re tragic stories I’m relating for your moral betterment - that is all.)

1) The ‘The Greeks Made Me Do It’ story

As a bit of background, I was eighteen and had just moved to another city to start my studies. I’d been there for a month, knew literally no one, had no idea where half my classes were and my ideals of switching to a Sophisticated Look and becoming A Lady had miserably failed, which means I was walking around wearing this insanely expensive, Managing Director of the IMF coat plus combat boots and frayed jeans plus a lopsided handmade scarf and 'Marilyn going on Morticia’ lipstick (I worried - a lot - about being the only weirdo and the only unfinished person in the entire town, because that was before I met Hamster Girl and Colour Matching Girl and I spend as much on weed as you do for rent but everything I own is see-through, threadbare or ripped Guy). Plus, I couldn’t speak or understand the local language all that well, and I’d taken to nodding and smiling whatever people said, which generally made me look like an idiot and meant I never knew what was going on. 

(And, yes, it’s tempting and it seems like the easier option, but seriously - don’t do that.) 

All of that means I was more or less living in the university library so I could pretend I had a purpose in life and, well, going from a high school library to a real academic library was like stepping into the Restricted Section - I mean, of course, I read what I was supposed to read, and I lost myself in serious books that had little to do with my actual subjects (that was my Minoan period - I’m sure every Classics student had one), but there were also the - uhm - other books, you know? All those studies about homosexuality in the Greek world, and how Mapplethorpe’s pictures were connected with frescoes of Saint Sebastian, and people having sex with statues and kings trying to trick their young wives into anal and truly lurid collections of Greek art which my high school teacher had once described as ‘Something you should probably have a look at, but if I let you borrow my copy your parents would not be happy with me’. And on that particular day, I had actually devoted my afternoon to a no-nonsense book about Eastern influences in Greek art, and well, the study of lovers and concubines on Greek amphorae was a sort of a plan B to relax a bit between chapters, because I was reading in a foreign language and it was hard work and when you don’t know anyone, it’s like you’re the only one working, right, and everyone else is off to wild parties and poetry lectures and screenings of a Guatemalan movie you never knew existed and that’s depressing af, so yay for weird art - but at around five I realized the day was done and I didn’t want to give the dirty book back because, come on, it wasn’t that dirty and I had a right to read it and it was complemented with passages by Theophrastus and Plato, plus it had come to me via the now defunct goblin-based system of tunnels underground the reading room -

~note - for younger readers, these things~

- so I didn’t want to give it back and go through the hassle of requesting it again, and I remember the fuck it moment that came over me - I was eighteen, I was studying the damn stuff, so I’d borrow the damn book and if the librarians disapproved, well, they could bite me.

(Obviously, they didn’t disapprove. The bored guy at the service desk didn’t even look at me, because nobody looks at you, ever, and your life is your own, so go live it.)

And next, I had to go shopping because there’s only so much time you can survive on cold cereal - and suddenly there I was, in a big and foreign supermarket, a dirty book burning a hole through my old Invicta, my Queen of England coat clashing with everything else I was wearing, and I was moving from aisle to aisle without making eye contact and trying to remember what spices were called in French, and I’d almost made it - I was collecting my mismatched groceries on the other side of the till when the bloody alarm started blaring, and two uniformed guards appeared out of thin air and it was like one of those slow-motion scenes in movies, right, when the dust in the air glimmers like gold and sound is no longer a thing and someone’s talking and everybody is staring and when God pushed the ‘resume normal speed’ button the two men were gesturing and smiling smugly and there was this old lady next to me and she was taking in my luxurious coat and my frayed jeans and putting two and two together - I physically felt her horrified, gleeful gaze on me like scalding water - and Jesus, I could see the headlines in my local paper already ‘Young Promise of Sci-Fi Literature Arrested’ (I was writing fantasy back then, but most normal people don’t seem to know the difference) and there were my parents, okay, my poor parents walking with their heads down as formerly friendly neighbours threw garbage at them and someone would interview my history teacher and he was bound to say, ‘She was something of a strange girl, but I never thought she’d end up in prison’ and next, of course, came the walk of shame in front of all twelve tills, with dozens of proper adults (people with families and eggs in their baskets, women with tasteful lipstick and women with kids and doggies instead of books about dead prostitutes) staring at me in disapproval, and What has the world come to and I heard that today, young women are as likely to commit crimes as young men and Do you think she’s on drugs? and then I was forced into the Small Room of Humiliation and asked to please empty my bag, so out came the frosting I was planning to eat raw and the crown of garlic I’d bought because it looked pretty and had no intention of ever using and a giant-ass bag of rice and as I looked on, horrified, I realized nothing made sense with anything and even those burly, middle-aged men could see that just fine - but, well, every single horrifying, meaningless item was on the receipt, so they had me empty my pockets (one condom, safety pins, a Swiss knife, an IKEA pencil and a very smooth and round rock, God have mercy on me) and next we all looked at one another like, What now? and that’s when I truly gave up on rational thinking, okay, because my first instinct is always to be of service, and so I said, in my heavily accented French, ‘The library book has a barcode, maybe that’s the problem?’ and of course, they hadn’t really looked at the book yet - it was face down on the formica table, looking all prim and innocent in its unassuming dark blue cover, but when the older man picked it up with his bear paw, I suddenly realized the front of it was quite different - I sat there and saw his eyebrows disappear into his hairline as he took in the big-ass picture (a painting of a woman fellating a much younger man) and the title (something along the lines of, THE JOYLESS SEX - TALES OF THE PLEASURE WOMEN, in all capitals, because books about Greek art don’t sell all that well, so anything to do with sex is pimped up to trick the unsuspecting general audience into giving it a shot) and of course he had to open it, because that’s how humans are wired, okay, and the thing right in the middle was a goat-like creature doing unspeakable things with two women and every single cell in my body wanted to explode and disappear and shout ‘IT’S MANDATORY READING FOR THIS CLASS I’M TAKING’, which was a lie, anyway, and I couldn’t get the words out and I couldn’t look up and I couldn’t look away - after a few excruciating minutes (seconds? hours?), the guy scanned the book on his barcode machine and yep, that’s when we all learned that library books respond to the same anti-theft thingies that pick up on stolen wine and cookies and fine cheeses, and Sorry, miss, and You have a good evening, now, and he was extremely uncreepy about it, but it was still hard to find my way out because of the WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOUNG PEOPLE UP THESE DAYS bewilderment that was shining like a beacon around his entire body, so, yeah - that was pretty embarrassing.

2) The ‘A Four-Part Seduction’ story

This actually happened almost one year before my adventure with the scanning machine - I was in my last year of high school, had kissed exactly 1 (one) boy, failed to seduce 3 (three) other boys despite my fox-like cunning and my sunny disposition, and I was now ready to sacrifice everything (well: my sanity and my dignity) for The Boy - a basketball player with a long, horse-like face and zero talent in anything whom for some reason I fancied the pants off.

(Looking back, I think I liked he was quiet and kind, and the age-old problem when you’re attracted to mysteriously self-effacing people is that you’re never quite sure - is there a colourful and occasionally wild ocean behind their silent lips and far-off gaze, or are they not saying anything because an evolutionary mishap converted half their brain into a second spleen, and therefore they were left with the mental capacity of a vivacious Mexican mole lizard? The joy is in finding out.)

Anyway, I have a feeling things haven’t changed all that much, but back then when you were intent on romantic hunting, you usually enlisted the help of your closest friends - people who inevitably were: 

your age 

unexperienced

not very familiar with The Boy and

generally speaking, completely unsuited to hatching a failproof seduction plan of any kind.

On this particular occasion, my advisors were: 

a girl who’d been the better half of a couple for time untold (three months, two weeks and five days) and was thus The Expert

another girl who’d done ‘not it, but almost’ with an unnamed boy she’d met over the summer

a third girl who still didn’t quite understand what ‘it’ meant and 

my only guy friend who was actually in love with me and I only found out about that twenty years later and that was one true what the fuck moment, because then I wondered what else I hadn’t seen when I was a teenager even if it was there in plain sight (like the fact my German teacher preyed on young boys, for instance,but that’s another story).

So, well - part A of The Plan - getting to know him better - had failed miserably, because what can you discuss with someone you only see once a week in French class and you have a monster crush on? I mostly pestered him about homework dates and then stared mutely at his hands as he turned the pages of his school diary and my God, he must have thought I was an anxious, forgetful idiot with absolutely zero life, ‘which means he already knows you better than most people,’ my best friend said consolingly, before trying out her married name signature (Alice DiCaprio) one more time. And as for part B - that had succeeded, but at what cost? Because through a string of sleights of hand and corruption, we’d managed to shift half our classmates around on the seating chart, so I was now sharing a desk with The Boy himself, but so far that had resulted in some awkward staring (mine), a couple of embarrassed smiles (his) and about 50 000 volt of electricity going through my entire body every time his elbow bumped into my arm by mistake (which happened a lot, because he was left-handed and I’m not and we were sitting the wrong way around). 

Now, this had been going on for weeks when the skies suddenly opened above me and the teacher, an I’m frankly disappointed in how everything turned out ‘68 hippy, assigned us a written essay on Victor Hugo and socialism, something that, as an anxious, forgetful idiot with absolutely zero life, I knew quite a lot about. Plus, I was good at French, and that’s how The Boy turned towards me and asked if I’d be willing to help him, his hazel eyes all clear and earnest, shining like stolen jewels on his horse-like face, and being a Cosmo reader, I heard myself laugh throatily and ask, ‘Sure - what will you give me in return?’ and fuck, how do these things happen and why are we not in control of our own bodies and also thank God, because he blinked at me and then said, in a slow voice I read as flirtatious, ‘I’ll buy you a drink’. And that’s how we all entered part C - there were weekly meetings with him in the library to write the essay together, and daily meetings with my girlfriends to analyse everything we’d ever said to each other and I think he was looking at you during break and I saw him blush twice now, he must be sensitive and My sister knows his cousin, I can tell her to ask him if he’s seeing anyone and also long walks by the river with my long-suffering guy friend during which I rambled on and on about how shiny The Boy’s hair was and he contributed to this mind-blowingly fascinating conversation mostly in uhms and grunts.

(Again, how could I have been so stupid? I mean, it was for the best in the end, but - ouch.)

And one windy evening of March, lo and behold, it was finally time for part D (no pun intended) - a bona fide D-A-T-E with The Boy, and possibly there’d be fireworks and he’d say, I’ve been wanting to kiss you for weeks and some tourist would snap a candid photo of us and then marvel at it, years and years later, because Do you ever wonder what happened to this couple, Mabel? Look at how happy and in love and beautiful they are and I’m not saying cover of the National Geographic, but cover of the National Geographic. Also, movies had taught me what was supposed to happen, you know?, 

which is why I borrowed make up and rollers from one of my friends and did a clothes pre-selection with her and then a second selection with my guy friend -

(I remember him sitting cross-legged on my bed and strumming my mom’s guitar as I hid behind the closet door to try on The Makeover Outfit and how his expression barely changed when he saw me in a skirt for the first time - how he said, ‘You look - good. He’s an idiot if he doesn’t go for it,’ and how the music turned into something slow and mournful as I disappeared again to put my jeans back on, and what the hell?)

- and at nine pm, I was ready - I had leveled up and transformed, or so it seemed - gone was the windbreaker, and the crappy Converse, and the overlarge plaid shirt - instead, my hair was curled in the right way and my skirt was short but not too short and I’d even bought a push-up bra which was uncomfortable as hell but Who cares, uh?, who cares? And let’s pretend my make-up was still perfect after biking twenty minutes in the half rain, because when I walked into the bar, some catchy song was on and my brand-new hoop earrings were catching the light just so and I was the Goddess of French and Sex and WITNESS ME and we saw each other at once - he was sitting with his friends, the Popular Good-at-Hockey Guys, and he turned as he heard the door open, as if he’d been expecting me, and he immediately smiled and came towards me and ‘So, what can I get you?’ and of course I ordered wine, because I was Sophisticated and also A Lady and as he pushed his way towards the counter I sat down at the only table for two and subtly (I hope) adjusted my cleavage and crossed my legs and wondered whether I should whip my copy of Rimbaud’s Les Illuminations out of my (well: my mom’s) purse just to make it extra clear I meant business, or if that would be considered impolite - a kind of, ‘You took forever to get me that drink’ reproach - and as I was still trying to decide, he came right back, all perfect and tall and horsey-looking in a grey shirt, and he was carrying my wine and a pint of dark beer and some idiotic voice in my head said, ‘Yes, we’d known each other for months, but I remember the night we truly fell in love - your father used to drink these strong beers, you know, and that evening-’ and before that thought could go anywhere, The Boy was there, at my table - he handed me the wine (our fingers touched) and he said ‘Thanks again, really - I would have been dead without you’ and then - and then he walked away and fucking sat down with his friends again because apparently he was a damn sophist underneath that equine disguise and he’d promised me a drink and now I had a drink and what the fuck? and for the second time that night I considered turning to Rimbaud, but you should never turn to Rimbaud because he was an addict and a killer, so I drained my wine in one gulp, looked around desperately, my vision already fogging over, for someone I could bother - there was no one I really knew, only older people and party people and cool people who were already looking at me weirdly - I shrugged my coat on and waved joyfully at The Boy on my way out and man, it’s been twenty years but sometimes I still wonder at it - I don’t think he wanted to be rude, I’m sure he was like me, awkward and empty-headed and inexperienced, and he now works with snakes in Canada so maybe there was something interesting about him, but after I never go to the movies guy and Do you go to this school? guy and Sorry, I’m looking for someone who’ll choke me during sex guy and - mostly - the ghost music / still not sure he existed for real guy, well - that was a crushing moment and the end of my grand plans and when I started to simply tell guys ‘I like you’ and also follow them home before they could realize what was going on and, whatever, if you’re looking for dating advice, that works much, much better. 

