#they could take him playing the same chord throughout an entire song but two days without a shower??

[arokel]

Obviously I’m here for more coxstroke and perhaps a situation where one takes advantage of his height for whatever (nefarious?) reason?

here you go! this is almost entirely based on @roborain 's beautiful art so it only gets a teeny bit nefarious at the end, but I hope you like it anyway :)

Title: Leading, Resolution

Pairing: Don Hume/Bobby Moch

Rating: G

Tags: Piano, Fluff, First Kiss

Read on ao3

Notes: The chord progressions here are based on a typical ragtime chord progression, which is a bit before the boys' time but made its way into folk music throughout the 20th century.

Playing an instrument is a great way to brood without anyone noticing. Don's fingers roll into familiar tune after familiar tune as his mind churns, gaze straight ahead. He knows these songs well enough to play them in the dark, and so he can focus his mind's eye on the carousel of memories that won't leave him alone even now, when he should be able to lose himself in music as he's always done.

D7-G7-C.

His thoughts have been in unrest ever since the moment three days ago when Bobby had said, "you know, I think we're the same" and refused to elaborate.

Roger is clapping along. Joe hums under his breath and Gordy bobs his head in time. And Bobby watches.

"The same how?"

"You know, the way you look at me - I look at you like that too. You just haven't noticed."

"I don't look at you any way."

"Well, I do. You don't have to do anything about it; I just wanted you to know.”

Dominant-dominant-tonic.

There's no way Bobby could have meant it the way it sounded, but every second since Don has been searching for those looks, for some sign he might not have heard wrong. There's been nothing.

"Eyes up, Donny! Come on, you're shy to look at me now? Listen, I'm sorry I said anything. You can forget it if you want."

"Easier said than done."

"Well, I - my offer still stands. If you want to do something else. Feather, Adam; is today your first time in a shell? Because it sure as hell seems like it."

Leading-leading-resolution.

Don wants so badly to do something, anything, but he can't trust his own ears. He needs to see it.

The latest song trails into silence and Don's hands drop to his lap, played out. His head is too full of questions now to keep going even through the muscle memory. There is a smattering of applause and a few whoops from Chuck, and Don finally turns to face out towards his teammates, focusing his eyes for what feels like the first time in hours. That's when he sees it.

Bobby has drifted closer to listen, and now he is pressed against the lip of the shallow stage, elbows braced on the boards and chin propped in his hands. And his eyes -

They're a pale, piercing blue like always, and yet, watching Don, they're softer. Robin's egg rather than ice. And the look in them, so unlike Bobby's usual sharp gaze, can only be described as smitten - the way Joe looks at Joyce, the way Don knows he looks at Bobby even if he denies it, the way Bobby said he looked at Don.

Don can't look away.

He pushes back the bench and steps away from the piano to affect a slight bow, ears burning less at the applause and more at the heat of Bobby's unwavering gaze as he straightens.

Looking at the room properly now, he can see that the boys have finished their cleaning while he played and, now that he's finished, most of them are already drifting towards the door. Only Bobby remains, spine straightening and flushing under Don's scrutiny. The adoration is gone, to be replaced with a nervous, questioning look, but Don has seen enough. It was there, and Bobby does look at Don like Don looks at him, and Don wants to see it again.

It is now only the two of them. Don gathers his courage and lets himself smile down at Bobby.

"Come up here?"

"Thought you'd never ask. Hoped you would, though," Bobby says, with a grin of his own, and pushes himself up onto the stage.

Before he can straighten to his full height, Don bends to meet him, hands on Bobby's shoulders keeping him on his knees, bearing him down to the floor to kiss him. When they part, Bobby's eyes are hazy and bright and sweet.

Then he ruins it, as usual, with his mouth.

"So you like me looking up at you like that, huh? I know a couple other things I could do from this position."

Don's fingers twitch in surprise, grip tightening briefly on Bobby's shoulders like the opening chord of another piece.

E7. Dominant, leading, leading, leading -

Don will follow it where it goes.

[kingkatsuki]

kirishima and just being pressed up against him in a mosh pit 😩

You didn’t request a band, and no one else has requested them so I was selfish and picked my favourite band 👀

You were definitely one of the smallest people in this portion of the crowd, the area you’d chosen seemed to have some of the wildest pits, unable to resist jumping in yourself to enjoy the motion of the crowd, eventually feeling someone knock into you from behind as you fell to the floor. Not that you were down for long, the same man picking you up as though you weighed nothing.

“You okay?” He pressed his lips against the shell of your ear, trying to talk to you over the loud guitars that were playing in the background. Finally giving you the opportunity to take a good look at him, a charming smile on his face as piercings and tattoos littered his skin. An old-school Green Day shirt covering his chest, the arms torn off to turn it into a makeshift vest.

Nodding in appreciation as he placed a hand on your hip to lean down to talk to you, having to move closer than normal because of the loud music blaring from the speakers. Not that you minded, the feeling of his large palm against you had your heart beating hard and fast in your chest.

“I’m Kirishima.” He introduced himself with a grin, repeating himself when you didn’t hear him the first time, squinting as you tried to focus on his voice to decipher what he was saying. Doing the same as you shouted your own name back, trying to stop the butterflies from erupting within you at the wide smile that covered his face when he heard your name.

You smiled in glee as you heard one of your favourite songs starting, turning back around to face the stage as he lingered beside you. You had no idea how you’d managed to get this lucky as you smiled at the random stranger behind you, his red hair tied back into a messy bun as a black bandana captured the sweat from his brow. Every time the chorus of a fast pace song would start up he’d instinctively step closer to you, trying to protect you from some of the guys in the pit that were going a little harder than others.

The two of you spending the entire concert together, screaming out the lyrics as you both looked at each other in surprise when you were the only two in the area that knew some of their older songs. Kirishima shoving larger figures out of the way in the pit before they had a chance to run at you, going around in the same pattern as you did in the crowd.

When the beginning chords to Good Riddance started you could feel your chest tightening, a subtle ebb to the euphoria you’d felt throughout the concert appearing as the song signalled the end of the set. As though noticing your sadness Kirishima pulled you into his side, caging you against his sweaty body as he pressed you into his armpit. Not that you cared, your own sweaty arm moved to wrap around his waist, feeling just how muscular he was underneath the shirt he wore.

Tears beginning to pool in the corners of your eyes as you listened to the lyrics, the emotions slipping through as you turned to stare up at Kirishima with glassy orbs. Watching the way his adam’s apple bobbed as he sang the lyrics, the messy black stubble lining his jaw as you tightened your grip around his waist, trying to get his attention as he turned to look down at you, catching you staring. You gave a soft tug to his shirt, motioning what you wanted as his lips curved into a soft smile, leaning his hulking body down to press his lips against yours in a gentle kiss. His palm tightened around your shoulder as he swiped his tongue against your lips, delving inside as you stood swaying to the final few chords of the song. Confetti streaming out from the projectors on either side of the stage as you were soon blanketed in the colourful paper, pulling away from the kiss with a smile as you watched the confetti fall around you both.

დ 30k music event.

[farthngdr]

Some Thoughts on “Dead to Rights” by Radio Company

First, if you are not a Cockles truther, you should probably look away. My tinhat is so tight it hurts. Surgical removal has been deemed too risky and would probably result in my demise.

The comments here are entirely mine, as are the assumptions incorporated into my lyrics analysis about real-life people and their relationships. No disrespect is intended. Please do not contact Jensen, Misha, or Danneel about anything you read below, or about anything Cockles-related, because there is absolutely no evidence for anything I am saying here, and their lives are essentially unknown to us.

Thank you.

_______________________________________________________________

She said It all will change If not it all can wait It may die away Over time But I do believe It's better than being alive It's better than being alive It's better than being-

Bombs away Only just begun You want to be the one to say you love The rain-

fall

When all the while the angels call; The only way to see just how it comes to be Every day To know it all falls away.

You had me dead to rights Holding down my chain; You had me dead to rights I got out again; Never been the same.

Song composed by Jensen Ackles and Steve Carlson

No official statement has ever been made by the two songwriters as to who wrote the lyrics, who wrote the music, or if words and/or music were composed by both. I am proceeding on the assumption that Jensen wrote the lyrics. He has mentioned writing lyric ideas on notepads (as shown in the above photo), and so indeed he gives much thought to his lyric-writing process.

In another track from Vol. 2, “City Grown Willow,” a song clearly written by himself, he uses “chain” imagery. Clearly, the concept of the chain resonates for  him, whether the chain belongs to his lover, in “City Grown Willow,” or, as in this song, the chain is attached to himself, with the other end being held by the “she” he refers to throughout this lyric.

In addition, a close examination of other tracks by Radio Company share similar lyrical hallmarks as “Dead to Rights”: the invocation of a “she” in “City Grown Willow,” who I maintain is the same “she” as the one here, namely Danneel; “bombs away,” a metaphor for his emotional relationship with the “bomb,” i.e., Misha, recalls “cannonball, rise and fall,” from Vol. 1; other similar MC metaphors are the “fire” from “Jump into the Fire,” and “he stokes the flames ‘cause he is amused by the glow,” from “City Grown Willow.” Other JA lyrical hallmarks can be identified here as well.

________________________________________________________________

“’Dead to rights’ means having overwhelming evidence of someone's guilt, having irrefutable proof that someone is responsible for something. The idiom ‘dead to rights’ came into use before the 1850s in the United States.”

“’Dead to rights’: In the act of committing an error or crime, red-handed. For example, ‘They caught the burglars dead to rights with the Oriental rugs.’ This phrase uses ‘to rights’ in the sense of ‘at once.’”

________________________________________________________________

The theme of guilt is embedded in these lyrics--the narrator, JA, is guilty of something, and he was “caught red-handed,” as it were, by someone, the “she” in the song--his wife. The “guilty” act was more, I believe, her intuiting/noticing that her husband was in love with another--early days, perhaps before much had occurred between the two men, but wives are smart, and they can sometimes intuit when their men are in love with another, even before the husbands know themselves. 

“She said”---This song focuses on the fact that the narrator’s wife notices instantly--”at once”-- the “act” for which he feels guilty. And she voices it to him--she knows he is in love with another. And she also knows who. 

Thus, the “dead to rights” reference--she knew right away when her husband fell in love, and that he either wants to, or already has begun, pursuing a romantic relationship with his love. She “caught him red-handed,” even though a “crime” has not literally occurred, and, most importantly, *she is not angry or judgmental*; rather, she is concerned. 