[Thanks again for your messages - if you like my writing, please visit my AO3 page!] 

[myblogwithothermediainserted]

Wednesday, March 25, 2020 3:58am

This is a facebook post from Dr. Gabriela Magda, Rae Votta’s friend in New York. I would just post the link like I usually would, but I don’t want to risk losing this one. 

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I asked my mother for permission to share this #COVID19 dispatch and she said, “I have no problem with that. I want others to be safe to do whatever is in their power to be safe and to protect others from getting sick.”

Last week I videochatted with my mother and noticed she was congested and ill appearing. She told me she had new backaches and a cough that over the course of the day had turned productive, but that she did not have a fever. Because my mother takes medications for a chronic condition that make her immunocompromised, the temperature she reported to me, 99+, though mildly elevated, was concerning to me and as the day progressed and her temperatures rose to 100.4, I became fearful and contacted her doctors to inform them of what was going on and request an outpatient COVID test which I knew would be available where she receives her care. They replied to me immediately and though initially they were more concerned about influenza, they acquiesced to my request and the next day she drove to the testing site. Though her fevers, aches, and cough persisted, she felt a little bit better than the day before and we were hopeful this would turn out to be no big deal.

The next day, hours into my first day working on one of our hospitals’ COVID teams, my mother’s doctor called me to inform me that my mother had tested positive for COVID19, and because they knew I am a pulmonary/critical care physician we came up with a treatment plan together. I had just spent the morning listening to case presentations of COVID patients as varied as those who could be discharged home to continue their recovery there, to people close in age to me who were fighting for their lives in the ICU. The news of my mother’s diagnosis stunned and scared me, and I went into fight or flight mode coordinating her care, remotely assessing my father, a cancer survivor who lives with COPD, for symptoms, and instructing my parents on how to quarantine from each other on different floors of their house for the foreseeable future.

We do not know where she acquired COVID. It could have been at her job in a New York City public school because despite the urgently expressed insistence of teachers, parents, and students across our city, our elected officials delayed the (difficult) decision to close the schools. It could have been at the grocery store. We will never know, and what matters is not quite where, but rather under what conditions this virus was able to be transmitted. When my mother learned of her diagnosis she called me crying and pleaded, “Why me? What did I do wrong?” My heart broke. You did nothing wrong.

This past week I have been working in the COVID ICU at Bellevue, the oldest public hospital in our country, which occupied a mythical place in my mind while growing up in NYC and at which I now have the amazing opportunity to practice medicine alongside colleagues who are as passionate as I am about providing the best possible care to EVERY person who comes through our doors. Every night when I come home I hear phantom ventilator alarms. The other night I thought I heard one near my bed and almost turned around to see what the problem was before I realized I was home and not in the ICU and that there are no ventilators in my tiny studio apartment. In my brief career, I have never seen anything like what I am seeing in our ICU, nor have my more experienced colleagues. Our census grows daily with patients who develop respiratory failure after a few days of smoldering fever and cough. A pattern of middle-aged patients representing all walks of life who have certain co-morbidities seemed to develop, but we are seeing even younger patients with the illness. It is not socially responsible to say that this disease afflicts only the elderly. We are no longer allowing routine visitation by family members so as to prevent further spread of the infection to themselves and to other people. This is just one of the difficult decisions that we are tasked with making on a daily basis.

As predicted by anyone with a keen eye on social justice and labor rights, those affected include workers who could not afford to take a day off from their jobs lest they lose even a day of much needed income. When I look at these patients, I am reminded of my parents, working class immigrants who diligently went to their difficult jobs every day to put food on the table for me so that I could grow up comfortably and fulfill my dreams in this country that sometimes doesn’t seem to care as much about people like them as it does about the ultrarich and ultraprivileged. My father was a New York City taxi driver for my entire life until 2 weeks before I went to medical school in New Orleans, when he retired and within the same week was diagnosed with cancer. If it weren’t for being married to my mother, whose employer provided them both health insurance, he would not have received the chemo, radiation, surgery, and follow-up care that saved his life. He worked 12+ hours per day, 7 days a week, 365 days per year during his tenure as a cabbie. I wonder to myself, if he had still been driving his cab during this pandemic, would he be one of the patients whose ventilator I now adjust on a daily basis?

This is not the first time I have grieved for my city. I remember exactly who I sat behind during Spanish class when I heard the first plane fly into the World Trade Center. I watched the towers burn from my homeroom window. I walked 70 blocks and 6 avenues that day and along the way found a woman who I recognized from my morning commute and asked her if I could go with her to wherever she was going just so I had someone to walk with. I remember the devastated faces I passed on the street. When I was finally able to get to a working telephone to call my mom, I remember the sound of relief in her voice because she thought I had died. My childhood street has since been named after a first responder who lived on it until that day. I remember the acrid smell that persisted in the air when we were finally allowed to return to school, and I feel lucky that unlike some of my classmates from that time, the only ailments I suffer from are chronic sinusitis and the occasional unpleasant memory.

This is an entirely different crisis because it does not have a sense of finitude (although in many ways, neither has that day), and the thing we are contending with is invisible except for its horrific consequences we are seeing play out in our hospitals everyday. It is an affront to my parents, my patients, and my colleagues who are literally sacrificing their own well-being to take care of our city, when I observe or hear of people still publicly congregating in dense groups despite repeated warnings from leadership, physicians, and scientists to stay home. It enrages me when I hear out of touch politicians irresponsibly prattle on about people going back to work in a couple of weeks when we are struggling to manage the current onslaught in our hospitals and my colleagues and I fear we are nowhere near the peak of this problem.

I do feel like everything in my life has prepared me for this moment and that I am meant to be right here, right now, working in whatever ways I am able to with my colleagues to take care of the people who need us the most. I am the first physician in my family; the life I have lived is so radically different from the ones my parents lived in Ceausescu’s Romania. I chose to go to New Orleans for medical school because I was haunted by images of Hurricane Katrina and I wanted to learn from people who kept that city afloat (literally and figuratively) while the agencies who were supposed to help them failed them. I ranked my residency in Washington, DC, because I wanted the opportunity to rotate at the National Institute of Health, where Dr. Fauci and his colleagues were my attendings and taught us about the ravages of the AIDS epidemic in the 1980s and 1990s. The day after the election in 2016, I cried with my patients about the results and will never forget the words of one woman who held my hands as she expressed her regret that she could not vote due to her hospitalization and said, “This is going to be bad for me.” I was so thrilled when I matched in New York at my current fellowship program because I knew I would be joining the ranks of an amazingly dedicated, compassionate, innovative group of people who show unwavering and undeterred care for every single New Yorker. I am so proud of my family of colleagues here and across the world who are selflessly and tirelessly working in whatever capacity in order to care for patients.

I am once again urging you to heed the calls for social distancing. I have been reading your posts and am painfully aware that some of you are deeply struggling to pay your rent and your bills because of this turn of events. I am so sorry. I am encouraging you to elect politicians whose interests are to create a social safety net for all people in this country, and not just to provide tax cuts and benefits to people who they perceive to palatably satisfy certain demographic criteria. I am imploring you to hold your elected officials accountable and demand they provide healthcare workers with the resources we need to take care of you, and the resources you need to be able to stay home nourished and properly sheltered so that our healthcare system can accommodate everyone who desperately needs it right now.

My mom is doing okay for now. I am remotely monitoring my parents daily. We are scared that any day the other shoe could drop, but we are trying to remain hopeful and grateful. In the meantime, the magnolia tree behind my building continues to bloom magnificently, the birds continue to chirp obliviously, the sun continues to set and rise again…

https://www.facebook.com/806222/posts/10109579688763729/?d=n

https://twitter.com/gabmagda/status/1242618464826785792

[neubauje]

BEGT ch. 20

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 19 - Chapter 20 AO3

"So... how long have you been... living like this?" On the subway once more for simplicity's sake, and because the monthly passes they'd bought for Shouta's recovery have one more week left on them, the traveling pair of heroes makes for a colorful sight; Aizawa, in his customary black and white, with the bright yellow sleeping bag folded, rolled, and hoisted under his arm, sits huddled against the left side of Toshinori, in a striking (but still oversized) dark maroon suit, with the army-green duffle tucked between his feet again. Comfortable enough to sit and talk or to sit in silence with his peer, the older hero doesn't even bother with the pretense of his phone this time, instead cradling the still-warm cup of tea in one hand, sipping at it occasionally. Even without the need to stabilize an armless traveler, though, the two have still fallen into their familiar position, hidden away in the corner of the train. The homecoming should feel different, with the new set of circumstances and the lack of a sense of brevity which comes with the defined end date they'd been under before, but perhaps that transitory deadline had never sunken in, for it somehow seems just as natural now as it had when Eraserhead had needed an at-home nurse, not just a home. Or perhaps, Yagi silently admits to himself, his humble apartment had felt more like a home with Aizawa in it than it ever had without him. (more under the cut)

"Since I started as a teacher," Shouta eventually replies, hiding a scowl in his scarf as he avoids meeting Yagi's eyes again. "I stayed with an old college buddy for a couple months, but he moved suddenly for a job offer, and took most everything with him."

Toshinori sighs and inhales the little trickle of steam from his cup, almost afraid to ask, "And none of the other faculty offered to put you up? Do any of them even realize?"

Aizawa snorts derisively, "Nezu knows, I'm sure. It's impossible to keep secrets from him. But he sleeps in a nest under his desk, so he may not even think of it as a bad thing. And honestly, it's not so bad, with no rent and no commute, if I'm being more rational than sentimental. The gym and cafeteria have all the facilities I need, the secondary teacher's lounge holds my groceries, and the couches make for decent beds. It's fine." He bites his lip to stifle the sour note creeping into his words, pulling the rolled-up sleeping bag into his lap to shove both hands into either end of it, "And besides, how could anyone miss it? I'm not exactly subtle... I kept waiting for somebody to say something, or to kick me out, but it just never happened."

Toshinori chews this over for a few minutes, zoning out over his tea as he silently kicks himself for having never put the pieces together without being outright told that Eraserhead needed help. "I... praised the kids for their observation and philanthropy work," he murmurs softly, both to himself and to the more tenured teacher, "But I'd forgotten to do the same... And I guess the rest of us 'pro heroes' must have, too. I'm sorry, Aizawa." He tips his head back and drains the rest of the tea, then crumples the paper cup in his fist.

Shouta only shrugs noncommittally, having expected this sort of apology from his childhood friends and long-time peers, not from the newest member of the faculty, who'd barely been at the school for two months. Perhaps it took an outside perspective. "It's fine. You've more than made up for it already." He pulls his right hand free from the sleeping bag and reaches over to lay it gently on Yagi's for a brief moment, then plucks the trashed travel cup from the older man's fingers, and takes the opportunity of the train's pause at a station to cross the train and drop it into the bin mounted on the wall by the doors before settling back into place against All Might's side. "So, how does this work? You've already given me a key, what else do you need from me? By my estimates, I probably already owe you about forty-two thousand for everything you've covered while I was healing. How much is rent?"

Toshinori's head snaps up quickly from where he'd been wallowing in various shades of pity and concern, and he fixes Aizawa with a stern look, "You don't owe me for that, it came with the offer. And don't worry about rent either, I already cover it alone."

Shouta meets those eerie eyes without flinching, his expression still just as neutral as ever, "I'm not a charity case, Yagi."

All Might can't help but crack a toothy smile at that, and shakes his head with a little sigh. "Fine, then, pay me back if you want, and split the utilities and groceries and we'll call it even."

"Hm," Aizawa intones softly, clearly unamused, "You'd better eat more, then, or I'm covering all the groceries." Though the threat is delivered in a droll deadpan, Toshinori breaks into another deep laugh, drawing forth a mirrored grin of mirth from Eraserhead. The younger teacher always seems to get drawn into that laugh, the sight and sound nearly as much of a treat as a student making a breakthrough or a cat sprawled belly-up in the sun. He falls quiet for the rest of the ride, enjoying the company, as he brainstorms a little more on the differences between cohabitation as a guest, verses sharing the space as a proper roommate. "...What about furniture."

Yagi hums questioningly as he slips Mrs. Ogawa’s mail under her door and turns to unlock the apartment across the hall, only to find that Aizawa’s already let them in with his spare key. “Furniture? What about it?” He kicks his oxfords off to join Eraserhead’s combat boots by the door, and follows the younger teacher down the hallway to the bedroom, quickly catching himself before he collides with him where he’d paused just inside the doorway.

Aizawa tosses the yellow roll of sleeping bag onto the bed, where Toshinori slides the duffle bag from his shoulders and sets it there too, watching as his new roommate takes a moment to open each drawer in the dresser, then poke his head into the cramped little closet in the corner. He shuts it again and leans against the closet door, arms crossed with a typically neutral expression. “I don’t have a lot of belongings right now, mostly by necessity. But you’d have to do some re-shuffling to make room for what little I do have, and I figured I could just buy a second dresser, and put it there-” Aizawa indicates the few feet of carpet beside the existing dresser, before he turns back to the big king-sized centerpiece of the room, “But... there’s probably not enough space for a second bed. And if I’m going to be sleeping on the couch, I’d want to buy a better one.” He nods decisively, as though he’s already decided on a course of action.

“A second dresser is a fine idea, but don’t worry about the couch,” Yagi waves one hand dismissively, then gestures vaguely at the bed, “We already know there’s room enough for both of us. I’m fine with sharing if you are.” He steps a little further into the room, unbuttoning his maroon blazer to shrug it off as he approaches the closet door, pausing to let Aizawa sidle out of his way.

“That’s certainly a lot easier,” Shouta admits, blinking once in surprise, “But I have no idea whether I’m fine with it.” Toshinori pulls a hanger from the closet to drape his jacket over as he listens, then glances back at Aizawa in confusion. The younger teacher only shrugs a little and crosses over to his duffle bag, resting one hand on the strap as though unsure whether to take it elsewhere, “Aside from those two nights here, when I was partially immobilized? I haven’t shared a bed with anybody in... a very long time. I could snore, or kick, or crowd you, or steal the blankets. No idea.”

“Oh, is that all,” Toshinori laughs a little and hangs the oversized blazer back in the closet, then tugs his button-down shirt from the tightly-belted waistband of the matching maroon trousers, casually unbuttoning it to toss into the hamper under the dresser. “Well, the same could be said of me, but you didn’t mention any bad behavior while I slept, so...” He shrugs one freckled shoulder, then fetches a fresh t-shirt from the bottom drawer and pulls it on, “If there’s an actual issue, we can look for alternatives, but until then let’s not worry about it.”

Toshinori finishes getting into more comfortable lounging clothes, and the casual lack of modesty helps to put Aizawa more at ease, silently assuring him that the platonic familiarity they’d built up between them out of necessity hasn’t suddenly vanished into professional prudery now that he has his own hands back. “Fair enough,” he nods once more, a grateful little quirk tugging at one corner of his mouth, “I’ll check out that shopping mall you kept running off to, see if they’ve got a furniture section. Maybe actually get myself some pajamas while I’m there. Can you show me tomorrow where it is?” Shouta pulls the duffle from the bed and sets it on the floor between the bed and the far wall, where there’s just enough room for it to slide to the carpet.

Noticing this squeeze, Yagi bustles over to the bedside, picks up the night stand and shifts it to the left half a meter, then throws just enough strength into his arms and back to pull and drag the entire bed with relative ease, dropping it that much closer to the closet to give Shouta enough space to maneuver and climb in and out on the other side. He releases the little sparks of his quirk with a dusting of his hands and a thin few trails of steam, then beams at Aizawa as he heads back out toward the kitchen. “No problem, we’ll have most of the day free with the A-Class out on their internships. And you can borrow mine again in the meantime. I’d been thinking you were the type to sleep in the nude, but... I guess you just slept in your uniform at school?” He glances back at Shouta, who nods a reluctant confirmation, “Gotcha. So, what sounds good for dinner?”

Still reeling in relief at how easily Toshinori accepts each new facet of his hidden hardships, Aizawa smiles a little at the older hero’s back. “Anything, so long as you’re cooking.”

With their bellies full of a frozen shrimp and veggie stir-fry, and the night already well past their usual bedtime, the two teachers retire almost immediately to bed. Yagi offers up the first set of soft cotton and flannel he finds in the drawer, a slate grey tee and pink-on-pink bottoms with an odd pattern of what could have been hearts, or the letter V repeated on it, depending on how you look at it. Shouta raises one eyebrow at the selection, but changes into it without protest as Toshinori chuckles sheepishly, “It’s not always easy to find long enough pants that aren’t bespoke. I think Mrs. Ogawa actually found these the last time she went out... She used to shop for me on the sly when I was a kid, the family had trouble keeping up when I kept outgrowing my school uniforms. And when I moved in here, she kept doing it, even though I assured her I can afford my own clothing now.” He shakes his head with a fond smile and heads for the bathroom, leaving the door open as he brushes his teeth.

After a moment to dig the toiletries out of the duffel, Aizawa joins Toshinori in front of the mirror, thankful to be able to brush his own teeth now, and not have to worry about leaving residue in the school’s sink. He’s just finishing up when Yagi spits and rinses, then reaches for a D-shaped plastic container in the medicine cabinet. Shouta watches with renewed interest as the taller man cracks the container open, plucks out two little translucent plastic trays, and fits them over his teeth before biting down. “Ush dat,” Aizawa tries to ask, causing Toshinori to frown slightly with incomprehension as he tucks the container back behind the mirror. Shouta clears his mouth of the sudsy fluoride and rinses, “Sorry. I meant to say, what was that.”

“Oh, retainers. If I don’t wear these, my teeth go back to how they were before braces.” Yagi grins nervously, a little self-conscious of the sibilant rounding of his consonants with the slight obtrusion in his mouth, and of the odd stare of disbelief on Shouta’s face, “What, did you think a smile this perfect was all natural?” He shakes his head and hangs his toothbrush up to dry, flicking the bathroom lights out as they head for the bedroom, still a little chatty and compelled to explain himself, “My folks had to take out a loan to afford the orthodontics, it would have been irresponsible to let that go to waste. That’s... half the reason it ended up as such a prominent feature in the All Might trademark.”

“Huh. So you were... poor, growing up?” Aizawa crosses to the right side of the bed, stepping carefully around the makeshift dresser of a duffle bag on the floor,  tosses the rolled-up sleeping bag down next to it,  and crawls in under the comforter. He takes a moment to arrange a couple pillows and fluff them up for comfort, pushing the rest to the side toward All Might as he rolls into a loose fetal position, facing toward the door to chat.

“Well,” Toshinori shrugs a little as he swats the last light switch before clambering in on the other side of the bed, “My parents tried not to let it be that big of a deal, you know, they’ll shield you when you’re too young to understand. We got by, we had a few nice things, a vacation every few years... But no, we most definitely weren’t rich.” He reaches one long arm to switch the alarm clock to something more reasonable, more of a precaution than an actual necessity with as late as they’d be able to sleep in. “It was... kind of life-changing, to work my way to the top and finally be able to afford everything.” Shouta nods as he gains a deeper understanding of All Might’s motives, letting his eyes fall shut as Yagi lets out one last sigh and murmurs softly, “I only wish they’d been here to see it happen.”

Chapter 21

[financevisionary]

How to Avoid the Expensive Mistakes People Make in College

College is an expensive undertaking no matter who you are. Between tuition, food, publications, partying, clothes, college supplies, living, etc. costs include up quickly. It is easy to find yourself investing a bunch of money in college and also all of the prices appear necessary. Through my time in university I have actually found out that there are a lots of expenses that you can not stay clear of, however there are methods to maintain those prices fairly reduced. Below are a couple of locations where you could be a clever spender and also save some money:

Mistake 1: 'Allow's Simply Obtain Obtain'

Food is a costly expense that every grownup has to deal with in their day-to-day life, nonetheless, this is not so true for university trainees. University student have the ability to utilize eating halls and on campus food suppliers.

Now, I comprehend that eating halls could not always be the most tasty choice, however they sure are inexpensive. Many campuses supply dish strategies where it will cost you a particular amount of factors for a dish. These points are typically bought at rather cheap rate via offers that schools supply. This is terrific since they normally provide a big selection of food and you can consume as much as you please (although the food itself might not be pleasing).

Eating out is constantly a temptation - but this is where you could really blow your food budget. Instead, the following cheapest option would certainly be to prepare your very own dishes. Now this part can be a little tricky, but if you concentrate on understanding a meal or 2 to start, you might actually really appreciate it (and the food!).

This is where you have one of the most control of your spending plan as well - it is essential to be a wise shopper.

Pro Tip on Grocery Shopping:

Through college I discovered myself mosting likely to the grocery shop mindlessly tossing food into my cart and also easily racking up a $300 bill. As the weeks went by the food would either spoil or I would never touch it. Basically, I tossed a large chunk of money in the garbage, which inevitably was not less expensive than consuming out.

As time took place I uncovered a much more reliable system that enabled me to maintain price reduced and be a clever customer. I took a seat and also created out a dish strategy. My meal strategy made up breakfast, lunch, dinner, and also snacks, with a basic suggestion on just what I could prefer to consume that day. I still enabled myself some difference where I might choose which meat or veggie was on sale to maintain prices reduced. Dish preparation is necessary, however it is more crucial to be a wise buyer. Frequently try to find sales, bargains, vouchers, or anything that can help you keep prices low while consuming what you desire. [From Mint: inspect out BrewingHappiness' meal prepare for under $150]

Mistake 2: Guide Shop Took All My Money

I do not care who you are at some point in your four (or five) years you will certainly have to acquire publications. Currently it is simple to visit the book store as well as get all your books as well as materials all new, however this can quickly turn right into a $500 trip. There are a variety of various methods to maintain prices low for books. Each has its benefits and drawbacks, so you can find out what works best for you.

Pro Tips on Finding Your Publications:

The initially is to obtain your publications from a buddy. If you are taking a course in the Spring term that of your close friend absorbed the Fall people are typically very available to giving their publications for little to no charge. You can run into some problems if teachers start altering their publications, which several of them have tendencies to do. This can be a pain, yet there are most definitely ways around it.

One way around this problem is to lease your publications. Beware! When renting out books if you do not return them by a specific date you are billed the complete price of guide. This could be an expensive mistake if you're forgetful, conveniently loosened things, or are disordered. So, if you are one of those individuals I would recommend getting your books.

In this case, I suggest hopping online to Amazon or a few other website and acquire a previous version of your book. Your book will likely be a little different compared to the current version, yet it's uncommon for the content itself to transform significantly. What will differ greatly however is the rate. I have seen circumstances where previous versions are used for thousands of dollars much less than the existing edition.

The last, fall short evidence, and also most affordable option is the library. Frequently there will be a handful of copies of the book in the library. This choice could be a bit even more time consuming, yet it sure keeps expenses low.

Mistake 3: The Five Celebrity Dormitory Room

Gearing for university life is a really interesting time. I can keep in mind preparing to removal into my dormitory. I wanted to have an awesome dormitory like among those ones you see in the PB Teenager publications. I purchased a couple of sets of twin extra-long sheets, a mattress cover, a lot of plastic moving cabinets to maintain my stuff in, some dorm furnishings, and also the checklist takes place. It was fantastic as well as all until I started my step off campus. I began to sort with whatever in my dormitory and recognized that mostly all of it would certainly not fit anywhere into my new apartment. After one year of living in the dormitories I located myself, and also well as lots of others, tossing out all their dormitory furniture because it was so details to the dorm. Don't obtain me wrong right here, I think that your dorm room need to be a comfy living space, yet there is no should invest so much money on things that you will only have for a year.

Pro Tip on Your Dormitory Style:

Short as well as wonderful: I suggest perhaps utilizing sheets or furniture from a close friend or household member. If this is not an option, simply be a wise consumer and keep prices as low as feasible. Attempt to assume in advance to your future living situations.

Mistake 4: The Late-Night Spender

So, that header was modified by Mint. Yet you know what I'm referring to. As long as purchasing books is an unavoidable component of university, so are celebrations and also for numerous, drinking.

While mingling, it is very easy to be negligent with your money. You may spend lavishly on a late-night extra-large pizza or determine to purchase a round of beverages for your pals. These costs could accumulate or obtain costly swiftly relying on a couple of various factors.

Pro Tips on Budgeting Nights Out:

Before anything, make sure you have your budget plans in place.

My recommendations to obtain through this is to select a set amount of money you agree to invest for the night (recommendation your budget to figure out this quantity, not just your offered cash money!). Considering that you recognize precisely how much you could spend, you'll locate on your own choosing foods and drinks that will certainly help your loan go farther rather than blowing it all on your first round. Think in advance also: are you going to go out Friday and also Saturday night? If so, make certain you are budgeting for both.

Also, if you know you obtain starving after a night out with close friends, preplan just what you'll eat. Possibly you have some food surplus from a dish you prepared (therefore cheaply bought) or locate a place you can get simply a couples pieces of pizza, instead of the entire pie.

Mistake 5: Ride-Share Everywhere

College can be exhausting. It includes many late nights, mornings, and lengthy hrs in the library. As well as take it from me, I recognize how simple it is to obtain careless when you get on this type of timetable. Among the biggest things I discovered when I authorized up for Mint was just how typically I was making use of a ride-share application as a result!

Ride-shares are an outstanding service that enable you to get a taxi within minutes of needing one. This is terrific as well as all, yet it can additionally be dangerous for the pocketbook. Specifically when the idleness begins to begin. It's so easy to simply require a ride, but I recognize from experience it is unusual to get just one.

Once you begin purchasing flights, it ends up being a bad habit. Those $6 journeys accumulate fairly swiftly and prior to you know it you can be spending somewhere around $100 a month on transportation.

Pro Tips on Getting Around:

Now my initial pointer to avoid this problem would be JUST STROLL! I most definitely understand from experience this is simpler claimed compared to done. If you need to get a ride, it is necessary that you make use of the actual ride share function (like UberPool or Lyft Line). This cuts the price of your ride almost in fifty percent. The only capacity down fall is that you need to share your cars and truck with other bikers, along with the truth that it may add a couple of extra mins onto your trip.

Remember that college is an expensive place as well as it is simple to invest cash left, right, as well as facility. It is of vital value that you keep your eyes out for these investing pitfalls. It is not constantly simple to conserve money in college, however I guarantee you if you stay clear of these 5 blunders and also stay with your spending plans, you will certainly constantly have a little additional cash money in your pocket.

[frozenartscapes]

I’m going to vent so if you want to ignore this you can.

I’m pissed right now. And stressed out. And depressed. And just...ugh.

As I mentioned a few weeks back, I plan to spend the summer working on building portfolio-quality work in both drawing/graphic design and photography. I’m going to be building a new blog for just that, possibly a website, and I’m signing up to Patreon as a hopeful way of making some money. The trouble is: I’m not sure I will. I have a feeling I’m not going to take off very quickly with the type of artwork I do - it’s not fanart, and at this point I’m having difficulty deciding what the style’s even going to be so I’ve just been attempting different things I used to like and nothing feels good enough to post. The photography has been turning out better but it’s taking me forever to go through the images and edit the ones I want. I know I have to do that, and I know it’s unprofessional to wait so long between shoot and post. But I just...can’t. I don’t know why but I burn out so quickly now. In the moment of the shoot I’m actually kind of excited and happy but the second I get home nothing really speaks to me and it all feels like crap. I feel like I’m lying to myself that I’ll ever make anything out of this and the longer I wait the worse I feel and then the longer I want to put it off.