She has thought about it before she confronts him with it. She is philosophical: “It all will change”--that is, this could be a momentary fancy, and if you follow through, everything will change in your life. “if not”--that is, if this is something lasting and substantial--then “it all can wait.” What’s the rush? Why not cool your jets and see if you still feel the same way in a few months? And know too, if you do pursue this, “It may die away over time.” So be careful. Don’t jump into the fire. You could get burned. I don’t want that for you.”

What is his response to her words? He acknowledges to her: “You are right.” 

He concedes that everything she says is true. But he has thought about it too. A lot. And he realizes something: “But I do believe it’s better than being alive.” This cryptic line puzzled me initially. “What” is better than being alive? Then one day, after hearing the track a few times, it hit: If the relationship crashes and burns--if it does die, and his heart is destroyed in the flames and ash--then so be it. He has decided that being with this person, jumping into the abyss with him, which could result in his own  metaphorical “death,” is exactly what he will do, because “dying” from the possible fallout of a disastrous love affair is preferable to the agony of continuing to live without him.

“You want to be the one to say you love the rain.....fall” --I love the pause here, putting the emphasis on the “fall,” conjuring up the act of falling in love; and also, the possibility of falling to one’s death. And of course, the biblical “fall”--we’re all fallen from grace. He is reminding her that it is she who always says she loves the rain--metaphorically, the rainy days, the times when things aren’t necessarily all sunshine and roses. She understands and accepts life’s gifts and risks. (And we learn in “City Grown Willow” that, in fact, “Her faith in love is better on sunny days.”)

“When all the while the angels call”--I cannot emphasize enough how unequivocally this imagery refers to MC. If I have to explain how many times J has called M an “angel”.....The point being, the angel calling him is impossible for him to ignore, and he just plain doesn’t want to. When an angel calls your name................you go.

“The only way to see just how it comes to be”--a typical Jensen cryptic line, when he wants to say something but doesn’t want to be too revealing, so he does so with the utmost vagueness, to the point where his meaning is almost impossible to decipher. That cryptic line, combined with the rest of the verse, “Every day/To know it all falls away,” strikes me like this: “The only way to know if I should do it or not, is just to do it.” And in the end, he philosophizes, everything falls away in any case--”even you and I will someday be parted.” The idea of mortality--of the limited span of time we inhabit this life--is heavy on his mind. And again, he has made his decision: His love is so deep, so compelling, that he is willing to risk everything--heart and soul--to be with the angel who is calling him.

_______________________________________________________________

ADDENDUM TO MY POST:

Unless Steve Carlson has said publicly that he specifically wrote the *words* to City Grown Willow, I maintain steadfastly that Jensen composed the lyrics. It makes sense that Carlson had written the guitar piece itself, with its beautiful, cascading notes and striking chord progressions, which demonstrate his skill as an instrumentalist. It’s no accident that the recording itself features only Carlson’s playing, with no other instrumental accompaniment--probably exactly the way Jensen first heard it.

Jensen heard Steve play the piece, loved it, and proceeded to write words for it. When Carlson says he played this piece for Jensen and that he had written it years prior, I take that to mean that Jensen loved the sound of the guitar and wanted to work with it.--that the song had no words. The lyrics have the hallmarks of Jensen's writing style; the content fits his situation, with a female and 2 males as the protagonists; and HE is “the man from the mountains.” That’s not Carlson’s identity--that's a moniker Jensen deliberately chose for himself, as he makes clear in the music video. 

If anyone can provide for me a direct quote from Carlson that he wrote the words, I will retract my statement. Until then, I hold my position.

[zuluc]

anonymous requested: i've been thinking about what to request for the past 3 days and i think i've finally got it. can i ask for kaeya or diluc with a crush that's a depressed bard that always composes sad songs and lyrics? here's the twist, though. their songs and lyrics start to cheer up as the two of them become closer friends!

pairing: diluc x gn! reader

style & genre: written; fluff

warnings: none

notes: i decided to do diluc for this one because I think it’d have a great impact on him as a person as well, and i’m here for more fluff with him 🥰 i made the lyrics myself for the sake of this fic please go easy on me all i know about music is playing the violin/viola also this is long

i changed the prompt a bit if that’s alright!

“Who are you exactly?” Diluc eyes you strangely when you look at him with a blank stare. In one hand you have a notebook and in the other is a lyre. You walked in only moments ago, actively avoiding anyone’s eyes as they knew you weren’t from town. You just wanted to go straight to the owner of the tavern and hope to share what you had in that book of yours.

“A bard,” you say. You look around to see a few of the townspeople staring back while the others cheer happily with each other as if an exciting thing had happened. “Do you have room for a performance?”

Diluc raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. You didn’t appear to have any double meaning or ill intention in your words, rather, your eyes were just void of any glint of mischief he usually saw in a certain person. But to waltz in one day and ask for something like this so casually, you really weren’t from there.

“Sure, just don’t steal anything.” He is skeptical of you as he is of any one else but you didn’t need to know that. You were used to it after all. He directs you to the side of the bar that was supposedly the “performance stage” but it didn’t matter. Anywhere was fine with you.

The townspeople gradually stop their chatter as you quickly tune your lyre, playing a chord once the strings were ready. The tune that escapes into the air effectively silences any remaining voices. The song you were going to start wasn’t one they would usually hear in this city of freedom and apparently cheerfulness.

Your fingers hook at the strings, releasing them with ease as a soulful melody fills the entire tavern. The chord was of the lower register and hummed deeply. Diluc flicks his eyes over to you as he cleans a glass and sees your own eyes are closed. 

When the night has passed

For then will I be free

Will they see me trample dust

Or let me keep my feet

Your book is open and he can see the words you were singing on the pages. It looks like you just started this line of work given how many pages were left in that book, assuming it was your only one as all you came in with were those two items and a small bag of mora. 

He doesn’t notice how much of an effect your song had until he scans over the tavern patreons. Your voice carries through, swaying through the people to where it grazes a piece of their hearts to reminisce forlorn memories. But your words felt soulful as if they had come from your own experiences. A thought passes over his head which causes his heart to pang before quickly shaking it off when he realizes the feeling.

Ah, so you were this type of bard. 

Diluc just thinks he’ll only see you one time so he lets the thought pass through.

Once your song ends the drunk townspeople cheer loudly among themselves. You are taken aback by all the noise but bow politely to them for their reaction. You take your things as they call out for you to do another song and you shake your head.

“Maybe another time,” you say with slight sorrow to your face or words. They accept the answer and continue on their night and when you turn to leave, Diluc can’t stop the words that come out of his mouth. 

“Why not stay for a drink?” You look at him incredulously and he crosses his arms, “Call it payment for your services. They seemed to enjoy it.” You make cautious movement as you make your way to a stool. Diluc sets out an apple cider vinegar drink and you sniff at it. Once you take a sip you notice his face at the corner of your sight. The edge of his lip is slightly quirked up as he sighs while cleaning a glass.

It seems they weren’t the only ones who enjoyed the song.

--

Mondstadt was a city that was very welcoming in comparison to all the other places you spent time at. The people were either unwilling to hear your music or had particular reactions to the pieces you shared. To them, it seemed you didn’t understand that bar music was supposed to be lively and something to dance to. Not something to feel sad about.

But you wanted to share it anyways for your songs are one of the few things in life that you are proud of. One of the few things that have filled the emptiness of yourself that you lost those years ago and maybe, just maybe, sharing them will help you feel in some way. To you, these songs are sorrowful, but they shouldn’t just make people sad. That’s why you were quite surprised at the reactions at Angel’s Share  as opposed to those from other places.

They should elicit emotions of nostalgia. Or maybe, you just hadn’t found the right experience to make them happier.

--

You come back a few nights later and Diluc is working the bar yet again. When he lifts his head, his shoulders sag in relief seeing that it is you. Venti had come by a few times after hearing about you and kept pressing the owner about letting him on the stage as well. 

He was rejected numerous times in tandem with being asked to pay up for his drink tab.

The same book and lyre are still in hand when you head towards Diluc like you did that first night. He places the glass in his hands down and gives you a nod of his head, “Welcome back.”

“Thanks,” You look around and see that the tavern is even fuller than the last night you performed. It seems word had got around of your songs and they had all been waiting patiently for nights now. That was what an attendee had said to you outside the door anyways. “Do you mind?” You gesture to the stage.

“Go for it,” Any sense of caution that seeped through his words when you met him was near to nonexistent now. Maybe it was the impressions you left on the townspeople and their word of mouth the past few days. A depressing bard in the city of freedom in comparison to the other bards was news, especially when this bar had a wonderful voice to listen to.

The bar quiets again with the numerous greetings and cheers in seeing you up there. You flip open your book and thumb through the pages before settling on one song near the middle. It was a two-parter.

Your fingers pick at the strings lightly, slowly adding pressure thus causing the volume to increase subtly. Diluc shifts in his spot as he tries to focus on the tasks at hand but there really isn’t anything he is going to lose if he wants to listen.

I ran far in the depths of that same night

They chased me off as they truly had hoped

But I lost my way and wandered far

Met and saw numerous things was how I coped

The townspeople are yet again taken by your voice and melody that they had started to move with the music. Diluc decides to abandon his tasks for a little while, now aware how your music allows him to reflect as you intended. 

He sees these events before him. The death of one close to him and the loss of someone beside him whom he thought he could trust wholeheartedly. You stop singing but continue with plucking at the strings that calms the atmosphere. It is solemn and relaxing, almost putting the drunkest of the bunch to sleep but through sheer willpower they stay awake to listen on.

Happy and cheerful those that I have seen

But they were not accepting of me

Sharing the harsh reality of these mysteries

How will one otherwise feel so free?

The song ends and a round of cheers erupts, louder than the first night as there were more people. Diluc snaps out of his thoughts and wordlessly fixes you another drink that you take again, albiet still a bit shyly.

“Your lyrics,” Diluc begins and you tense at the sound of his voice, “From experience I assume?” He is straightforward, you should know this from the gossip around town. There was nothing in it for you to hide anything from him or anyone else so you tell him.

“Yes. That’s what makes good music, does it not?” You take a sip of the beverage. It must be a different one as it is much sweeter than the apple cider vinegar. “When you can relate to the words yourself. I simply want to share that with the people for reasons even I am unsure of.”