I don’t want another crappy part time job. But the longer I go, with every time I need to go out and get groceries, or some kind of expense comes up, or I have to pay bills, or even taking the bus because it’s not free for students in the summer and Ottawa’s transit system is stupidly overpriced, the more worried I get. I have a lot saved up, but when I pay tuition for my next term that’s going to eat a good chunk of it. I need to buy a tripod because I don’t have one yet, and any one that’s going to actually last me is $200+. I want to go outside the city to the local small towns and provincial parks to get some shots but that means either taking the train, taking a bus, or renting a car - all of which I can’t really afford to do a lot either. And it just became clear to me that my father who lives barely 45 minutes away isn’t even willing to come pick me up to take me back to his place for the weekend so I can forget about asking him for anything. (To be clear, my mother lived about two hours away and was willing to come up to get me and then drive me home in the same day. So if she can do that I don’t see why he can’t.)

I don’t like this. At all. I feel stupid that I’m even trying this. I feel like I should just give up and see if I can find a crappy job with a stable income for the summer instead, because god knows how long it’s going to take before I even get likes from people on my non-fandom stuff. I barely get notes on my actual fandom stuff. Why should I think my original stuff will fair any better?

And the thing is: I just know I could probably be good at this if my life just wasn’t where it was right now. But I don’t have the money to change that, nor the time. Not yet. But I still need to do something this summer, and if I go back to another food service job I’m going to go fucking crazy. The two things I can see that would immediately fix my problems are: I need a car, and I need a larger place to live. Car, because I’m stuck. Trapped. I can’t leave the useless, ugly, boring as fuck suburbs of a city people only know for government and urban sprawl. I can go as far as the stupid buses take me, and any further will cost me and be entirely dependant on schedules. And apartment because, well, I sleep in my work space. My bed is about seven feet from my desk, and is actually only separated from my stove by a wall with a two-part door in it - a door I can’t use because of my bed, might I add. I barely have the space to even have my desk set up, and as a result I’ve had to sacrifice having a non-work/non-sleeping space. So all those tips about not doing work in your bed? Yeah, if I want a slightly more comfortable place besides my desk, it’s gonna be my bed. And because of the close proximity between food and sleep, I can’t use anywhere near as many art products as I used to. I used to paint, dabble with found objects sculpture, and just before we moved out of our house I was discovering resin. I would love to be able to do real art again, because as much as I love drawing painting was so much better. I miss the fumes and being able to throw paint at a canvas and not having to worry about leaving something out because my cat might walk all over it. One time I tried to stretch and gesso a canvas in here and my cat woke up from his nap to (I believe purposely) walk right across that freshly coated canvas that had no other place to be besides the floor.

I feel like I’m just being a baby. I’m sure a lot of people started out with crap like this. But whenever I try to be productive it all just goes away so fast. I think I might need to schedule a visit with my doctor, maybe get a reevaluation from the last time I was there about my depression. Because things don’t seem to be changing despite not having to worry about a shitty job. The only problem is my doctor is back in my hometown, and now my mom has moved out from there as well. I had thought initially that I’d ask my dad to drive me down and I’d crash at my sister’s for the night but now I’m not sure. It looks like another expensive ticket I really can’t afford. And I can try to find someone here but it’d be weird talking to a total stranger about my problems.

Sorry to anyone who’s actually stuck around this long. After texting with my dad my mood went from kinda-ok and almost happy with the work I did today to shit.

I’ll let you guys know when I start posting stuff online. Technically things are set up but I don’t have any images yet. Here’s hoping that will be soon. If I can get my lazy ass in gear.

[humanitys-trashiest-fanfic]

The Stars Will Remain- Chapter Three

Summary

Chapter One

A03

Chapter Three

It was more than a little awkward trying to explain to Eren and Mikasa as he went back to the college to return the car about his new predicament- that he wasn’t taking business after all, he’d put his name down for art, like everyone had expected, and not only that, but he’d also found himself a job and would be starting within the next week. It was pretty much the last thing they’d been expecting for him to do, so needless to say, he was subjected to many, many, insufferable questions from Eren on the ride back to their house. What made you change your mind? Where are you working? Why at a bakery? How did you get a job that fast? Can you even bake? So you’re definitely doing art now? You’re not going to back out of it again?

Perhaps seeing Jean’s sudden proverbial step forwards had initiated a kind of challenge in Mikasa, because the second they got home, she demanded Eren pull out his laptop and start applying for jobs himself. Whether this was in Eren’s best interest or a kind gesture in Jean’s regard to ensure they’d have an as equal income as possible to make paying rent easier wasn’t clear, but he liked to think it was the latter (Despite the frustratingly high likelihood that it probably wasn’t).

Instead of sticking around to watch the couple bicker over the computer screen and feel increasingly sour, he disappeared upstairs, shutting himself into his room and at long last, collapsing back into his bed. Earlier, his priority had been getting home as soon as possible to sleep away the rest of this damn hangover, but somehow, he was feeling a lot less like a moving trash heap than he had been that morning. Where there had been a knife twisting into his brain there was now only a dull ache that twinged if he turned his head too fast. He lay on his bed for some time, but sleep eluded him as he rolled back onto his front, sighing in defeat. He reached out and picked his sketchbook up off the corner of the desk next to his bed, thumbing through the diminishing drawings until he got to the Mikasa-nymph portrait from yesterday.

Was this all really going to be worth it?

The doubts were still there, heavy and laden with guilt, rolling into a heavy ball dripping with reservations in the darkest corner of his mind. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite bring himself to focus on them. He was finally doing it- he was finally going to do what his childhood and high-school self had dreamed of for years- he was going to study art full time.

Jean stretched his arm out once more and picked up one of the pencils lying discarded over the desk top and flipped to a clean page. He put the graphite tip to the paper and began sketching out the timber-framed structure of the bakery from memory.

It all seemed a bit too surreal. Maybe that’s why he had trouble believing himself.

He drew peacefully in silence for a good half hour or so, content with tracing out the wood grain of the timber beams and the latticed windows and their shutters, feeling remarkably at ease for once, before he was interrupted by the buzzing of his phone laid on his pillow, the screen flashing impatiently at him as he picked it up, only to see his mother’s icon next to the second text he’d received from her that day.

Hope enrollment went well, sweetie. I’m proud of you!

Yikes. His stomach turned nauseously as he bit his lip, staring at the phone he held gingerly in his hand. That was something he hadn’t thought about. What the hell was he going to tell his mother?

That’s another problem for another day, he mused, switching the phone off and tossing it carelessly away. It slid off the pillowcase and into the dip formed between the mattress and the wall. He’d let her stew in her blissful little illusion of Jean’s conformity for a while before he told her the truth.

For now, it didn’t matter. For now, all that mattered was him.

…

Four- thirty in the morning didn’t sound so bad when Jean went to bed the night before at half past ten. The little timer on his phone when he set his alarm told him he’d get five whole hours of sleep before then, which was pretty much what he had run on throughout high school when he’d stay up for hours under the covers, drawing under the light of his phone well into the early hours of the morning. The bakery was a half an hour walk away, so he set his alarm for half past three to give himself a little time to get ready before he had to leave in order to get there on time. No problem. Five whole hours.

But by the time he woke up to the blaring noise of said alarm, it certainly felt bad.

He’d never met a single person in his life who enjoyed getting up at the butt crack of dawn, and he certainly wasn’t one of them.

He slapped the alarm off and resisted every fibre of his being that wanted to turn over and go back to sleep, waging a war against his eyelids that desperately wanted to close again. By the time he finally convinced his defiant limbs to cooperate, he was already running fifteen minutes late.

He pulled on the oldest pair of skinny jeans that he owned and an old band t-shirt underneath a plain collared button up, throwing on his biggest, comfiest hoodie over the top in somewhat of a daze.

By the time he was finally dressed and had pulled his shoes on, it was already five to four, and he’d have to leave in five minutes, leaving him no time to get anything to eat. He resigned instead to making himself a cup of coffee and to take it with him in a travel mug- but when he came downstairs and opened the instant coffee jar, he was met with a cloud of bitter smelling dust and not much more.

Dammit. He’d been grocery shopping the day after enrollment last week, and yet already supplies were running low. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he dropped the jar back onto the counter, looking up to stare blankly at the shelf in front of him. It was originally a spice rack, but considering they had no spices to put in it, three recipe books were carelessly wedged there instead. Jean’s mother had given them to him as a housewarming gift as she made him promise he’d eat well and make his own meals- but they hadn’t seen any use since then.

Normally, he would’ve just walked past and ignored them completely- but the one of the author’s name emblazoned on a singular spine caught his eye.

Maria Bodt.

Bodt…that was Marco’s last name, wasn’t it? And come to think of it, Marco had mentioned that his mother wrote recipe books, and that was why she was hardly ever home. Or was he imagining that?

Curious, he plucked the book off the shelf and examined the front cover. It didn’t look like anything he’d associate with Marco- which would be anything old and oozing antiquity to match the rustic bakery he ran. No, this book- titled “Meals in Thirty Minutes- Perfect for the college student on a budget!”- was big, bright, and contemporary. He opened the front cover to examine the authoress’s profile on the inside of the dust jacket. The photo heading the little section of text was of a woman with dark hair bound into a side braid, and a broad, oval face and high forehead, flecked with a fine dusting of freckles over her cheeks. She was leaning onto a counter, smiling broadly into the camera so the corners of her mouth crinkled. The longer he looked at the photo, the more he realised she bore a striking resemblance to Marco.

Huh. He would never have known a renowned cookery author’s son lived only a short way off from his own house. And he certainly wouldn’t have expected to be working under him within only a week of meeting him.

By the time he finally snapped the book shut and placed it back onto the shelf, it was already past four, and he needed to get going right now if he still had any hopes of being on time. He didn’t want to let Marco down- not on the first day, at the very least. He stalked out of the kitchen, swiping his keys and phone off the work surface and stuffing them into his pocket as he tried to rub the sleep out his eyes, making his way over to the front door.  He pulled it open and stepped outside, closing it behind him with a little more noise than he’d intended to.

The sky was still dark except for a band of dark blue light resting on the horizon, punctured by the silhouettes of the houses across the street, bleeding into the inky sky. Several dark clouds streaked the dark expanse, and whilst it certainly wasn’t warm yet, there was a kind of clamminess in the air, indicating a humid day ahead. Thankfully, the sunrise would come within the next hour and make it feel a lot less early in the Goddamn morning.

At the very least, the cooler morning air shocked something into him, helping him wake himself up a little better. He forced his heavy limbs to shuffle down the street, head bowed, resisting the urge to yawn every three seconds.

He had to pick his pace up hastily when he realised just how late he was running, and had less than twenty minutes to get to Jinae, resigning himself to walk the rest of the way at a brisk pace. The world was almost entirely silent as the day’s light began to bleed into the dark sky. The only people he encountered drove past in big, black cars crawling along the road like beetles with glowing eyes, and even they were few and far between. He supposed these were the business people who worked in big cities like Stohess, where Annie was going within the next couple of weeks, making the lengthy commute out of Rose. Surely that took several hours itself.

Would that have been him in five years- give or take- if he’d refused Marco’s offer? Driving miles and miles away every day, too early for the rest of the world to be awake? It sounded…pretty lonely, if he was honest. And kind of sad. As someone who had nearly always thrived in solitude, this thought surprised him.

Whatever. He had his own job to worry about this morning. And more importantly, to get to.

By the time he reached Jinae and climbed the steep incline (which felt so much more severe when he wasn’t driving up it), he was breathless and almost cried in his sleep-deprived stupor when he caught sight of the bakery’s tiled roof stretching into the sky. The lower floor was aglow with light, oozing out onto the pavement from inside like golden honey. Already, there was a distinctively warm smell filling the air that prompted Jean’s stomach to growl automatically. Damn. He’d really wished he’d had time to eat.

He walked up and around the curve of the pavement before stopping right outside the door, pausing to quickly verify the time on his phone. As he pulled it out of his pocket and pressed the home button, his lock screen blinked to life, and the digits rolled to 4:29. One minute to spare.

Right. Work mode.

He took a quick glance at his reflection in the door’s window pane- self-consciously ruffling his hair to tame the remnants of his bed head- before he reached out and pushed down on the door handle. Mercifully, it was already unlocked, and the door swung open, the familiar tinkle of the bell sounding his arrival.

The warmth hit him instantly like a smack to the face, billowing over his cheeks, making them prickle in response as he shut the door behind him and immediately shrugged his hoodie off. The shop was strangely bare, compared to the first time he’d been here. There were no loaves of bread lining the shelves, the display counters were empty and there wasn’t so much as a speck of pastry or crumb to be found.

There were noises coming from the back room though- the shifting and clanking of metal, the muted clatter of plastic and as he closed the door, the slam of an oven being closed.

“Hello?” Jean called out into the stuffy room.

“Is that you, Jean?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m in the back- come on through.”

Jean laid his hoodie tentatively next to the till, before lifting the counter’s hatch out of his way and stepped behind, laying it down reverently behind him before making his way over to stand in the doorway leading to the back room.

It was bigger than the shop floor- not by much, but enough to fit various large metal appliances along the walls and still have extra work surfaces holding bags of flour, sugar, and an assortment of mixing bowls, wooden spoons, pots and pans. There were shelves lining almost every part of the red brick wall, containing spices, various boxes and tins labelled with their contents. Hung above the countertops to Jean’s right there was a set of knives hung on the wall in their own brackets, and next to that, a wooden clock with a pendulum swaying from side to side in its little glass case. Directly to his left, there was a steep staircase leading to the second floor, and dead centre in the room was a large countertop, beneath which were wooden cabinets and drawers. In the far-right corner there was a small kitchen table with four chairs around it, next to a small stove and sink that wasn’t too dissimilar to the cooking range in Jean’s kitchen. Directly opposite in the far left, stood a huge, old fashioned brick oven built into the wall and curving outwards into the room. The door to it was iron wrought, engraved with an image of wheat stalks crossing over each other, and below it, there was a slightly smaller door, which was currently open, exposing the fire fuelled by logs, stored in a basket pushed up against the wall.

There stood Marco, stooped over as he chucked in several more chunks of wood through the little door and nudged them into place with the poker held in his other hand. Today he was wearing a sleeveless black shirt, exposing a lot more freckles on his upper arms, and a pair of baggy, faded grey jeans. At Jean’s entrance, he looked up, face instantly breaking out into a smile as he knocked the iron wrought door shut and dropped the metal latch into place.

“Good morning!” he said brightly. He placed the poker back into its stand next to the log basket and straightened up. “Glad to see you made it!”

“Morning.” Jean didn’t see what part of it was good. The warmth was even more intense in here, and it certainly didn’t help his drowsiness. It felt being awash in the cosiness of one big blanket and he would have gladly snuggled up in a corner and gone right back to sleep on the flagstone floor. He did his best to suppress another yawn, eyes watering in tiredness. “Just barely.”

Marco smiled sympathetically. “You’ll get used to it, I promise. It’ll just take time to adjust.”

“Says you. By the way, you don’t happen to have any coffee, do you? We were all out and I’m-” Another yawn- “struggling to keep my eyes open.”

“Sorry. I don’t.”

“How the hell are you awake and lively at four-thirty in the fucking morning without caffeine? I’m sorry; this is a foreign concept to me.”

Marco laughed. “I think it’s a combination of just being used to it, plus, I’ve always found baking is a pretty great stimulant for tiredness. Trust me, you’ll be awake in no time. There’s nothing that wakes you up quite like the smell of fresh bread.”

Jean could think of several things that would wake him up better- a tall, dark, Americano, for one- but decided against bringing it up. Petulance probably wasn’t the greatest thing to pull on your first day at work.

“So…what am I doing?”

“Right,” Marco pushed back a stray lock of hair falling out of place onto his forehead, resting the other hand on his hip. “First and foremost, wash your hands over there.” He pointed at a low sink over to Jean’s right. “Then grab an apron from the table here, and I’ll show you the basics of bread.”

Jean obliged, pushing his sleeves back above his elbows as he went over to the sink and began to rinse his hands under the warm water. He was nervous; he couldn’t deny that. How exactly did one slip into conversation that he was quite the useless cook and that his experience in the kitchen was limited to unwrapping a ready-meal and poking some numbers into the microwave?

All he could do was pray he’d pick it up quickly.

Jean towelled his hands dry on one hung below the sink before picking an identical apron to Marco’s off the middle table and tying it around his waist.

Marco waited patiently for him on the other side of the worktable, one hand resting on the surface as Jean walked over to join him. There was a small bowl of dubious looking brown, cloudy liquid next to his hand, alongside a bowl full of speckled flour, a small bag of sugar, a plastic container of salt, and a jug of tepid water. As Jean approached Marco gave him an encouraging smile- which Jean tentatively returned- before launching straight into explanation.

“This-” He jabbed a finger at the odd brown mixture thing- “is your yeast mixed with a small amount of water so it’s already activated. It’s had to stand for about ten, fifteen minutes, but you can tell it’s ready by watching the surface. If it looks like it’s starting to move by itself, then the fungus is working.”

He slid the bowl towards Jean, who grimaced as he noted the sludge-like texture shifting ever so slightly below the surface.

“Fungus?” He echoed, lip curling in disgust. Marco simply laughed at him.

“Yep, and it doesn’t get more glamourous than this. Here you’ve got regular bread flour-” he rested a hand on the rim of the bowl nearest to him. “Pre-measured for your convenience. The water acts as a kind of bonding agent. And the sugar and salt adds to the flavour. These are the absolute bare bones of what you need to make bread. Obviously, as you start experimenting and attempting different kinds, some of these ingredients are interchangeable, as is the method to make it, but I figured it was probably best to start you off with your basic white loaf.”

“Wise choice,” he mumbled sarcastically beneath his breath.

Marco didn’t appear fazed. “I didn’t ask, but do you have any experience in baking?”

“Nope. Absolutely none.”

“Ah, right. No, no, don’t worry, that’s not a problem. It means that we’re starting in the right place. So, first, take your flour and tip it out onto the work surface.”

Jean looked at him. “I do what now?”

“Tip the flour out onto the work surface,” he repeated calmly, and reached out to pat a large wooden slab on the table, like an oversized chopping board, in front of Jean. A second later he let out a soft chuckle. “Yes, I’m aware of how bizarre that sounds. Just trust me.”

Jean took hold of the bowl hesitantly, still not entirely convinced this wasn’t just Marco making a twat out of him by making him do something entirely ridiculous.

“You’re sure?”

“For the last time, yes. Just don’t get any on the floor. It’s a pain to clean up.”

Finally following his instruction, Jean began to tip the bowl’s contents out onto the wooden board, steadily trying to sift it out bit by bit.

Unfortunately, that failed in a spectacular fashion, when the first second he inclined the bowl slightly, the flour inside it slid from within, collapsing onto the work table in a great whoomp. A dusty cloud of flour immediately flew up from the impact and straight into Jean’s face, making him instinctively splutter as it glided straight up his nose and stuck there.

Marco spluttered from besides him as he gagged. “Sorry, forgot to mention, it’s a finer grain than most so it’s got almost no traction whatsoever. Especially not in plastic bowls. But flour clouds are pretty much inevitable when you do it this way. It’s just another one of those things you get used to and learn how to avoid.”

Jean coughed viciously, trying to clear his throat. “Is that why you’re always covered in flour?” he asked raggedly.

“Pretty much. It’s messier doing it this way, but I prefer it so much more to using a bread machine or mixing bowl. It’s easier, and you just get a more…hearty, full bodied loaf at the end. Anyway, come on, let’s get through this as quick as we can.”

“What time do you open?”

“Eight.”

“Shit.” Jean glanced at the clock- it was getting ever closer to five by now. “OK, what now?”

“What you want to do is make a sort of well in the middle of the flour- not all the way to the bottom, just enough to form a pit. Then you’ll put half your warm water, your activated yeast, a dash of sugar and a tiny bit of salt, and then you’ll start scraping it together with your hands without breaking the walls of the well. So, you’re piling the rest of the flour into the middle covering the hole, and then smoothing it back out. Then slowly, but steadily start to…kinda…mush it together. There really isn’t a better term for that.”

Jean snorted as he picked up the yeast bowl, swilling it around. “So all of this?”

“Yep. Straight in.”

“And I just use my hands?”

“It’s called handmade for a reason.”

He smirked, undeniably amused at Marco’s surprising amount of sarcasm as he dug his fingers into the peak of the flour pile, carving out a shallow pit and dumped in the yeast, half the jug of water and two pinches of sugar to one pinch of salt as per Marco’s instructions before beginning to scrape it together, just as he’d told him.

“That’s it- just keep bringing the flour back to the middle, and it should eventually start to feel a bit like porridge.”

“Sounds about right,” Jean said dourly, his face twisting into a wry expression as he felt the uncomfortable dampness seeping through the flour beginning to stick to his fingers in a disgusting, wet, sloppy texture.

“Flour your hands if it starts sticking to you too much, and now, as you’re bringing it together, add the rest of the water bit by bit. Just a little at time, mix a bit, and then repeat. Alright, you got it?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Once you’ve added all the water you can start being a little more aggressive with it. Your aim is to get rid of as much stickiness as possible before we can start kneading. You’re OK doing that whilst I get starting on the pastry for vanilla slices?”

“Sure…I think,” The wet, gloopy mix certainly didn’t feel appetising yet as it stuck to his knuckles and caked itself under his nails. It felt very much like he was a kid mixing a mud pie in the dirt. It was hard to see this becoming bread within the next couple of hours. “So, uh, what else do you have to do this morning?”

“Well,” Marco spoke without looking at him as he walked past towards to the opposite counter, bringing out a clean mixing bowl from a cupboard underneath the work surface as he passed, pausing only to scoop in several handfuls of flour from a sack under the counter before going over to the fridge and taking out a dish of butter already cut into cubes. “I’ve already got the rye, wholemeal, and mixed grain breads in the oven. The pastry for the croissants is ready and just needs to be shaped and cooked, but we can sort those out just before opening- people like to buy them warm anyway. It’s pretty much just a case of putting all the cakes and pastries together now, and making sure they’re chilled before they go out on display.”

“Did you seriously have time to already make all of that before I got here?”

“I’ve been up since three.”

Something telling him that Marco had mentioned that before stirred a faint memory within Jean before it was quickly replaced with indignance.

“Wait, wait, so why tell me to come in at four-thirty if you start way before then?”

“Because teaching you is going to take time, but I still need to bake enough to fill up the displays,” he said calmly. He dropped the butter cubes into the flour and began to rub them into breadcrumbs between his thumbs and forefingers with a well-practiced deftness. “If I showed you how to do everything step by step we’d still be on pastries by afternoon. Plus, I figured it’d be kinder to let you get adjusted to the early mornings like this rather than jumping straight in at three AM.”

“And you don’t ever struggle with all of this? I mean, there’s a crap ton of stuff to make, and up until now, you’ve done it all by yourself. You can’t tell me that’s never hard.”

“Of course it isn’t. I’ll keep baking throughout the whole day, which is a pain, especially considering I can’t watch the shop, and have to keep going back and forth. That’s why I pre-measure everything the night before, because come morning, I don’t have to bother with weighing and measuring; I can just throw everything together and get it in the oven as quick as I can. How’s your dough looking?”

Jean blinked, before looking down at the sludgy mass his fingers were half imbedded in. The dampness had nearly completely gone away, and was beginning to feel a bit smoother.

Marco finished with the butter and flour and rubbed his hands down his apron on his thighs and came over to inspect. He took the dough from Jean’s hands and pressed it with the heel of his palm a couple of times experimentally, flipping it over twice before he smiled in satisfaction.

“Feels about right. You’re ready to start kneading. This is where you get ridiculously rough with it. Basically, just beat the crap out of it- well, beat the crap out of it, but with purpose. Focus on folding it over into itself, getting as much air trapped inside it as possible so when it rises it’s light and fluffy and not dense or stodgy, which also means it won’t take as long in the oven. Do you know how to knead?”

Jean shook his head.

“That’s fine, I’ll show you.” Marco leant forwards and pushed the dough in the centre with the heel of his palm again, stretching it out only to fold it back in. Jean watched his fingers dig into the pliable substance before pushing it back out again, turning it over in his hands in a series of quick, successive movements. The muscles in his arms immediately began to ripple beneath the skin- and in that moment Jean realised just how muscular Marco actually was.

His biceps bulged reflexively every time he stretched the dough out, the tension easing in and out of his arm as he worked the dough. There was a fine smattering of freckles, largely concentrated on his shoulders, that began to scatter and peter out the further down his arm they got. They diminished in number amongst the multiple shiny scars going up and down his forearms, evidently from countless burns. With an oven of that size, generating that much heat, it wasn’t hard to imagine getting burnt frequently at all.

It got to a point where Marco’s arm muscles became an actual distraction and Jean was focusing more on them than on what his hands were doing. Even though Marco himself didn’t seem to be putting much effort into kneading the dough, the work his arms were doing said otherwise. Jean became very keenly aware of just how scrawny his own arms looked besides his and folded them across his chest reflexively, clenching his doughy fists together, trying not to feel wildly substandard at his side.

“So we do this to make the dough as elastic as possible,” Marco explained, rolling the dough under his palm one final time as he took a step back. “And you’re looking for a springy, silky, smooth texture. Do you know what the fastest way to get that kind of feel in the dough is?”

“…Biceps?”

Marco blinked, before following Jean’s gaze to his upper arm. His mouth stretched into an embarrassed smile as he reached up with one hand to rub the patch of skin above his elbow, laughing uncertainly.

“Ha…well, there’s no denying that they help,” he said, a dubious smile playing on his lips. “You’re not entirely wrong; it’s strength and elbow grease. Like I said, give the dough a pounding.”

“Got it.” Jean pushed his sleeves back up to rest above his joints. “Just do it in an effective way that traps air in it, right?”

“Right! There, learning already. I’m so proud.”

“Shut up.”

Marco clapped him on the shoulder as he went back to the pastry mixture for his vanilla slices. “It’s a large hunk of dough, so don’t worry if it takes a while. It’s enough of an effort to knead dough effectively for one loaf, let alone six, so like I said- just take your time, focus on kneading it as thoroughly as possible. It’s something else you’ll get quicker at the more you do it.”

Jean didn’t anticipate how hard it actually was to shift and mould the dough under his fingers like Marco had. He’d handled it like it was air, smoothing out it’s ridges and flipping it over and over in quick succession- but in Jean’s hands, it was heavy and thick and took a lot of effort to push around the wooden surface. A lot more effort than he cared to admit.

Fold. Stretch. Push. Repeat. Fold. Stretch. Push. Repeat.

Fold…stretch…push…fold…stretch…push…

The strain in his upper arms was beginning to manifest itself in a sharp ache twinging within his upper arms every time he folded the dough over on itself. It didn’t seem to be getting any more elastic or silky or smooth in texture- if anything, it just felt like Jean was pushing a ball of half-set cement around and around in circles.