Diluc hums and doesn’t look you in the eye for his next words.

“I see. Your voice is quite nice.”

--

You both managed to continue with light chatter that night and he learns that you are staying in Mondstadt for quite a bit. You had no set plans to be in a specific place at any specific time so what was the rush to leave? Among this he is aware of how you speak. There is an ambiguous sorrow in your words from the effect of your past, he believes, that share no optimism but realistic choices that would completely stop the conversation. 

But he was the same so it continues. 

His past is the reason for his own apprehension when speaking with strangers but you were a little different. You outright told him your objective and you were just a bard who wanted to share their experience. 

You learn this of him and it was the first time that you felt light when speaking with someone.

--

“Y/n!” They learn of your name after the third night you show up which is another few nights after the second. Some take your music as a lighthearted joke in contrast to their free lives while others pay close attention to the words and sway with the tune.

You give a small grin in acknowledgement before sitting in the stool in front of Diluc. Throughout the weeks you had gotten to know each other a little better besides the titles of The Sorrowful Bard and Diluc of Mondstadt. You were just y/n and he was Diluc.

You always make a point to talk to him before performing, giving a small insight into the meaning behind your words. Last time replayed the sleepless night and doubts as you wandered Teyvat and the time before that was a retelling of an animal that accompanied you for the last months of its life.

“It knew it had to go yet it decided to follow me, spreading that sadness of loss to me as I was attached.” You said to him that night with dry eyes.

All you tell him is that this song is a little different from your other ones.

He shows more of himself to you, actions he wouldn’t typically show to others if it weren’t for a certain motive or purpose. But you were not threatening nor wanted something from him. Diluc put a bit of trust in you for that.

You never sing more than one song each night because you want them to take in the words of each song carefully. Like that animal, you wanted to share the sadness but allow them to see the great memories.

This night contains your fourteenth or fifteenth song and it is fairly new. You wrote this in the early hours of the morning with a newfound emotion bustling inside your chest. You were scared when waking up, but felt reassured when there was a hint of melancholy there among an unfamiliar emotion.

The tavern goers look at you with hopeful and excited eyes. You feel warmth in your heart as you remember the times a few of them have come up to you telling you that your music has made it easier to sleep. That your music is inspiring; sad, but inspiring.

You play a chord and Diluc raises a brow in hearing a lighter tone. Underlying is that first low tone in your first night, indicating that you plan to keep a sense of your usual. 

Then I stumbled in, seeing the light there

Unexpected welcoming I was greeted by

At first there was nothing then passed a while

Uprising something foreign for me to finally cry

Even if your eyes are trained to the floor, they are in his general direction. You didn’t know what you were feeling and you sure didn’t want to push it. 

He has his entire attention directed at you. 

You pluck higher notes much different from the chords you were accustomed to, messing up in a few that no one seemed to notice. You straighten yourself and look over the entire bar, settling your eyes on him for a bit too long for him to notice.

And so thankful am I

To be able to do such as that

And never is it unwelcomed

The beats in my soul are no longer flat

Your eyes stay staring at him and the cheers drown out. Diluc’s hand raises a few centimeters from the counter but you have already picked up your book and instrument and left.

The drink is untouched as he follows after you, thanks to Charles.

--

You feel like you can’t breathe but there is physically nothing blocking your airway. You assumed it was due to the collection of body heat in the tavern but even the cool night air did nothing to soothe the burning in your face. 

Why did I look at him? Why was he looking back? What does this mean?

“Y/n!” You gasp at the sound of his voice and as you turn around you hope that it was just in your head. Your mouth opens and closes but you can’t speak. you don’t know what to say.

Truthfully, he doesn’t either. 

Diluc didn’t know what to expect when you told him it would be different. He definitely didn’t expect for the song to be about him. He had deducted this reasoning and confirmed it when your eyes met and to you leaving.

In that room he felt the same: his face was warm and his heartbeat picked up when you lingered your gaze on him. He didn’t know what this feeling was either. 

Neither of you are speaking, the breeze brushing through.

“I’m sorry!” You say, bowing your head so he cannot see the tears of confusion, frustration, and something else running down your face.

“Why are you apologizing?” He is near you now and he can feel you jump at his touch on your shoulder. When you don’t push him off he moves his gloved hand to cup your face to lift it up. This is the first time he’s seen you cry. 

Ironic, given your songs. 

Diluc lightly presses his thumb to your cheek to brush off a tear. “Apologizing is for if you’ve done something wrong. You have done nothing of the sort.”

“Are you sure?” You say without hesitation. It is an automatic response, built upon the hardening of your heart and soul through your travels. Diluc chuckles, a small smile on his face.

“I am sure.”

--

You strum lightly, a newfound lightness to you that almost everyone has noticed. Your songs still have that sorrowful reality to them but at the end they have changed. Seeing more of the graceful and fulfilling beauty of life.

Diluc still fixes you drinks after every performance and indulges you in conversation. This time around, however, he leans in closer and places his hand closer to yours.

And you are thankful to feel that emotion.

[bloodpacks-archive]

clair de lune | jumin han

warnings: none man idk they’re in love and playin some piano kachow

word count: 1.6k

note: hi guys my best friend @kimjihyun​ really wanted me to write for jumin and i haven’t even done his route yet so i had to do a lot of studying to get his character down (aka read over her fics again and consult her about 20 times throughout writing this) but she seems to enjoy it and i hope you guys do too

Jumin plays piano with love. enjoy :)

The piano feels soft against Jumin’s fingertips. It moves fluidly, shaping the notes that encase the room and creep into his ears—leaving a sweet tone to ring. Yet, he’s out of practice. He pauses over some of the keys before deciding that yes, this is correct. He never lets out a sour note—he’s sure of that—but perhaps the pace is slower. It’s so rare he gets a moment to play these days, though. He’ll take slow if it means he gets it at all.

He lets a chord ring, feels it deep within the piano. Impressionist. A never resolving chord. An echo that is never returned.

Between the ringing, he hears soft footsteps against the cold tile. He knows the sound of her, knows the way she walks on the balls of her feet—he knows she tries to be quiet on her feet. And he knows she hates the tile, hates the chill it leaves in the morning. One day, he’ll change it to wood, he only needs her preference to put the decision through.

“It’s late,” She says, her voice carrying with the chord. He lifts his fingers off of the keys to hear the lilt of her voice better. “I have wine, if you’d like.”

He turns to see her standing in the doorway, two glasses of red wine in her hands. Silk loungewear drapes comfortably around her—a set that he’d bought her—and he watches as she moves closer to the piano, setting their glasses on the table that lays beside the grand. The glasses are surrounded by green plants that she’d put there, insisting that, for once, he could make his home feel a little more alive.

It should be as lively as you are, she’d said to him, placing a plant with draping vines onto the table. He’d thought to chuckle at her, thought to tell her no, I’d rather have your liveliness decorate my home, but he never did. He’s never been one to protest her wishes.

“What kind?” He asks, grabbing his glass off of the table to raise it to his nose.

“The 1982 Cabernet,” She answers, “I hope it’s alright with you?”

“It’s perfect,” He replies without another thought. He takes a sip of the wine and then places it back to the table next to hers. His fingers hover over the keys of the piano once more, but he stops, placing his hands into his lap instead and turning to look at her.

“No,” She says, “Please, keep playing. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard you.”

He nods at her and lets his fingers settle onto the keys. He plays quietly, careful to never allow the chords to speak over her should she wish to talk once more. Instead, the familiar tune acts as score, only meant to be heard by the ears paying closest attention, but the feeling known by anyone who dare listen.

“I’ve missed hearing you play,” She begins. He glances away from the keys to see her holding her glass close to herself, raising it delicately to her lips. The wine stains the very inside of her lips, creating a fade into a rich ruby. It’s a familiar sight to him, but he always finds himself staring.

“I’ve missed playing,” He replies. He glances between her and the keys, careful to miss neither a note nor any piece of her. He wishes to play this perfectly for her, but he certainly wishes to not miss any aspect of her expression, either.

“I’ve always been a bit scared of playing the piano.”

His fingers still on the keys, a third still rings through the strings. He turns to her, fully this time.

“And why might that be?” He asks. A rosy blush dusts her cheeks and peeks at her ears. He tilts his head and smiles at the sight—or rather the art piece that stands in front of him. He can hardly reduce her to only a sight, who is he to call her that? A perfection in composition stands before him, he should only name her as such.

“Well, what if I create an awful noise or a foul chord? Or my hands aren’t fast enough for the piece?”

“That’s the fault of the teacher, my love, never the student.” A smile curls onto her face as the term of endearment escapes him. She doesn’t move nor speak, so he reaches a hand out to her. She quirks an eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t waver, so she sets her glass back down and takes his hand, allowing him to guide her to the lower side of the piano.

She sits with him on the bench and he places her fingers onto the keys. He tells her which ones to play, and tells her when to play them. It’s awkward, the entirety of the song taking place in a higher key so she has to reach over near him, but he hardly minds.

He plays his part, the more complicated one, slowly. She’s never been one to not know music, enthralled by any piece from the moment she hears it, so she picks up on rhythms and patterns with ease—knowing them entirely by her own ear.

So he loses the need to tell her when to switch chords, and while they still play slowly, letting each note ring out for longer than the composer may have ever intended, it’s a lovely feeling. It’s a work of them together and it makes a smile break onto her face. Her head leans onto his shoulder as they play and it’s so natural, all of it.

He wishes to melt into the sound of her soul under her touch. He wishes to feel her fingers as the keys do—a soft and timid press into him until it consumes him. He wishes to become the sound she creates, be nothing more than the air that floats around her—to become her breath and her voice.

Jumin stops playing. He lifts his fingers from the keys, while her chord continues to flow about the room, vibrating through the piano and into his bones and blood. He doesn’t dare say a word, afraid to break the delicacy of the room, of the sound, of her.

Instead, he reaches out, taking timid fingers into timid hands. Her skin is soft against his, her hands cold.

“Did I play a wrong note?” She asks, her voice sweet as it travels through a now music-less room. She is the only sound that exists in this moment now, and he still wants to become nothing more than a product of her. Whatever she may wish him to be.

“No,” He answers, “No, you were perfect.” His eyes climb from her hands to her eyes. She’s watching him carefully, curiosity written onto her face as he holds her. She still has the stain on her lips, though her blush has long since disappeared.

In his life, there will perhaps never be another day where he does not wish to see her, lips faded into rubies, silk loungewear hanging off of her. There will never be another day in which he does not think of her as the only evidence of true life, love, and inspiration he has ever seen. She is the beginning and the end, she is the rain and the winter sun and the sound of piano keys in a room of cold tile on a late night in autumn.

He doesn’t have to consider it, he doesn’t have to think on it at all. He knows that this is what he wants. What he’ll forever want. He raises her hand, he twines her fingers and his, untwines them, lets himself feel the give and pull of her.

With one motion, he bows his head to her and presses his lips to the base of her ring finger.

A promise.

Any wish she could ask for, any item she could need, he would give to her. He will be the home for her rain, for her life, for her oceans, for her love. He will kiss ruby stained lips and taste vintage reds that have drenched her skin.

A joyous laugh falls past her lips. Effortless, breathy.

“What was that for?” She asks.

“Nothing, my love,” He answers, “You’ll know in due time.”

Then, without knowing its meaning, without knowing his thoughts, she takes his hand to her lips. There, she presses them to his own ring finger—right at the base, his left hand coated in the tingling euphoria of her touch.

Then she turns, letting go of his hand to return to her chords. When he doesn’t place his hands onto his keys, she turns to him.

“Well?” She prompts, “Do you plan to join me? It’s hardly Clair de Lune without the melody.”

He laughs then, shaking and bowing his head to her.

“No, it isn’t.” He hums then, “Good to feel needed.” She knocks her shoulder into his before he settles his hands onto the keys. With laughter, he presses the pads of his fingers into the chord.

And slowly, their score begins to form again. Yet the scene is still the same. An illustration of love, unwavering, not threatened by moonlight nor time. A shoulder pressed into a shoulder, fingers that know the touch of the other.

A promise for the future that lays in the sound of impressionism and the scent of wine.

[yunkiwii]

4. "This song reminded me of you." | requested by anonnie ♡

pairing: chan x gn!reader

genre: fluff დ | wc: 1.2k

a/n: i got a bit carried away with this one, woopsie

song: lauv - paris in the rain

For the last few weeks you spent all your days looking forward to getting home, put on your comfy pajamas, lay in bed and just text Chan until one of you falls asleep. You did text occasionally throughout the day, but since you were both busy with your respective jobs the conversation wouldn’t flow as smoothly as it does in the silence of the night. 

You haven’t yet met in person, being the screen of your phones the only way to see each other for now, either through some random selfies sent mid conversation, either through actual video calls that you would do when typing didn’t feel good enough, as your excitement to talk about certain topics wouldn’t let you write coherent sentences as you were typing at the velocity of light. 

You never thought of yourself as someone that could keep an online friendship for this long without getting tired of the lack of physical contact and activities that required going outside with the said person, like getting ice cream in a street diner, going to the movies, just having a walk somewhere and hanging out like normal friends usually do. You do wish you would do all of these with Chan, it would be better than just texts and calls every night, but you also didn’t want to lose such a great friendship and connection, probably the best and most genuine one yet, to your pettiness and need for skinship. And you just hoped you’d get there sometime. 

As you snuggle up in your comfy bed you hear your phone vibrate on your night stand and your stomach does a flip, knowing for sure it was most likely Chan texting you. As you pick your phone up, already smiling though unaware of it, you see the screen light up again and two notifications from the said boy are waiting to be opened.

INSTAGRAM bang.chan97 Chris: Hiya there! Chris sent a photo

You unlock the phone and your excitement builds up as you impatiently wait for your slow wifi to load the picture Chan sent, hoping it would be a selfie. You haven’t seen his face in a few days now and when the little loading circle on the center of your black screen vanished, an instant smile appeared on your face, mimicking the one that popped up on your phone. It was a mirror selfie and he had half of his face covered by his phone, but you still could see his left dimple and the small wrinkles on the corner of his half-closed eye. As much as seeing him warmed your heart, it also hurt you to know how he didn't see himself as you did, as one of the most wonderful human beings in this world and deserving of all the love you could give to him. 

You were so lost in your own thoughts, focused on the small percentage of Chan's face you were allowed to see, that the time ran out without you noticing the song he had added. 

You take a selfie yourself, only showing half of your face as well, and added "i will show you my whole face if you show me yours 😤". To which he replied by asking if you liked the song, leaving you confused on what song he was talking about, until a few minutes later your phone vibrates again and the screen lights up.

INSTAGRAM bang.chan97 Chris sent a video

As you tap to see the said video, a few more pop up on your notifications and your heart begins to race, Chan’s face appears on the screen once again and now you’re able to see it entirely, a shy smile fills your screen as the boy gets his guitar and tries out a few chords before speaking up, “Hm- hi (y/n)! I sent you a song with the photo but you didn’t notice it, and… well, I figured it would make more sense singing it to you since this song reminded me of you when I heard it earlier, hope you enjoy this!” 

He clears up his throat, the smile fades as his focus goes to the guitar and guitar only, staying there for most part of the song, a song you recognised from the very first verse and you immediately knew what this meant. You try to keep your breathing even but the sight of Chan in his cosy outfit, fuzzled hair hiding in his hoodie, playing the guitar and singing, singing to you by all means, and one of your favourite songs - now making its way to number one-, made it hard for you to keep composure.

You knew he was nervous and shy, keeping his eyes either on the guitar or closed, so focused he didn’t even smile, but as he reached the chorus his dimples came back to greet you, “ ‘Cause anywhere with you feels right, anywhere with you feels like, Paris in the rain, Paris in the rain (...)”, but his eyes only met the frontal camera of his phone by the second verse and at this point your eyes were watery and a few single tears rolled down to meet the corners of your smiley lips. 

“I look at you now and I want this forever I might not deserve it but there's nothing better Don't know how I ever did it all without you My heart is about to, about to jump out of my chest”

You could see how much more comfortable he had gotten throughout the song, always keeping a smile on his face and his gaze no longer focused on the guitar. The song could go on forever and forever you'd listen to him, but sooner than expected he played the last note along with a giggle that made you repeat the same sound.

You couldn't simply text him after this, it wasn't enough and you wanted to see more of him, hear more of his voice, and so you wiped your tears and tapped on the camera symbol, initiating a video call. As soon as he answers the call, with the brightest smile, ruffling his hair before hiding it back into the hoodie, your tears decide to show up once more, making you laugh at how vulnerable you've gotten when talking to him, "Can you please sing another song?"

He rests his chin on his hand, face so close to the camera you could see the bags under his eyes, he was tired but other than the bags, there was no way you could tell that as he always sounded so cheerful,  "Sure! Any preference?", he waits for your decision but you just shake your head, you honestly just wanted to listen to him once more, the song choice didn’t matter anymore.

He moves from the chair he's sitting on to his bed, crossing his legs over the covers and placing his guitar on his lap. It looked comfortable, and this time his voice came out more honey sweet rather than raspier like before. That comfort trespasses through the phone, breaking all the rules of physics to go directly into warming your heart, making you snuggle into your duvet a bit more, wishing Chan would be there with you. 

[another-emotional-wreck]

Title: Movie Night

Pairings: None except for a hint of Monica x Peter cause they're cute imo I'm sorry

Summary: Movie night with the Hex trio and Peter... until it's not. Also, metallokinetic Peter.

Warnings: No warnings as far as I know, but there's angst and a decent amount of fluff

Word Count: 2.2k words

Author's Note: This is my first fic for anything Marvel/Xmen related. Kinda nervous but mostly excited. Feedback is really appreciated as there's a pretty good chance a lot some of the character's actions could be pretty ooc.

*******************************************************************

“Wait… what?” Peter asked for what had to have been the millionth time. For a guy who could run fast, it was seriously taking him way too long to get this.

Darcy sighed again. “Alright, so you have to press this button--”

“The little sideways bow thing?”

“Uh, sure, why not. So you press it and then you’re gonna see a lot of different names. The one you’re gonna pick is called ‘Peter’s earbuds’.”

“Okay. Wait how does it know my-- oh wait, it beeped! The lady said it’s… paired? Now what?”

“Now you can pick a song to listen to.” Darcy pressed an icon of a square with a black background and a green circle in the middle. “Anything in particular?”

Peter was silent for a moment. "What do people listen to these days?"

Darcy took the phone from Peter before typing the name of a band into the search bar. His face lit up as Darcy handed it back to him, the screen filled with different songs to choose from. After a moment of scrolling, the opening chords of Dumb by Nirvana filled his ears, and for just a little while, his mind was calm. It was quiet.

“It’s nice to know at least music hasn’t changed since the 80s."

“I wouldn't say that exactly," Darcy mumbled.

Before he could question her statement, Monica spoke up.

"The 80s." She and Jimmy walked through the front door, both carrying grocery bags in their hands. "Is that where you're from?"

Monica placed the groceries on the counter before sitting down on the couch across from Peter.

He squinted at something in the distance. “I think so. I uh…” fuzzy images filled his mind. Laughing at jokes next to a boy with the strangest glasses. Playing in the snow with a woman with red hair. Sharing popcorn in a cold room with a girl with a mohawk and a blue devil.

A serious conversation with a man who meant a lot to him.

Peter winced at the sudden sharp pain behind his eyes. “It’s kinda… kinda hard to sort through.”

“That’s cool,” Darcy shrugged. “I felt the same way during English class back when I was in high school.”

Kurt Cobain’s voice rang in his ears. My heart is broke, but I have some glue. Help me inhale, and mend it with you. Peter nodded his head as he hummed along clumsily, not quite getting the tune right.

Once the pain faded from behind his eyes, Darcy noticed the way Peter’s face seemed to brighten at the sight of a certain someone.

“Guess what!” In less than a second, Peter had moved from his spot next to Darcy onto the couch beside Monica. “Darcy showed me how to get these little pods to play music--”

“They’re called earbuds--”

“And I can listen to whatever I want. How do you feel about this band called Nirvana?” Peter offered an earbud to Monica.

She laughed. “Right now, Jimmy has his heart set on this Lord of the Rings marathon.”

Jimmy shook his head as he took two bags from Monica and placed them all on the counter. “I stand by my claim that Lord of the Rings was and will forever be the best trilogy to ever exist.”