He was dimly aware of Marco moving back and forth from behind him- going over to the fridge to chill his pastry, switching on the stove to start mixing the custard filling in a saucepan, crossing the room back to the oven and hauling out the aforementioned tray of rye and wholemeal loaves, puffed over the tops of their tins and deep golden brown in colour. They filled the kitchen with an even stronger aroma of fresh bread that made the pangs of hunger in Jean’s stomach more painful than ever.

Damn it. This was really starting to hurt now. But he didn’t want to give up before he’d scarcely begun- come on, it was his first day and his first task, yet already he was quickly running out of steam. The fact that he couldn’t stop yawning certainly didn’t help; the combined oppressive heat of the kitchen and his own exertion made his brow begin to prickle uncomfortably with sweat as the darkness from outside gradually receded and the sun began to rise, visible through the doorway leading to shop floor.

“Having trouble?”

Jean nearly jumped out of his skin when he realised Marco had abandoned his pastry to come over and stand behind him, watching him quietly with a sympathetic look on his face.

“Fuck, announce yourself next time,” he said gruffly as Marco chuckled to himself.

“Sorry. Do you want me to take over? I don’t mind. You can ice the vanilla slices, if you like.”

“I’m fine. I can do it.”

“Are you sure?”

Jean tried to ignore the sweat beginning to trickle down his back and the fiery burn in his arms. “Yep.”

“Jean…”

“What?”

“You’ve been at it for a good half an hour.”

“So?”

“It needs to be proving, at the very least, by now.”

Jean looked up from the dough and gave him a blank stare. Marco blinked a couple of times before the realisation dawned on him.

“…You don’t know what proving is, do you?”

“Uh…should I?”

Marco’s shoulders drooped in a mix of amusement and defeat as he passed a hand over his face exasperatedly, a crooked smile visible beneath his fingers as he wiped his chin.

“It’s fine, it’s fine. That’s why we’re doing this, you’re here to learn.” He sounded like he was convincing himself more than he was convincing Jean. “Here, I’ll finish kneading and you go frost the vanilla slices. Proving, by the way, is just leaving the dough in a warm place- for instance, a proving cupboard.” He pointed over to one of the shiny metal units on the other side of the room. “Which allows the yeast to make the bread expand, improving both taste and texture.”

Jean allowed himself to be shunted to the side, uncharacteristically obedient, as Marco took his place, once more expertly beginning to work the dough, stretching and tugging and turning it over in his hands effortlessly.

“I’ve already made the frosting-  it’s pretty runny, so just pour it on decently thick and spread it over the pastry with a palette knife from that drawer under there, as evenly as you can. Start in the centre then work your way into the corners, then when you’re done put them in the fridge to set,” Marco instructed, nodding towards the counter where he had been working previously. Whilst Jean had been batting his dough around fruitlessly, Marco had already made and baked his pastry from scratch- the vanilla slices, not yet cut into individual pieces, lay on the side on a cooling rack, as a large rectangle of pastry already filled with carefully piped swirls of fresh crème pâtissière between each delicate, flaky layer. There were three bowls stood next to the pastry base, one with pink icing, one with yellow, and one with white.

“How many of each colour do you want?” Jean called over his shoulder.

“As many as you like. Get as creative as you like with it. You’ll have to set up the display when they’re ready anyway, so do what you want.” Marco tossed the bread dough into the air one last time before throwing it back into the bowl that had held the flour. “Don’t worry if there’s leftover frosting- that’ll keep.”

Creative, huh?

That, he could do.

He pulled the cutlery drawer open with a rattle- sifting past the countless wooden spoons, measuring spoons, spatulas and brushes (that, he assumed, were for egg washing), until he caught hold of a palette knife. He wrapped his fingers around the handle, knocking the drawer closed with his hip as he reached out with his other hand and grabbed the bowl with the yellow frosting. He probed it cautiously with the tip of the utensil to get an idea of its consistency, lifting it slightly so it seeped thickly down the metal blade, noiselessly dribbling back into the bowl. It was very similar in texture to the watered-down acrylics his high school art teacher had given them as a semi-efficient cost cutting method of sharing a whole box of paints with a whole class for the full school year. They hadn’t been the best kind of paints- but they were the kind of paints that Jean was familiar with.

Dimly aware of Marco slamming the door of the proving cupboard somewhere behind him, he picked up the yellow frosting and angled it over the pastry, carefully pouring out a fair amount, forming a wide, circular globule into the centre, and, just like Marco had instructed, spread it as evenly as he could manage into the corners. Now, the fun part.

Jean wiped the excess frosting off the palette knife with his apron, before tilting it in his hand and carefully beginning to carve a swirl, starting from the middle with the fine edge of the blade. Keeping his hand steady, he branched off the spiral with multiple smaller ones, lightly scoring the surface of the gradually thickening icing until he reached the edges. He laid the knife aside and instead took hold of the bowls containing the pink and white frosting, pulling them closer to him as he dipped one finger into the pink and withdrew it, swirling it around his finger so he had as much as possible- then submerged it into the white and began to loop his wrist, drawing circles, over and over until thin, streaky, pink marbled veins ran through the its contents.

Taking up the palette knife once more, he used it to guide the steady flow of icing as he fed the marbled white-and-pink into the crevices he’d just made, smudging and blurring the harsh edges with his finger, the same way he’d smudge the pencil in a drawing, so they all swirled together, forming a kaleidoscope of colour.

Jean wasn’t a huge fan of colour when it came to his artwork. He mostly stuck to sketching, so he was well adjusted and perfectly content with the monochromatic scheme of graphite and paper. He didn’t paint much at all until he got to high school (thanks to his mother, who never allowed paints in the house when he was a kid for fear of mess) and took up art as a serious subject. Although it would never be as strong as his passion for traditional drawing, painting had been one of the best things about his high school life. He hadn’t done it, however, since way before studying for exams, when the art room was closed to him so he’d spend less time in his fantasy world and more time at his desk cramming his head full of equations and formula and poetry analysis.

It almost felt nostalgic, painting with the icing the same way he had on a piece of poster board taped down to the desk.

“Jean…”

He started violently once more, very nearly dropping the bowl in his left hand on top of his work.

“You need to stop doing that!”

Marco was standing behind him again- but this time, not in passing, like before, but as if he’d been stood there, watching Jean for longer than he’d been aware.

Jean turned his head- only to see Marco staring at the giant slab of pastry and cream. Or rather, staring at the work Jean had done on the icing. He couldn’t quite read the expression on his face. Surprise…? Disappointment, maybe? Exasperation?

“What? What’s the matter?” He snapped. Oh fuck. Please don’t say he did it wrong. He didn’t want to have screwed up a second time in a row. Damn it, why couldn’t he have just iced them in three separate sections, so they looked normal- why did he have to go and make it overly complicated for himself, why did he make things difficult- “You said be creative…so…uh…I just…”

“I know,” Marco cut him off quietly. “I just…I didn’t quite expect-“

Shit.

“-you to do them so well.”

…Wait, what?

Jean blinked as Marco’s face immediately broke out into its standard sunny grin as he looked straight at him, his dark eyes warm and approving.

“I mean, obviously I knew you were an artist, but I’m impressed! Really, I’ve never thought of mixing all the colours together before- and definitely not patterning them like you have,”

“I’m not an artist,” Jean mumbled, abashed. He wasn’t quite sure how to react. It just felt…odd having someone who knew what he was doing in this kitchen by second nature suddenly compliment him and daresay he did something better than he could do.

“You do art, don’t you? I’m pretty sure that makes you an artist. See, I knew you were good at art! There you were yesterday trying to psych me out by saying you might be useless at it.”

Jean shrugged helplessly. Despite his begrudging unwillingness to accept it, the feeling beginning to glow at the pit of his stomach was warm and pleasant, and most certainly welcome. He hadn’t been praised for his art in a long time- he hadn’t even allowed himself to enjoy it, merely berate it, so ultimately, in the end it would have been easier to give up.

Maybe it didn’t have to end quite so sourly now.

Well. It better not. He’d just signed up to pursue a degree in studying it for the next two years.

“Seriously. I mean it. I’m impressed. You should be proud,” Marco said, reaching out and patting Jean on the shoulder. “But as lovely as they are, you’ve still taken quite a while and we still have to open in-“ He looked up at the clock. “-two hours, so shove them in the fridge then get the dough from the proving cupboard. You have to knead it again- don’t worry, it’s easier this time because it’s risen, so it’s better to work with! And then shape it into six separate loaves. Then we’ll prove it once more for just ten minutes, and then it can go in the oven. Then voila- your first loaves of bread, made by your own hands, from scratch.”

“And yours. You’ve done most of it.”

“All I’ve done is knead it and throw it in a cupboard. Don’t worry,” he paused and winked at him. “With practice, you can throw things in cupboards just as well as me, too.”

“Fuck off,” Jean snorted in amusement, unable to disguise the smile in his voice. “You’ve got one hell of a high opinion about yourself, don’t you?”

“Only when it comes to baking. Now come on, those need to go into the fridge to set.”

With the bread dough once more, Marco showed him how to divide in into equal sections of six, before kneading it for a second and final time- although, this time around, it was a lot less like kneading, and more like beating the actual crap out of it. Afterwards, he guided Jean’s hands into shaping a wide, oblong-shaped loaf, scored along the top to regulate the air within it, before they put them back into the proving cupboard, and Marco began to show him the vital skill of how to make puff pastry for the Danish pastries. Jean was informed that puff pastry was a staple of many of the things made in the bakery, and knowing how to make it from scratch without instructions was an invaluable skill. Before long, the bread went into the oven, the croissants came out and Marco had him filling massive eclairs with whipped cream until they looked ready to burst, before slathering them in thick, runny chocolate. Next came the mercifully easy cream puffs: simple meringues piped with a sweet vanilla filling and a scattering of strawberry chunks. Jean surprised himself by being relatively good at making these. He tried to ignore the simplicity of them and instead focused on Marco’s praise, however empty it might have been.

Eventually, just before seven, Marco left the tray of bread rolls he had just prepped for baking and hauled the oven door open, grabbing a tea towel from the counter besides him to cover his hands as he pulled out the tray holding the bread Jean had made.

“Here you go,” he announced. He balanced the tray on one hand and gently pressed down on the top of one of the loaves. It’s richly coloured surface dipped at the pressure, then immediately sprang back as he removed his finger. “Cooked to perfection.”

Jean looked up and dusted the meringue powder from his hands onto his apron as he eyed the bread Marco placed on the counter next to the oven, flashing him an encouraging smile.

“I don’t know why you’re smiling. They look fucking awful.”

The only well-shaped one was the one Marco had done to show Jean what to do. The remaining five were crooked and misshapen, as if they’d caved in on themselves. Their surfaces weren’t smooth and even, they were bumpy and warped as if they were growing warts, like a toad’s back.

“No they don’t. They’re your first attempt. You can’t have expected to get it perfect on your first try.”

“Of course I didn’t. But I did exactly what you told me to- and you helped- so why do they look like actual shit?”

“They’re not that bad,” Marco insisted. “And like it or not, they’re still going out for sale, regardless of whether they’re up to your standard.”

“Are they up to your standard?”

“That depends. My standard of baking or my standard of selling?”

“Both.”

“For selling, they’re fine. They were made in a sanitary environment and they’re not burnt or undercooked, which means they’re perfectly fine to eat. For my standard of baking, I would’ve done my family a great disservice if I produced bread like this.”

“Fuck. You don’t pull punches, do you.”

“If nothing else, I’m honest,” he said cheerily. “That much I can promise you. Are you finished with the cream puffs?”

“Yeah. They’re significantly less crap than the bread, you’ll be glad to know.”

“Ha, ha, very funny. Well, if you don’t mind, I’m going to finish everything in here- would you mind cleaning the shop floor before we start putting everything out? The counters just need wiping down and the floor needs sweeping, but that’s pretty much it. Oh! And the glass; make sure you clean the glass. All the cleaning stuff you’ll need is just beneath the front counter.”

“Are you sure? You don’t need any more help?”

“I’ll be fine. But we need to open soon and I can’t finish everything and clean the store at the same time.” Marco smiled graciously, but it was clear he was being dismissed. Jean ran a hand through his hair before turning around and walking back out onto the shop floor.

The dim light from outside had now brightened considerably. The circlet of houses visible through the shop’s window was now filled with sunlight filtering between each building, casting long shadows already beginning to withdraw as the sun rose. It was just visible now, cresting over the roofs across from the bakery, slowly ascending into the pale blue sky amidst wispy white clouds like a balloon.

Jean retrieved the cleaning supplies from beneath the counter- a broom, dust pan and brush, one bottle of sanitation spray, and one of glass cleaner as well as a roll of blue paper towels. He set about wiping down the insides of the counters and polishing the glass just as he’d been asked, confident that, at the very least, he could get this right. Having a clean freak of a mother was actually paying off for once- he’d learnt to clean very thoroughly after spending countless hours trying to scrub crushed pieces of charcoal out of her carpet. Now that was something he wouldn’t miss about home.

He finished brushing up around the legs of the table and chairs on the left of the shop floor, and went to the stand with the books piled on top. He paused when he glanced at the spines and saw that name again- Maria Bodt.

So it was true; that really was his mother. Why wouldn’t it be? Bodt wasn’t exactly a common last name.

Just to make sure, Jean paused in sweeping and propped the brush up against himself as he reached out and selected one book at random, opening its front cover to check the picture on the inside of the dust jacket. The same photo as the one in the book back at his house looked back at him steadily, dark hair and freckles and all. It was uncanny: Marco was unmistakably her son.

“Those are my mom’s books.”

Jean turned around to see Marco standing in the kitchen doorway. He was balancing the huge tray of vanilla slices, freshly cut into little rectangles, on his shoulder with one steady hand, the other resting on his hip as he met Jean’s gaze with a droll little smile.