“Sure, Jimmy.” Darcy crossed the room to inspect the groceries. “Popcorn, sherbet, and Sprite? You got orange sherbet?”

Jimmy raised his palms in surrender and pointed at Monica. “Take that up with her.”

“Orange sherbet is the best flavor and, no, I will not be taking any questions.”

Darcy scrunched her nose. “And you’re sure powers were all you got from going through the Hex so many times?”

“You mean aside from having superior taste?” Monica joked. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

*********

“Frodo didn’t deserve Sam,” Monica stated as the movie played on screen.

Shoving another handful of popcorn in his mouth, Jimmy responded. “He was under a lot of pressure! The corruption from the ring only got worse the closer they got to Mordor, so you can’t really blame Frodo for everything.”

Monica wrinkled her nose at the kernels that flew out of his mouth as Jimmy spoke. “Whatever you say. Plus it doesn’t matter cause Darcy’s on my side anyways.”

“You say that as if she didn’t fall asleep the second the movie started,” Jimmy snorted as he gestured to Darcy, who was snoring rather loudly on his shoulder.

Peter chuckled at the banter between the two and at Monica’s annoyed expression, catching her attention.

With Darcy practically on top of Jimmy yet somehow also managing to take up half of the couch, Peter and Monica were seated rather close together.

“Unless you’re laughing at Jimmy, that noise shouldn’t be coming out of your mouth,” she joked, having to turn her head to look Peter in the eye.

“It’s really not my fault that you always seem to be wrong.”

“That’s a lie, actually, but alright.”

“See?” He snorted. “Wrong again.”

Monica glared at Peter who just chuckled and adjusted his position.

After no more than twenty minutes of the movie playing on screen, the sound of Monica snoring told Peter that he and Jimmy were the last two awake.

“They never stay up for my movies,” Jimmy muttered.

Peter turned in his direction. “They never what?”

“We try and do this movie night a couple of times a month. So far, they’ve fallen asleep on every single movie I’ve chosen. I mean that’s obviously just because they don’t appreciate classic media--”

“Right,” Peter mumbled. “That’s why.”

Jimmy paused as he shoveled another handful of popcorn in his mouth. “But I don’t mind it. I mean, everyone’s been back for a little while now, but there’s still this… this underlying fear that it’ll happen again. This nagging feeling that people are gonna be taken away from us, but this time they won’t come back.”

He looked at Darcy, still completely unconscious on Jimmy’s shoulder, and Monica, who was curled up under Peter. “They feel like family” Jimmy admitted. “We haven’t even known each other for that long, but I’d do anything for these two, and I’m comfortable saying they’d do the same for me.”

“I’m happy for all of you, really.” Peter sighed, feeling the clasp on Monica’s necklace dig into his side. “But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous. I have a few memories--”

Taking a look at the confused look on Jimmy’s face, Peter continued. “Well, you all know that I’m not from here. Wanda just pulled me out of my own time and brought me here. ”

“I mean we know it wasn’t intentional--”

“That’s not the point!” Peter did his best to rein in his anger. “The point is, some random lady took me away from my time. Away from my home, my friends, my family. And I’m not even saying that I blame her, but why did it have to be me?” When Jimmy didn’t respond, Peter continued. “I get these… flashbacks. Fuzzy memories of home. They used to be pretty rare but lately, I’ve been getting them more often. One of them keeps showing up.”

“You think you can try and remember?” Jimmy suggested.

After a moment of silence, Peter decided. “Yeah.” He adjusted Monica so that her head rested on the arm of the couch instead of his side, and something strange happened to his chest at the sight of her sleeping so peacefully.

Jimmy pulled out a notebook and pen. Peter cleared his throat as Jimmy nodded for him to begin, ready to jot down whatever he could.

“It was me, a little girl. An older woman, could’ve been my mother? And--” Peter furrowed his brow as a dull pain began to form behind his eyes and a white noise began ringing in his ears. “Someone… someone else. They, uh-- a man. I think.”

“If you can’t remember who, try to focus on where.”

“No no, I’ve got it. They uh. We--” It was beginning to hurt. “No. Wait. Younger people… friends, they had to be.”

The pain became more intense. The noise in his head was getting louder. It hurt. Different images flashed in his head, all fuzzy and difficult to clear up. His mind reached out to grasp one but just as his fingertips brushed the surface, it was gone.

A patient teacher bound to a wheelchair.

A charming blue devil.

A shapeshifter with a warm heart.

A man who could shake the earth itself.

“They keep moving,” Peter said through gritted teeth. “They… t-they won’t sit still.”

“Alright, man,” Jimmy closed the notebook. “If you need to take a break we can--”

“No! I wanna do this. I need to do this.” Peter’s voice cracked. “I don’t-- I can’t forget them.”

“Okay. Alright, that’s fine but you-- uhh…” Jimmy furrowed his brow at the sight of the pen in his hand beginning to twitch. He took one look at Peter and his eyes grew wide the moment he began to understand. “Peter. Hey, you’ve gotta take a breath. You gotta-- shit.”

Jimmy took in Peter’s current state. Pale and shaky with droplets of sweat forming on his forehead. His eyes wide and panicked. “Uhmm, shit, Monica! Darcy! I really think now would be an appropriate time for the two of you to wake up, given the circumstances.”

As he moved to shake the two women awake, Peter’s struggle grew more intense. The pain had now spread throughout his entire head and turned into a pounding sensation. The noise was deafening as it bounced around in his skull.

Monica woke quickly to see Peter pale and in distress. “Jimmy, what’s happening?”

“I don’t know! We were trying to clear up the memories in his head when he started shaking and--”

“I can see that, but what’s happening?”

“Uhh…. I think stuff is about to start floating…”

Darcy’s eyes fluttered open. “Huh?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy continued, still trying to wake Darcy. “Cause, my pen was shaking and your necklace is moving a lot, and Darcy, I think your glasses are about to fly off of your face.”

Monica looked down to see her necklace float away from her chest, then watched in what seemed like slow motion as each object Jimmy mentioned flew towards the same source.

Peter.

Seconds later the tv in front of them crumpled in on itself. “That was expensive,” Darcy sighed, now fully awake.

Monica cocked her head, her gaze flickering from Peter to Jimmy to Darcy. “Is he--”

“Yep,” Darcy said loudly

The three sat in awe and terror as Peter sank to the floor in agony, screaming as he drew his knees to his chest. His hands pressed over his ears.

Darcy looked into her kitchen and her eyes grew wide. Locking eyes with Monica and then Jimmy, they all spoke at once. “The knives.”

Monica scrambled to Peter’s side while Darcy and Jimmy ran to get as many knives as they could out of the house.

Darcy turned towards Monica. “You, uh, sure you got this?”

At Monica’s shaky nod, she followed Jimmy into the kitchen.

“Okay,” Monica began. “Peter… I’m gonna, um. I, uh-- okay I actually have no idea what I’m gonna do, but I need you to just, try and, uh, I don’t know, breathe?”

“I can’t.” he panted. The breaths he took were uneven and rapid and his face was stark white. He wasn’t responding to her. “I can’t forget. I-- no, no no I don’t want to forget. They’re slipping. I can’t reach them. Help me.”

She knew he wasn’t going to be able to calm himself down. Monica called the other two in there.

Jimmy ran into the living room first. “We weren’t-- oh.”

Darcy quickly followed. “Holy shit.” she looked at Monica. “You know what to do?”

Monica nodded. “But I haven’t exactly done it before and there’s a good chance I’ll pass out after.”

“I mean, if it means he stops screaming bloody murder, I feel like it’ll be worth it.” Jimmy looked at Darcy with wide eyes, who just shrugged.

“Right,” Monica shook the nerves out of her hands. “Okay. Alright.”

“Y’know, there are still knives and other extremely sharp objects in the kitchen so--”

“I got that, Darcy!” Monica snapped. She took a deep breath before turning all of her attention to the man in front of her. “Okay, Peter? I’m sorry, but none of us have any idea what to do, and so, this was the next best option.”

She closed her eyes and placed both hands to his temple, struggling to keep them there as he twisted in pain. When her eyes opened again, a bright blue shone in place of their usual brown.

His energy came through in tendrils. The super-speed feeling like electricity itself, sharp and cold, while his metallokinesis was slow and warm and heavy. It was new and painful and in that moment Monica understood his pain.

While his powers had come to a pause, his memories were a different matter.

“I gotta keep going,” Monica slurred. Her eyelids were heavy.

“Yeah that’s what we’re not gonna do,” Darcy said.

“He’s still in pain!”

“And now so are you! We can find something to sedate him but, right now, you can’t--”

Monica responded by placing her hands on Peter’s temple once again, this time taking out smaller amounts of energy. Just enough to put him to sleep for a little while.

She then promptly collapsed.

“Energy absorption,” Jimmy stated. “Impressive.”

Darcy sighed. “Please just help me get them to bed.”

“Right. Okay.”

[caguaydreams]

A thorough analysis on why Vah Medoh’s dungeon theme makes me want to cry

Yep, that’s an accurate title. Hi there! do you have a moment to hear about Breath of The Wild soundtrack? posting for yet a third time in hopes that tumblr won't hide it. I'm so tired

What started as a quick and harmless post, pretending to simply point out a couple of things, rolled downhill, out of my grasp and turned into a massive snowball of a short essay. How and why did this happen? Well, I assume a lot of people know about this song, and know what I’m talking about when I say that it makes me tear up and sob uncontrollably with every change in key as the seconds tick by and I spiral down into a dwell of misery from where I struggle to find the exit and to later recover.

……No?…..At the VERY LEAST it makes you a little uncomfortable. And I state this with much certainty, because after reading hundreds of comments everywhere online where this song is present, I picked up on a vast majority of people who expressed to feel the same way I did when it came down to our current music subject. See, statistics don’t lie… normally. So, naturally, my intrigue got the best of me. I wanted to find out exactly why this soundtrack was mercilessly stirring up everyone’s emotions, so I caved in and we ended up with this.

Buckle in, fellas.

Out of all Divine Beasts’ dungeon themes, Vah Medoh’s is the one that I can’t sit through. Not without growing antsy and wanting to turn it off as soon as possible. I find it genuinely difficult to listen to, and it’s not only because Revali is my favorite character and the song is just, plainly put, depressing, mind you.

We’ll start from 0 terminals activated.

It opens up similar to the other three dungeon themes; the pace is slow but eerie, gives off the impression that it sounds broken somehow. Something is off here, and it’s easy to figure out what that is from the get go: you’re basically entering a majestic, ancient, mechanical mausoleum, where everything went terribly wrong a century ago. Someone is gone, someone you knew, someone who was probably close to you, but it’s impossible to be sure. You don’t remember a thing, and this entire ordeal is confusing at best, and terrifying at worst. It’s your duty to make things right again.

It’s the same for all four Divine Beasts upon entering, save for the obvious little differences that separates them from each other and make them unique. Ruta’s is played on a major key, adhering to a sense of hopefulness. Naboris’s begins with a startling smashing of the piano keys, much like thunder of a sudden lighting strike. And Rudania’s theme starts threatening, dangerous, like scalding lava.

But now, back to Vah Medoh. The tone here is… alienating. The dissonant chords are all over the place, and feel disconnected, cold. It’s almost as if someone doesn’t want us to be here, or just like the elusive key, our presence is unexpected. Fitting, for a Divine Beast that’s high above the land, impossible for most to reach, yet we somehow made it. Apart from the piano, we have the occasional hint to rito culture, in the shape of a short, synthetic version of the rolled chords at the very beginning of Rito Village. A quiet reminder of where we come from. There is also, of course, the morse code distress signal, but we’ll talk more about that later.

As soon as this formal introduction is over, we finally get to the more, say, intimate stuff. Oh, and wouldn’t you know, it’s just tragic.

One terminal activated.

There’s no better short way I can describe this passage, other than anxiety-inducing. Especially when the strings come into play, and there’s two reasons I can think of why I feel this is an important thing to point out:

1- Characters and Symbolism.

I tend to associate stringed instruments, all of those which compose the violin family, with rito culture. And Revali, most specifically. In Creating a Champion we can see the early concept art and designs for all or most major characters in the game, and Revali’s highlighted rough design might be the one that changed the most throughout proper development of the character, out of all champions. He looks quite different from our usual depiction of him, it’s fascinating. What truly catches my eye, however, is the design of his bow.

You thought bird puns were bad? Oh boy, how do you feel about Revali having a bow that looks like a violin/cello/viola??? And do you need a bow to play it also??? Like, is it even an instrument or it’s nothing more than a mere fashion statement?-

Anyway. I believe this was originally going to be a not-so-subtle wink to rito culture, being heavily musically inclined as we can see and conclude for ourselves. Perhaps Revali was going to be a musician as well, now how cool it that!

Needless to say, the idea was eventually scrapped. But one detail I am CERTAIN carried over to the character we know and love today(okay not all of us love him but seriously if you dislike him why are you still here lol): strings. The association between bows(weapon) and stringed instruments, aside from being a quite clever and creative one, goes beyond the concept art and remains strong as part of Revali’s character, settling for having a presence via score. After all, Revali is a master of archery, so in that way it makes sense to keep strings as symbolism to reinforce the idea and drive it home.

But can you guess what other thing Revali excels at? That’s right: flying. He’s the only rito we know of who successfully managed to take advantage of wind currents and bend them to his will. And do you know what musical instruments are often used to evoke the feeling of flight and gale? If you thought of bowed strings, you’re correct! Unfortunately, I couldn’t find much support on this topic online, so you’ll have to take my word for it. I am most certain that this is fact, although not something worth discussing on the Internet, by the looks of it.

Anyhow, violins/cellos/etc are ever-present whenever we’re close to Rito Village or dealing with a rito related mission. Attack on Vah Medoh, for example, features a sequence of strings that is meant to evoke the strong winds we’re fighting against in that particular moment(*). Another great example is The Final Trial, the song that plays at the shrine of resurrection nearing the end of the Champions’ Ballad. Preceding the activation of each terminal, you’ll notice that a new instrumental element joins the crowd: the first one corresponds to the tambourines, related to the zora and Mipha; the second one are strings, referencing the rito and Revali, etc. I tell you, the moment I heard this during the trial I almost started crying like a baby. And, although strings have a lot to do with Rito culture in general, they tie most strongly to Revali, since he was the champion of his people, and his legacy carried over throughout the years. His accomplishments became material of folk tale, a legend, a source of pride and inspiration for the village. And let’s not forget that, at the end of the day, Revali is the crucial and foremost connection Link has to this place. Other than appeasing Vah Medoh, Link’s responsibility here is to free his past fellow champion’s spirit from Ganon’s malice. The soundtrack is referencing Revali first, and by extension his devotion to his home.

With all that in mind, let’s move on to our next point:

2- Nowhere to Go.

You shoot the canons, land on top of the Divine Beast, do what you gotta do, activate the first terminal and the soundtrack goes off unannounced. Like some sort of surprise anxiety bomb. The rhythm turns fast, the melody erratic, incredibly desperate in its execution. There’s this sheer despair, fear, this feeling of suffocation almost, which are so well achieved in this particular piece.

And that is, partially, because a quite familiar resource is used here as well; one that we’ve heard before in songs such as Rito Village or Revali’s theme. You could even think of it as a motif: two notes are played in an semitone interval, repeatedly and in quick succession. For the sake of later convenience, we’ll call this the Flight Motif, now let me explain why. In Breath of The Wild, this semitone loop is often followed up by some form of resolution. In Rito Village, formerly known as Dragon Roost Island(**), that resolution consists of a graceful descent of the melody, from a high that was built up previously during the motif. On the other hand, if you listen to Revali’s theme, you’ll notice that the interval repeats itself for a couple of times as thought charging up, to then rise fast and determined into a triumphal reprise of Revali’s distinctive assigned melody. This juxtaposition supposes the difference that lays between common rito flight and Revali’s trademark ability; both musical sequences are speaking of flight, albeit in two different languages depending on the way to achieve it. While the rito traditionally use their wings to glide and let themselves get swayed by the air currents Buzz Lightyear style, Revali takes full advantage of his flying capabilities to somehow create an updraft of his own, rising meters above the ground whenever he likes or needs to.

So, now that I layed out my base of thought when focusing on the strings, this’ll be much easier to explain. We’ve settled what the instruments themselves are a symbolic representation of Revali, in this scenario specifically. He was the only one inside Vah Medoh, and the score is, in a way, a retelling of what we can vaguely assume went down here during the Great Calamity, as much as it is what sets the tone and ambience for Link’s mission. But what are we hearing exactly? What we talked about, the Flight Motif, is being repeated nonstop. And that’s the thing, remember how I mentioned that this sequence usually finds resolution at the end? Well. Inside Vah Medoh,… it never does. The melody picks up in numerous occasions, but it’s not nearly as graceful, or calculated, as we’ve grown used to by now. It gets tangled and lost, and then inevitably falls to the ground in disarray. The pattern repeats itself, reaching higher after a handful of failed attempts, but no matter how much it tries, the cycle never ends. What used to tell us about flying and freedom in the skies, has morphed into an almost sinister musical incarnation of a tornado, and there is no way out of this trap. What do you think it must feel like to mindlessly flap your wings against wind currents so strong and violent, that it is impossible to get anywhere nearby, let alone take off every time you lose your balance. Or every time you’re shot down. On top of that, trying to aim and fight back in whatever short breaks and opportunities you get, at an enemy that’s much more powerful and relentless, who’s using your own element as a weapon to destroy you… it’s a risk Revali surely had to take in order to put up a fight. Even knowing full well that the odds were not in his favour, that he was most likely going to lose this battle, that he was going to die. Let that sink in. I’ll skip the activation of the second terminal, since there’s barely any change registered in the theme in general. So-

Three terminals activated.

I know this post is supposed to be a breakdown of the song purely, but that doesn’t mean there’s no place for a little theorising, and the following scrutiny is also quite relevant for our discussion. Bear with me for a bit. I’ve read almost everywhere about people’s most common interpretations on the Divine Beasts SOS signals, and how everyone thinks that Revali’s coming in last (a few seconds later than the other champions) has to do with him holding on for longer. Or, also, overconfident as he was, it means that the idea of calling out for additional support didn’t cross his mind until it was too late, and that’s why the beeping sounds more frantic and panicked than the others’ when it does appear. After giving it some thought myself, I’m betting on the latter option holding more ground, and that’s not all. I want to touch upon a detail of the piece that I never acknowledged was there until very recently(after seeing myself obliged to listen to this song fully and a handful of times, suffering every minute of it for the sole purpose of this analysis. It’s okay I didn’t need my heart anyway). Soon after activating the third terminal, the SOS signal disappears, or grows distant and faint enough that we can’t make it out from the background anymore. In its place, we’re confronted by this… shrill, piercing and painfully slow tune. It sounds synthetic, artificial, devoid of life. And it’s funny, because you know what it reminds me of? I’ll tell you:

A heartbeat flatline sound.

And I want to highlight that this doesn’t happen in any of the other Divine Beasts themes. All their SOS signals carry on, but Medoh’s is no more. This abrupt stop, followed by this bone-chilling tune…. makes me believe that Revali was the first of the champions to fall. A few days ago I came across SuperZeldaGirl’s video on a similar topic, theorising that this could very much be the case. There is not much evidence to support this claim other than some visual cues that could be suggesting to it, but after I found this in the soundtrack, and if we’re to rely on it for anything, I believe Revali was either the first champion to be ambushed by Ganon, or well…. the first to be killed. It is plausible, because short after Calamity Ganon unleashes his power, Revali parts from the group and flies directly to Vah Medoh, and he very well could’ve been the first pilot to arrive.

On this note…. we’ll have to wait and see for ourselves, when Age of Calamity provides long-awaited answers to many of our questions.

Four terminals activated.