“I gathered as much. You look almost exactly like each other.” Jean held up the book and motioned to the picture on the inner cover. “It’s almost creepy.”

“Yeah, I get told that a lot. That’s how most people recognise me, actually. More than once I’ve had people come in here and ask if I’m Maria Bodt’s son. They tend to get kind of excited when they realise they’re inside the bakery she grew up in as well.”

“She’s…pretty well known, isn’t she? Your mom?”

“I guess.” Marco cocked his head thoughtfully. The smile was still etched onto his face, but it didn’t hold the same warmth as it had before. There was something cold that glinted in his eyes that didn’t light up with the sincerity his smile usually brought to them. “I don’t really think about it much, to be honest. The only reason I keep those out-” He nodded towards the bookshelf at Jean’s elbow- “is to sell. It’s the one thing my mom insists I do. I can run the rest of the bakery how I like, just so long as her books are out.”

The room suddenly felt very cold, despite the sun’s rays pouring in through the front windows. Jean was quiet as Marco went over to the front display cabinet and pulled out a pair tongs and began to put the vanilla slices out onto a wooden board, one by one. He felt very much like he was toeing a boundary he probably shouldn’t cross. Tension was thick in the air as he slid the recipe book back into place with the rest of them. Even though Marco wasn’t looking at him, he could distinctly tell that the warmth he had emitted constantly- ever since they’d first met- had almost completely gone. Clearly there was something going on with his mother that Jean probably shouldn’t get involved with.

He finished sweeping the floor in silence as Marco went back and forth from the back room, beginning to fill the counters and shelves with everything they’d been baking that morning after laying down crisp white sheets of wax paper with lacy edges. Actually, as Jean watched him setting up the shop out of the corner of his eye as he finished cleaning, it looked like there was a lot more food there than they’d had time to make in the past four hours. At least, that’s the way it seemed. Soft heaps of currant buns were stacked in the counter that Jean didn’t remember seeing in the kitchen earlier. Neither did he recall the multitude of custard tarts that he watched Marco place between the other cakes in the window display. Or those loaves of brown bread that looked like they’d been plaited into chunky braids. Or those cinnamon rolls.

“How much did you make last night?” Jean demanded when Marco returned with a heap of macaroons that he’d already arranged onto a plate. There was no way he’d made those whilst Jean had been there.

Marco blinked and halted in his tracks, a little surprised at Jean’s tone. “Uh…like, food wise?”

“There’s no way you made all of that whilst I wasn’t looking.”

“Um…all I do at night is measure out all the ingredients I need, like I said earlier.” Marco smiled, raising one hand to scratch at the back of his head uncertainly. “I’ve made most everything else either in the hour before you arrived or whilst you were working on the bread and the vanilla slices.”

“Bullshit.” It was all Jean could do to not gape at him and the shelves around them, lined with loaf after endless loaf. “How? How did you have time? You couldn’t have- I was there-”

Marco shrugged helplessly as he placed the plate on the counter next to the till. “I’ve been doing this for a while, Jean. Give me some credit here.”

“You’re not human, you know that?”

“Haha, you think so?”

They were interrupted by the chime of the bell on the front door as it creaked open and a small, shy face appeared in the crack. It was a little girl, no more than eight or nine, with blonde hair tied into demure pigtails and a backpack on her back, peering sheepishly into the shop.

At her appearance, Marco seemed to light up once more.

“Good morning, Ellie!” He said brightly. “Is it that time already?”

She giggled, her cautiousness immediately replaced with a sense of familiarity as she entered the shop properly, returning Marco’s equally as sunny grin. “G’morning, Mr Bodt!”

“You here for your mother again?”

“Yep!” She nodded vigorously, pigtails bobbing up and down. Marco immediately went around to the shelf on the other side of the shop and took down one of the loaves that Jean had made that morning. Jean very nearly opened his mouth to protest, but Marco seemed to sense his intention and shot him a knowing glance, raising one eyebrow as if asking him to contradict his better judgement.

The little girl must have followed Marco’s gaze and caught sight of Jean standing in the corner. The complacent look on her face was immediately replaced with confusion as she sidled over to the counter where Marco was putting her bread into a paper bag for her and whispered, rather loudly, “Mr Bodt, who’s that?”

“Who?” Marco looked up from the bag in his hands, over at Jean with a look of mingled amusement. “That’s Jean.”

“What’s he doing here? I thought I was always your first customer!”

He laughed and handed the packaged bread over the counter into her waiting arms. “You are! You’re always my first customer. Jean’s not a customer. You should get used to seeing him. From today, he’s going to start working here.”

“Mr Bodt…”

“Yes?”

“This bread looks funny.”

Marco blinked, looking almost caught by surprise by her blunt expression. She was looking at the bread in her arms visible through the little plastic window in the paper bag, her little face creased in doubt as she examined the uneven bulbous surface and blotchy colouring dubiously. Jean would’ve laughed if it weren’t so damn tragic that even a kid could see the terrible state of the bread he had made. He turned his back on them both and dropped into a crouch, focusing on sweeping the dust pile he’d collected into the dustpan in a resolute attempt to make himself as invisible as possible.

Maybe don’t get used to seeing me around too frequently, kid. He thought to himself grimly. If that’s the kind of bread you can expect from me, then this job is doomed to fail before it’s even started.

Then again, Marco had praised his decorating ability, hadn’t he? He’d proved competent at that, at the very least. That was worth something…right?

Jean was pulled out of his reverie when he heard Marco’s voice speak up once more, just as soft and gentle as before, yet almost reverent in its tone.

“And? So what if it looks a little funny? It’s the taste that counts, isn’t it? Sometimes when we try new things, things we don’t expect we’ll like, we end up being pleasantly surprised like that. Even if it’s not something you think is worth trying- because we never know what it might be like once we try it, do we?”

There was a short pause before the same giggle piped up again, followed by a clink of a handful of coins clattering onto the counter.

“You’re funny, Mr Bodt!”

Despite himself, Jean snorted.

“Glad you think so. Now, go on, get back home, before your mother gets me into trouble for keeping you. Have a good day, Ellie.”

“Bye! And…bye, Mr Jean.”

Jean jerked instinctively and turned his head just to see the back of her disappear out of the door with a chime of the doorbell as it swung closed behind her. He brushed the last of the dust pile into the pan in his hand and straightened up, eyeing Marco on the other side of the counter curiously.

“Who was that?”

“One of the neighbourhood kids.” Marco raised a finger and pointed to her retreating figure, visible through the shop window. She crossed the roundabout to one of the houses on the other side of the street and disappeared inside. “Her mother sends her for a loaf of bread every morning. She’s a sweet kid, really.”

Jean was quiet.

“Is something wrong?”

“No…it’s just,” A smirk was beginning to play on his lips. “she called you Mr Bodt.”

Marco’s cheeks visibly pinked. “And?”

“You don’t seem like a Mr Bodt.”

It was Marco’s turn to snort as he ran a handg through his fringe, pushing it off his face as he chortled at Jean. “Trust me, it feels as weird as it sounds. Hey, you got to be Mr Jean, though.”

“Ha. That might be easier for her. My last name’s a pain to pronounce, especially if you’re a kid.”

“Yeah? What is it?”

“Kirschtein.”

“Yikes. That’s harsh.”

“Plus, I got an awkward first name, as well- written like J-e-a-n and said like zhawn. It’s as if my mother actually wanted me to grow up to be the pretentious asshole always correcting people on his name.”

Marco chuckled softly once more as Jean walked past, holding the full dustpan in one hand and the rest of the cleaning things in the other to return to their proper place. He lifted the hatch in the counter and lay them back underneath, where they belonged, as Marco side stepped to let him through.

“Hey, Marco, where’s your trash can?”

“There’s one in the kitchen- wait, Jean.”

He halted mid-turn in the general direction of the back room as Marco looked over at him, an almost uncertain look starting to knit his brows together in an expression Jean couldn’t quite discern.

“Yeah?”

“You heard all of that stuff about the bread, right?”

I’ve heard a lot of stuff about bread this morning, bud. You’re going to have to be more specific. “Uh…sure.”

The tension knotting itself into Marco’s brow immediately unwound as his entire face softened once more into the familiar open, approachable amiability that Jean was used to. He made his way over to him, taking the dust pan from Jean’s hands as he did so, and turning on his way towards the doorway where he paused for a moment to speak.

“Good. Just…bear it in mind, OK? There’s no shame. We’re all like funny bread at some point in our lives.”

And with that, Marco disappeared into the kitchen.

Jean stared after him for a few seconds, one eyebrow raised, perplexed, before it struck him.

Sometimes when we try new things, we end up being pleasantly surprised like that. Even if it’s something you don’t expect you’ll like. Even if it’s not something you think is worth trying.

His cheeks began to prickle with heat.

“Hey, if you’re calling me ‘funny bread’ now that’s it, I’m quitting.”

Marco just laughed.

…

Jean hung around the shop until a little past ten in the morning when Marco informed him he had a few deliveries to make to several cafés around town that had placed orders with him, and Jean might as well go home. He was insistent that he didn’t need any more of Jean’s help and practically had to push him out of the door and told him to rest up for the same thing tomorrow.

Well, at least he was aware that Jean was severely fatigued at this point.

He arrived at home just before eleven to find Eren sitting on the sofa just like he had the day before they enrolled for college- video game and sweatpants and all- who looked up at Jean’s entrance and instantly declared upon his arrival that he looked like death, with eyebags that rivalled a panda’s.

Not in the mood to spat with his housemate, Jean ignored him and made a beeline up the stairs straight to his room and immediately collapsed onto his bed, not even bothering to close his door behind him. He’d suddenly been struck with irrefutable exhaustion on the walk home and his eyes were aching so much with sleep that they felt physically ready to fall out of their sockets. His limbs were heavy and cumbersome- his biceps in particular were beginning to throb with the exertion from earlier- and taking the weight off his feet and throwing it right onto bed was the closest he’d come to feeling euphoria in his life. He didn’t think he’d be so tired after only a few short hours of working. Then again, maybe this was the consequence of spending the past few weeks staying up until three in the morning either drawing or playing video games with Eren and waking up at noon.

Was this all really going to be worth it?

Waking up at the butt crack of dawn every day, baking mediocre bread, getting in the way rather than helping…was this really all going to be worth putting himself through, just so he could pursue the silly little idealisms in his head?

He rolled onto his side, bunching up the duvet into his arms and clutching it close to his chest as he curled around it, into his preferred sleeping position. At least he was getting paid. Even if he proved as completely and utterly useless as he had on his first day, he’d be spending all of summer earning- that was better than nothing, right?

Yeah. He’d focus on that. Instead of misshapen bread and his inability to knead properly. Focus on the money. Focus on the pay check.

But as he finally slid into unconsciousness, all he could think of was a stupid smile curving upwards into a splattering of freckles.

Damn you, freckle face.

This better be worth it.

[newstfionline]

Headlines

Extra unemployment aid expires as virus threatens new states (AP) As public health officials warned Friday that the coronavirus posed new risks to parts of the Midwest and South, enhanced federal payments that helped avert financial ruin for millions of unemployed Americans were set to expire—leaving threadbare safety nets offered by individual states to catch them. Since early in the pandemic, the federal government has added $600 to the weekly unemployment checks that states send. That increase ends this week, and with Congress still haggling over next steps, most states will not be able to offer nearly as much. In addition to the end of the $600 payments, federal protections against evictions also are set to expire.

The pandemic has damaged the appeal of studying in the United States for some international students (Washington Post) Twenty-four-year-old Sehr Taneja, a master’s student at the Harvard Kennedy School, had always seen the United States as “the gold standard” for education. But now she’s more concerned about contracting the novel coronavirus or facing deportation than the rigor of her course load. Back home in India after leaving Boston in March, she’s deciding whether to defer her second year. Such worries over health care, immigration and visa status are drivers behind an expected drop in enrollment among international students at U.S. institutions, and have struck a blow to the standing of the United States as a coveted destination for overseas study, according to initial data gathered by organizations in the global education sector. More than 1 million international students studied or conducted research at U.S. universities last year, or worked through a postgraduate visa program, according to the New York-based Institute for International Education. In March, when the coronavirus shut down much of the world, around 90 percent of those enrolled remained in the country. In the months since, President Trump imposed travel bans and stoked uncertainty through whiplash student visa policy changes as coronavirus case numbers continued to spike.

Federal agents use tear gas to clear rowdy Portland protest (AP) Thousands of protesters gathered outside the federal courthouse in Portland, Oregon, into the early hours Saturday, shooting fireworks at the building as plumes of tear gas dispensed by U.S. agents, lingered above. The demonstration went until federal agents entered the crowd around 2:30 a.m. and marched in a line down the street, clearing remaining protesters with tear gas at close range. They also extinguished a large fire in the street outside the courthouse. Portland has been roiled by nightly protests for two months following the killing of George Floyd in Minneapolis. President Donald Trump said he sent federal agents to Oregon’s largest city to halt the unrest but state and local officials say they are making the situation worse. The clashes in Portland have further inflamed the nation’s political tensions and triggered a crisis over the limits of federal power as Trump moves to send U.S. officers to other Democratic-led cities he says are violent.