An interesting melody is being played on what, for me, would qualify as a glockenspiel or a celesta, which are keyboard based instruments that produce a sound similar to that of a music box(***). If you want to pay more attention to it, I suggest listening to Vetrom’s Instrumental Mix Cover of the theme, where they practically zoom in on this part of the song (keep in mind that it uses the All Terminals’ time signature so it’s being played faster). For some reason, this particular addition makes me feel profound empathy. The sound of this instrument could be described as cute or childlike, magical, even. It is more often than not used to represent innocence, but I highly doubt that’s specifically the intention here. Much like the leading strings’ melody, the melodic contour of this one is trapped in a loop of going up and down constantly, but the difference is that this time around it sounds more under control. And much more uniform too. It doesn’t lose focus or takes risky, fruitless leaps, but rather chooses to stay on a path of waves that consistently rises and falls without taking detours. Like a determined battle strategy, giving it your all. You fall, but get back up again, and try again, and again. It reminds me of Revali’s approach to training, being persistent to the point of overworking himself. He had discipline nailed down to a tee, which I also think served him well in combat. It’s not just about being hard on yourself, either, but being confident and having complete faith in your abilities; believing that you’ll make it.  For this to appear now, that the SOS signal is almost completely gone, is significant because it means that by this point, being so close to success on Link’s behalf, the music is sparing genuine encouragement for once, in spite of the tragic outcome of the past and the danger of the current situation. But, in all honesty, this is probably just me reading too much into it. Perhaps the composer just thought this addition sounded pretty bitching and there’s not much else to it, which is completely fine. Although, intentional or not, sometimes coincidences do happen, and at the end of the day, interpretations like this are a form of appreciation for an artist’s work and for what they can unknowingly accomplish.

All terminals activated.

This is the moment when the song finally lightens up. Notice how the strings abandon the wave pattern for a more even contour. The beat quickens, the melody stabilizes. At first I thought, coming from our flight analogy, that this meant a cease in movement entirely, and it was partly one of the reasons why the song in general makes me anxious. But thinking about it now, …there is something different going on here. The strings are playing on a steady rhythm. It resembles a march, it’s like a pounding heart. It’s a lively, hopeful statement. And what’s interesting is that, up until this point, there was so much fear and helplessness present in the score, even going as far as to reach a dead end when we activate the third terminal. But that’s it, isn’t it? the music just keeps going further. 

It’s saying: this isn’t over yet. Even after complete and utter defeat, there’s still hope and an underlying wish to overcome this predicament, and we started to hear this as soon as a fourth terminal is activated. The melody we previously talked about? it’s here as well, and its beat is much more daring and confident.

And I just want to say… this is so powerful. Because this sentiment is deeply tied to the game’s story and Revali’s character arc. You see, he is introduced as someone who resents Link for being the manifestation of his failure, in a way, because Revali has trained arduously his whole life to be where he is, to be recognised. And yet… this hylian gets chosen by a magic sword and some tale of divine destiny and, apparently, that’s all it takes for him to be deemed the hero that will save the land. In Revali’s eyes, Link has done nothing to prove his worth before him, so it is easy to see why he despises the silent knight so much; he is yet another individual that was born into their destiny. Meanwhile, Revali has had to build his reputation from the ground up, earning him a place among the greatest warriors of Hyrule, and even then he finds himself surrounded by people who grew up praised for being born gifted.  We can see how Revali is the odd one out, and can map out the reason for him acting so antagonistic towards Link.

But once we’re on Medoh, things start to change. When Link enters the Divine Beast, Revali greets him with disdain, as per usual. Of course, Link has no recollection of whatever happened a hundred years ago, other than a small glimpse of the rito champion talking down to him, a memory that came and went in a flash. So as Link, we more than expect Revali to act cold and mocking, which he does. He provides us with as little help as needed in order to free Medoh, reluctantly, shielding his wounded pride over having to wait for Link, of all people, to come to their rescue. But you can hear him starting to open up bit by bit(I wish I could translate his dialogue directly from Japanese but I’ll make do with a couple of dubs and other numerous sources from translators online). With each little step Link takes towards success, activating the terminals, the perception Revali has of him shifts from one of resentment to one of genuine admiration and respect. By the end of it all, he is willing to not only cheer on Link during the boss battle, but to trust him with his life’s worth achievement. And once left alone, he admits defeat and lets go of his bitterness, realising that he was wrong to underestimate Link, and later wishes he could’ve had a chance to measured up to him. To take all of this into consideration and work with it in the soundtrack I think it’s genuinely splendid. And for once, I am grateful that it ends in somewhat of a positive note that puts my soul to rest. I still have a hard time listening to the first two thirds of the entire thing, but now I can look forward to a hopeful and earnestly heartening conclusion for all the pain that this composition puts me in. I must admit that it’s beautifully and brilliantly crafted, and that I am enamoured of it regardless.

That is why I wrote roughly 4k words about it! I hate myself!

If you’re as crazy as me about the soundtrack of this game, I recommend you read the published cd interview with the composers themselves! if you haven’t already. I just found it yesterday(unbelievable but it’s true) and… after writing all of this and checking it out, I felt validated. It sure is a one of a kind feeling. 

Alright folks, we’ve made it to the end. Congratulations for sticking around and thanks being interested in my nonsensical rambling! 

I also hope that you, like me, will now be unable to listen to bowed strings without being reminded of Revali. Good luck!

————– Annotations/Sidenotes/Whatever

(*)The Flight Motif(in point number 2) is also present in this track. We can hear it in the background right after the Rito leitmotif, as per usual. It starts with a clarinet, I think, before the strings take the lead. (**) Note that the Flight Motif only comes into play in the Breath of The Wild rendition of the song. (***)I strongly associate this instrument with Mipha, given that it is used in her theme, in every “response” to the initial melody. It can be heard in Attack On Vah Ruta, as well, it enters the scene when the notes Mi(E) and Fa(F) are played. The initial tune, Si and Do(B and C) are played on a clarinet or oboe, wind instruments just like the flute that leads Sidon’s respective theme. The celesta can also be heard inside Vah Ruta, activating the first terminal…. when the song really takes a turn just like Medoh’s. Mipha has nothing to do with the song of this analysis, however. We must understand that instruments, although they are attached to characters/various story elements in some cases, can always be used outside of that context, for that is the nature of an orchestral soundtrack. If you have this many tools at your disposal, you will make good use of them.

[onestowatch]

Aidan Bissett Wants You to Know It’s Okay to Be Alone [Q&A]

Photo: Brooke James

Aidan Bissett’s sunny and effortless disposition contrasts the chaotic ode to classic rock that is his latest track “Dumped.” The introspective and cathartic nature of his latest offering speaks to age-old feelings of heartbreak while doubling as an optimistic reminder that cloudy days cannot last forever.

Releasing soft-spoken tracks followed by headbanging, classic-rock inspired hits, this young artist’s music truly feels alive, shifting and evolving from one release to the next. With a soulful dedication to “music first, lyrics second,” Bissett is steadily creating his own lane defined by a relentless drive for experimentation. We had the chance to talk to Bissett about his creative approach, his latest single, “Dumped,” and plenty more. 

Ones to Watch: So, tell me the story behind “Dumped?”

Aidan Bissett: Wow, that’s a good question. I wish when I wrote it, it came from like, I had just been dumped… Well, okay, I had sort of been dumped. I don’t know how to explain that, but let’s just say I was in a relationship, taking time off, in a sense. When we were writing it, it was me, my friends, Ryan and Sean, and we were writing in a zoom session for like three hours. It was not a good song, and none of the three of us wanted to say it was a bad song. So, we were like, “OK, we are going to go take a break for a little.” 

Then I pulled my guitar off the wall and started messing around, because when I get bored, especially in sessions, I like to try and take my mind off things. I’ll play random chords and sing random lyrics, like ad-lib over them just for fun. So, I started playing like three chords that are all throughout “Dumped,” singing this hook line that—it’s going to sound really weird—“I’m taking dumps all the time.” The guy I was producing it with was like, “OK, gross,” but that actually could be really cool… what if we change it to “I’m getting dumped all the time.” And I was like, “Woah.” That’s kind of how it started and we were on a roll and wrote the whole song in two hours.

And the song does mean a lot to me, because I have actually been dumped, multiple times. It sucks, it’s not a fun feeling, so every time I listen to it, it is kind of an “f you” type of song. Like, “yeah, I got dumped but I’m better off on my own anyway.” I always like that feeling better than wallowing in sadness. So, for anyone who does listen to it, I hope that it helps bring you out of the mourn and into a new light.

In the music video, you are seen reading an “Idiot's Guide To Love.” What was the last book you read?

I do love reading, I’ve always liked reading. I have not, in the past year, read a ton of books, which sucks because I actually do like reading. Well, okay, my senior year of high school I read like 13 books but a lot of them were for school. But they were still good books! I’m in the middle of reading Dune, which is very good so far. So, hopefully, I can finish that before the movie comes out. But yeah, I do like reading… when I have the time to sit down with my ADHD mind.

“Dumped” is a noted sonic transition for you. Can you tell me about how you approach your genre-spanning sound?

I don’t really like putting myself in one genre. I’m in a certain lane in the sense I do indie-pop, I do alternative, but I don't want to do straight pop. I feel like it's such a box, and it’s so limiting. I just love exploring different sounds, so even from the start, I put out “Different,” and then the second song was “Worst Girls Of All Time,” which was a completely different sound than the indie-pop wave that “Different” is. So, me putting out stuff like this after “Communication” is me exploring new sounds. To be honest, the things I like to hear always change, the bands that I’m listening to are always changing, and I take a lot of inspiration from a lot of different bands. I just love trying new things. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t, but it just keeps me on my toes instead of just doing the same formula over and over again.

What are you listening to right now?

That’s a good question, it’s kind of all over the place. There’s this one girl, Remi Wolf, who I’ve been non-stop listening to… I have been listening to her for a minute. When she put out her first EP, I loved it. But now, she’s putting out these new tracks and Solomonophonic, her producer, he’s just incredible and her voice is incredible. They are doing so many things that just aren’t normal in this time of music; it’s just so her own lane. I find that really inspiring in the sense that she’s carving her own path and not following in the line of others.

I feel like I’m always listening to Wallows no matter what. I always have them ready to go. COIN. Role Model’s rolling out new stuff so I’m excited for that, he’s kind of taking a change in his own discography. [The] sounds that he is doing are definitely a lot different from his earlier stuff. This guy, binki. He’s actually opening for Role Model on this tour. Oh my gosh! His music’s insane, so cool. It’s got so many sounds going on, similar to Remi Wolf, there’s so much going on, you’re like ‘wow.. I’ve never heard something like this before.’

For those who don’t know, you write, record and produce your music all by yourself. Can you walk me through your creative process?