Hanna's rain remains biggest threat to virus hot spot Texas (AP) South Texas braced for flooding Sunday after Hanna roared ashore as a hurricane the day before, bringing winds that lashed the Gulf Coast with rain and storm surge to a part of the country trying to cope with a spike in cases of the coronavirus. The first hurricane of the 2020 Atlantic cyclone season made landfall twice as a Category 1 storm on Saturday afternoon within the span of little over an hour. The first landfall happened at around 5 p.m. about 15 miles (24 kilometers) north of Port Mansfield, which is about 130 miles (209 km) south of Corpus Christi. The second landfall took place nearby in eastern Kenedy County. Hanna came ashore with maximum sustained winds of 90 mph (145 kph). Forecasters downgraded Hanna to a tropical storm early Sunday. Forecasters said Hanna could bring 6 to 12 inches (15 to 30 centimeters) of rain through Sunday night — with isolated totals of 18 inches (46 centimeters) — in addition to coastal swells that could cause life-threatening surf and rip current conditions.

Power and the space it takes (Bloomberg) Wind and solar generation takes more space physically than more traditional means of generating electricity, with 7.6 hectares per megawatt needed for wind and 1.7 hectares per megawatt needed for solar. Worldwide, there are 650 gigawatts of solar and 644 gigawatts of wind commissioned that cover an area of 52,000 square kilometers, or roughly the combined size of Vermont and New Hampshire. All told, about 8 percent of global electricity generation is from wind and solar, and with onshore wind and solar projected to account for 48 percent of global electricity production by 2050, the global area of land required will encompass something like 423,000 square kilometers.

Thousands of families evicted in Sao Paulo amid pandemic (AP) Jussara de Jesus never thought that her family would live in a shack. But work as a hairdresser dried for up after the novel coronavirus hit Brazilian metropolis Sao Paulo. She couldn’t afford $150 a month in rent for the small house where she and her three children lived. Three months ago, they were evicted. They moved to Jardim Julieta, one of Brazil’s newest favelas, or shantytowns. With more than 800 shacks of wood and plastic sheeting, there are already several thousand people living in what used to be a parking lot for trucks in one of the poorest areas of the city. The growing number of evictions driven by Brazil’s COVID-19 pandemic is worsening an already serious housing problem in the country. Before the pandemic, local authorities counted more than 200,000 families waiting for adequate housing in Sao Paulo, a city of 12 million. The human rights and research group LabCidade estimates more than 2,000 families have lost their homes in Sao Paulo state since March, with another 1,000 facing the same risk in upcoming weeks. It is a high figure for a state with 46 million residents, about the same population as Spain.

Mass resignations at Hungary’s largest news site as press freedom slides (Washington Post) The editorial board and 70 staff members at Hungary’s largest news site dramatically resigned Friday, as journalists battle to keep their editorial independence under the increasingly autocratic rule of Prime Minister Viktor Orban. The mass resignations of almost the entire staff of Budapest-based Index.hu followed the sacking of editor in chief Szabolcs Dull, who warned in June that the site’s independence was at risk after changes to its ownership structure. It marks another blow to Hungary’s shrinking independent media. In his 10 years in power, Orban has been accused of systematically stifling the press, bringing news outlets under the control of his loyalists and passing laws that hinder critical journalism. Since 2018, Hungary has slipped 16 places on the World Press Freedom Index, making it one of the worst countries for media freedom in Europe.

Ancient Greek theaters return to life in pandemic (AP) Lights! Crickets. Birds. Bats. Action! The ancient theater of Epidaurus, renowned for its acoustics, has reopened for a limited number of open-air performances, with organizers planning a live-streamed event Saturday for the first time in the Greek monument’s 2,300-year history. Live concerts and events have been mostly canceled in Greece this summer due to the coronavirus pandemic. But the Culture Ministry allowed the Epidaurus Theater in southern Greece and the Odeon of Herodes Atticus in Athens to host performances under strict safety guidelines.

Turkey and Greece exchange harsh words over Hagia Sophia prayers (AP) Turkey and Greece exchanged harsh words on Saturday over the conversion of Istanbul’s Hagia Sophia into a mosque, a day after Islamic prayers were held at the ancient site for the first time in nine decades. Greek criticism of the move to convert the site from a museum has been scathing, underlining tense ties between Greece and Turkey. Church bells tolled in mourning across Greece on Friday as Turkish President Tayyip Erdogan joined prayers at the building. “Greece showed once again its enmity towards Islam and Turkey with the excuse of reacting to Hagia Sophia Mosque being opened to prayers,” Turkish Foreign Ministry spokesman Hami Aksoy said in a written statement on Saturday. The Greek Foreign Ministry responded with its own statement, saying “the international community of the 21st century is stunned to observe the religious and nationalist fanatic ramblings of today’s Turkey.” Friday’s ceremony sealed Erdogan’s ambition to restore Muslim worship at the site, which most Greeks view as central to their Orthodox Christian religion. Greece and Turkey disagree on a range of issues from airspace to maritime zones and ethnically split Cyprus. This week they also exchanged barbs over the delimitation of their continental shelves in the eastern Mediterranean, an area thought to be rich in natural resources.

How Syrians Are Reshaping German Society (Der Spiegel) There’s a problem with German bread. It crumbles when you use it to mop up fried eggplant or bulgur salad from a plate. It’s also difficult to fill with meat, hummus and sauces. t’s no surprise, then, that when asked what the most popular item in his grocery store is, Mohammad Hanawi, 20, immediately answers with “chubs arabi,” the Arab pita bread. Hanawi’s father opened his grocery store in January. He says it’s going great, and that beans, sausages and pickled grape leaves were also popular. “Syrian things. That’s what people were missing here.” Syrians now represent the largest Muslim minority in Germany after Turks. Since 2010, their numbers in the country have risen from around 30,000 to almost 800,000. Most arrived as refugees after the outbreak of the civil war, and they are reshaping the country, much like Turkish migrants did for decades. Between 2015 and 2018, Syrian women in Germany gave birth to over 65,000 babies. A lot of Syrians have now been living in Germany for so long that they will be able to transition their time-limited protection status into permanent residency authorization this year as long as they are deemed to be well integrated. At that point, they are no longer considered refugees.

The World’s Most Technologically Sophisticated Genocide Is Happening in Xinjiang (Foreign Policy) Two recent disturbing events may finally awaken the world to the scale and horror of the atrocities being committed against the Uighurs, a mostly secular Muslim ethnic minority, in Xinjiang, China. One is an authoritative report documenting the systematic sterilization of Uighur women. The other was the seizure by U.S. Customs and Border Protection of 13 tons of products made from human hair suspected of being forcibly removed from Uighurs imprisoned in concentration camps. Both events evoke chilling parallels to past atrocities elsewhere, forced sterilization of minorities, disabled, and Indigenous people, and the image of the glass display of mountains of hair preserved at Auschwitz.

[elle-stevens]

The Break Up Blog - Day Eighteen

Ladies Night at the bar turned out to be more fun than I initially expected. 

I was at home yesterday having eaten half a big bowl of chicken and shrimp fried rice and enjoying my new Chinese drama. I almost felt too comfortable to leave my apartment. But I gave myself a pep-talk about being more sociable and meeting my friends like I planned. Then I met C outside our apartment complex and we took a cab to the bar. 

Our mutual friend, AM, who convinced both C and I to go to Ladies Night with her, joined us 10 minutes after we arrived. I’m glad I went to Ladies Night. Even though I get super reserved around people I don’t know, a few people approached me and chatted with me, including a woman who’s also from South Africa like me. I got a nice surprise when one of my new acquaintances, R, turned up at the bar too. 

R is a Pilates instructor and I first met her when I consulted her on some neck problems I developed from my sleeping posture a few months ago. She helped me out a lot with improving my overall posture and I’m toying with the idea of even taking some of her Pilates classes in the near future. It doesn’t hurt that she has a warm and vivacious personality and a killer body that would make a monk weep. I’ll admit, I was pretty attracted to her when we first met while I was dating X, but it wasn’t anything like what happened with L. And that was mainly because I decided early on that I wasn’t going to make my penchant for shameless perving into something more serious and amorous. Anyway, it was good seeing her at the start of the night, even though she disappeared right after that. 

I still found myself looking around the bar for any sign of R while me, C and AM laughed up a storm. AM is just a ball of infectious energy and positivity, it’s damn near difficult to be miserable in her company. I told her about X and I’m glad for it because she was very kind about it. She even seemed keen on reading these break-up blog posts of mine, which made me a little embarassed. Sure, I’m already sharing my private thoughts with what might be a score of nameless strangers online, but that’s only because I thought people didn’t really care about what I’ve been writing in the first place. But the more I type out my thoughts, the more I realise just how many people are helping me through this process of moving on from X and gaining a better outlook on life. 

I mostly drank free red and white wine at the bar, which got me feeling really tipsy after a short time. Me, C and AM met a new girl at the bar just as we were leaving named AN who’s Russian. She spontaneously invited the three of us to join her at a night club across the street with the promise of more free drinks. I didn’t really care about the alcohol, but I definitely wanted to keep the positive buzz of the wine going through my system for a little bit longer, so I agreed. I was trying to unwind from the stresses of work and distract myself from the loss of X, I figured I was due some unscripted fun for a change. 

It was actually my first time ever in a night club. I’ve lived a pretty sheltered life up till now and living on my own abroad has been the only time where I’ve been allowed to have adventures and misadventures alike. I’m glad my first night club wasn’t as big or as crowded as the ones you see in movies. This club had a very relaxed atmosphere with only a few people in the building. I started chugging down a glass of Coke and whiskey when AN asked me if I wanted to play pool with her. I’m no great shakes at it, but I like playing whenever I’m in a bar, so I agreed. At this point, C, AM and I were well on our way to getting ‘cliche’ wasted. But I managed to stay lucid and on my feet and even won at pool after lots of poorly constructed shots with my cue. 

After that, I drank and I danced. And then, I drank even more while dancing. The music was really good and it took my alcoholic buzz to new and extraordinary heights. In that moment, I felt happy and free. I almost wished that X could see just how happy I was without her. But that was just the alcohol talking; it gives me a false sense of bravado which lifts me to my pinnacle only to send me crashing hellwards when I eventually sober up. 

These were these neon signs of broken hearts on the walls and while I danced, my fingers kept pointing to them and whispering X’s name in a mantra. Even in my heightened sense of frivolity, my subconscious was still trying to alert me to what I truly feel when no one else is around. I’m not over X; I probably won’t be for a while. I wish that we’d gone clubbing together at least once and just danced the night away in each other’s arms. That will never be now and because of that, I kept dancing and dancing, but just for myself. 

In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have chugged down a glass a wine and about 4 glasses of Coke and whiskey without sips of water in-between. That hit me hard after I said goodbye to AN and C and I managed to put AM into a taxi without any of us running into the streets. My stomach really hurt during the taxi and my head was spinning from the alcohol. I finally couldn’t hold it in and rolled down the window so I could puke while the car was still in motion. I ended up making a bit of a mess on the side of the car door. By the time I reached my apartment complex, I had to climb out of the car and kept hurling on the ground. The experience was pretty mortifying, especially when C had to pay extra for our taxi ride because of the mess I made. But she was very nice about it and took me home because I could no longer walk on my own feet. She helped me onto the sofa and even put a bucket down on the floor in case I needed to throw up again before leaving me to sleep. Despite embarassing myself before then, I managed to get 5 hours of peaceful and uninterrupted sleep. 

Naturally, I felt like shit this morning. I got my wish from a week ago: the need to get blindingly drunk. I had my very first hangover today and it was not fun. My eyes were puffy and felt heavy all day long. The thought of eating anything greasy made my stomach churn and my head was pounding for most of the day. Still, I put on a brave face and even laughed about it with C, CI and PE at our desks during the day. I was probably not in the best physical state to deal with my rowdy students, but I remedied that by downloading a video with sounds that only young children can hear to torture them every time they got too noisy and ignored my instructions in class. 

I managed to leave work on time and make it home for my Skype interview with S. I’m not entirely I nailed it or made a good impression, I was pretty nervous. But hopefully, there’ll be other opportunities to make a second good impression that will stick. Even though nothing’s on the horizon yet with finding a new job, I feel about my life in general this week than I did a week ago. I have to just keep showing up and pray that a door doesn’t get slammed in my face. 

After my whacky adventures from the night before and a busy day at school along with an interview, I expected to feel worse for wear. But I’m actually feeling ok now, like I can actually muster up enough energy to exercise at the gym tonight. And I got paid today; surviving a month of a low bank balance finally paid off in more ways than one. I”m probably going to end up spending half of my salary on this weekend alone with paying off subscriptions, saving up for rent, sending money back to South Africa to replenish my savings and buying things for the apartment like appliances and groceries. But I’m gonna try not to mind too much. It’s better to have money I can actually spend than having no money at all. 

I have a meeting with another school tomorrow. If that goes well, I’ll get some extra income from teaching for a few hours on the weekends. After that, I’ll need to buy some groceries and then I’ll have lunch with KI, one of my new friends, on Sunday. I don’t like giving up my down time too much, but staying busy these days seems to be helping me. I’ve been alone with my morbid thoughts about X and our previous relationship for months now and I’m sick of it. I put my life and my dreams on hold for her one too many times; it’s time to start living again and being happy. 

I had a weird moment when I opened up Paypal earlier and saw X’s account details on my screen. I used to help her out with money in the past; seeing my previous transactions were an uncomfortable reminder of how naive I was about X’s intentions for me. It smarted ever so slightly when I deleted X’s details from Paypal, but I’m glad I did it. I gave her too much of myself, including the contents of my bank account. Now I’m finally free of her manipulations. I’ve even decided to postpone sending back her crap, which was originally going to happen this weekend. There’s no real rush now, especially when I know that it will only be a matter of time before I’m finally over her. I might do it next weekend instead or I might not. I don’t want to make any decisions that I might have second thoughts about later. X may have controlled our relationship, but I’m going to control the break-up and how I carry myself throughout it all. 

This has become a long post reflecting on my night-club exploits, so this is a good place to stop for now. I don’t really know what’s going to happen from here on out, but at least I know that I’m going to work at being my old, positive self again while it happens.