Yeah, I’m very musically-driven. Everyone has their own thing, I feel like a lot of artists, like the Olivia Rodrigo types, are lyrically-driven. I’m definitely music first, lyrics second. So, when I sit down to write something I try and get something I latch onto. I’m like, “Oh, this sounds cool. Lyrics could sound cool over this.” Anytime I go into a session or I’m recording by myself, I try to lay down some form of music, and then I’ll freestyle lyrics or freestyle melodies over the top, or pick a melody I like and throw lyrics over that melody. Whether that’s a hook or a verse, that kind of just depends on how I’m feeling. It’s definitely a bit unconventional compared to other artists. I feel like artists are a bit more put together when it comes to writing music just because I’ve only been doing it for like a year-and-a-half. But I have my own process, and it works. Every time I write something I learn something new. I’m excited to see, even a year from now, what my process will be… and even if it's completely different or efficient, who knows?

Tell me about the influence of music in your childhood and the decision for you to be a musician at a young age - you started playing electric guitar very young - what was your household like? Musical family?

My dad wanted the kids in our family, I have two other siblings, to play an instrument for two years during our young adult life. He wanted us to play piano before we got to pick, so we had two years of piano and then we had to pick an instrument. So, my sister went and played two years of piano and didn’t really stick with it afterward. Then, it was my turn and I was like, “Well, I don’t really want to play piano, can I play guitar?” And since I was the only one who asked, who expressed interest in a different instrument, he was like, “Sure.” I started in second grade and I’ve stuck with it the entire time. I took lessons for years, and that’s how I kind of got into the classic rock scene. My dad was a huge classic rock fan so he showed me all greats… and that was all I listened to for years. It definitely had a large impact on what I did. I would even play in little recitals, and I always played classic rock songs like AC/DC or Guns N’ Roses.

It wasn’t necessarily a musical household, like my dad isn’t musical, my mom isn’t musical. The reason he wanted us to play an instrument is because his mom made him play an instrument as a kid, so he was like, “You guys get to do that, too.” But it is true, one of us ended up using it.

What do you want people to take away from “Dumped?”

It’s an amp-up song. I want them to feel energized, to be happy with yourself. Getting hurt in relationships happens all the time, but it's okay to get hurt in a relationship. It’s kind of how you bounce back, and I want this song to be like a bounce back. Like, you hear it and, “Oh! This is me bouncing back! I don’t need to sit and cry anymore, because that’s not fun.” Sitting and crying is okay, everyone’s done it, but there’s a point that you reach, in that break-up phase, when the crying needs to stop and you need to go out and live and be the person that you are, independently. So, I would hope that it inspires you to be your independent, wonderful self again.

Is there anything else you would like to say about your music, or in general, that you want to take the chance now to say?

Well, I’m sitting on a lot of songs. So, I’m excited to get all the rest out, and again, everything is so diverse. All the music is so diverse, I just feel like each song is its own thing, which I really enjoy. I feel that’s really unique to my own music, where you’re getting something new every time. I’m moving to LA. That’s the other thing. So, if anyone sees me in LA, please stop me and say hello!

[girlboss-molina]

Be Who You Are (No Compromise)

A Julie and the Phantoms Modern Royalty AU

Chapter 8: Rules of Engagement

AO3 Link

Words: 8988

-----

Julie POV

…

Julie remembered the day they’d first announced the marriage. She, Ray, Carlos, and Reggie were visiting Tambor, before Queen Claire and King Xavier had sprung the question on them. Ray had vehemently disagreed, but they’d insisted that he raise it to the council. And when it passed, Julie remembered the exact green glow of the screens reflecting on her dad’s face, and she’d shaken her head, stormed out of the Tamborian royal office with Alex right behind her, angry tears streaming down her face as she’d ran back to her room.

She and Alex were pissed. They were angry, scared, sad, horrified, and betrayed. Alex especially. He’d never come out to his parents, but he’d still explained how horrible he felt, as if his parents were doing it to spite him.

There had been lots of not-so-royal language used that day, and today was no different.

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” Julie shouted, not caring if her walls weren’t soundproof. She’d stayed silent the whole walk back to her room with Alex and the brief passing of Reggie, who’d gotten the details from Alex. Now it was her time to freak out.

“I’m officially ready to fake my death, Lex,” she decided, fists by her sides. She hated this. Since when did they get to control her life? It was her life, for God’s sake! Princess or not, nobody should have to be in an arranged marriage.

Her voice choked.

“I’m not, really,” she admitted, “but I want to. If it means we get to run our own goddamn lives, I”ll do it.” She tore a hand through her hair and blinked back tears to no avail.

“I’m so sorry,” Julie finally said. “You don’t deserve any of this.”

“Neither do you.” Alex mussed his hair and sat on the end of her bed as she paced. “It’s majorly fucked up.”

“It really is! I didn’t choose to be Princess Julie Molina, Heiress to the throne of Dahlia.” She said her own long title in a faux posh voice, gagging at the sound and bile rising in her throat. She walked into her bathroom, fixing her hair to be natural and down, nothing braided or tied. Angrily scrubbing tears away, Julie stalked to her closet and changed into sweatpants and a big t-shirt, not bothering to pick up her suit off the floor.

“We have to raise major hell for the council members who voted for this,” Alex decided as she walked back out.

“As much as possible,” she agreed.

Worn out, she flopped next to him. He wrapped his arm around her and she squeezed him in a friendly hug, letting his head rest on her shoulder. She felt a tear soak through her shirt, but didn’t care. He needed this.

“Fucking hell,” he said.

“Amen to that.” That elicited a halfhearted laugh, and Julie smiled a bit.

“It’ll be okay,” she finally said.

“No, it won’t. But we’ll survive.”

“Yeah.”

…

“Ow, Mira!” Julie exclaimed, trying not to move as Mira quickly moved the pin by her side as she marked the fabric for the outline of her wedding dress. It was a very tedious process; Julie looked like she was wrapped in giant pieces of fabric and lace… because she pretty much was. Mira and two other tailors were taking exact measurements to make sure the dress fit perfectly, then they would sew it and make adjustments as needed.

Unfortunately, that meant Julie had to stand very, very still and hope she wouldn’t get stabbed by the needles.

She wasn’t having much luck.

If she’d counted correctly, Mira (and the other girls, Soleil and Jenna), had accidentally poked her twelve times, in varying places, but generally around the side, waist, and shoulders.

“Sorry!” Mira said through her teeth. “Just trying to get this fitted properly.”

“It’s okay,” she sighed, doing her best not to slouch. MIra’s hands fell.

“If you want to talk about it…”

“Thanks.” In all honesty, she did not- especially since she didn’t know Soleil or Jenna very well, and didn’t want to spill her guts about hating the wedding when they were around. Plus… talking about it just made it more real.

“Your highness, this dress is going to be stunning on you,” noted Soleil excitedly, further proving her point.

“I bet,” she said with as much faux enthusiasm as she could muster. “You guys are incredible.”

“Aww, thanks!” replied Jenna. Julie gave a smile, but it looked more like a grimace than anything else.

…

After the grueling process of getting legally stabbed by her best friend over and over with tiny blades for the purpose of creating a goddamn wedding dress, Julie changed into more comfortable clothes; a t- shirt and jeans.

There was going to be a storm blowing in tonight, so she figured she may as well go outside before she would end up soaked. But, who would she find sulking in the field but a certain snarky gay?

She stood for a moment, watching him pick at the grass, before finally sighing.

“Why don’t we go work on a song?” she suggested. “I can get Luke and Reggie, plus the rest of the group if you want, and we can work out some stress.” Alex shrugged. Julie waited for a few minutes, hating how depressed he was. She was too, of course, but what kind of friend would she be if she let one of her best friends sit alone and feel sorry for himself? Besides, she was aching to work on song.

“Alright,” he finally replied, and Julie smiled.

“Awesome.” She stuck her hands in her pockets

“Let’s go, drummer boy.”

…

Playing the piano had always been therapeutic for Julie, until her mom passed away. Then she’d hardly been able to listen to any music without being reminded of her. But she was back on her groove, and the keys were familiar in the way you could sink into your best friend’s arms and know you were home.

She played the opening chords and began to sing, closing her eyes and feeling like it was just her and the piano in a universe of music and colors.

When Luke, Reggie, and Alex jumped in at the chorus, she opened her eyes and jumped up with the mic, dancing around as she belted out each note with more conviction than before. She walked around the room as she sang, dancing with Reggie, Alex, and Luke. She wandered over to where the rest of the group was sitting and dancing along, and she gave Willie a high-five as she passed him.

Luke sang the second prechorus with her, and the smile on his face only grew. THey harmonized each note, voices melding together as the music rose and Alex jumped in with the drums as they went into the next chorus, singing an ode to hope and persistence.

During the bridge, Luke held her gaze the entire time, and her heart soared as she belted out the last bridge note, riffing as the others held the background vocals.

When the song ended, her hair was frizzy and heart pounding, but she felt alive and free. She fistbumped Reggie, grinning, and hugging Flynn, who told her over and over that they were incredible, and that she was assigning herself the role of band manager. Carrie had automatically volunteered to be the costume designer, and Mira had taken offense to that, because “I’m literally her lady-in-waiting, Wilson!”

Julie couldn’t help but laugh at her friends.

“Okay,” Flynn finally said, “girl time.” Julie laughed but agreed, waving to the guys as she wrapped her arms around Flynn’s and Mira’s shoulders, Carrie on Flynn’s other side.

They walked out of the studio and wandered all throughout the palace, chattering mindlessly about everything and nothing. Mira insisted that mint chocolate chip ice cream was the superior ice cream, to which Flynn retorted “totally! Like, are you ever eating chocolate and you think ‘hey, you know what would go great with this? Toothpaste!’” Carrie had promptly lost her shit, and Julie was the only one on team rocky road.

“Personally,” Carrie said, “I-”

“We know, you like neapolitan you fucking lesbian,” Flynn said with a grin. Carrie gasped in mock offense.

“Hypocrisy at its finest! You’re just as lesbian as they come.”

“I never claimed to not be a hypocrite,” Flynn defended. Carrie huffed and crossed her arms.

“I’m breaking up with you. We’re broken up now.”

“Fine, but I get custody of Julie!”

“Wait, since when am I your child?”

“Since we’re both older than you,” they told her in unison.

“Uh huh, yeah, by a couple weeks! I’m a legal adult, and neither of you get custody of me.”

“I’m disowning you,” Carrie declared.

“Me too,” agreed Flynn.

“Me three,” Mira chimed in.

“Oh for the love of-”

Their playful bickering continued for at least an hour, wandering the long halls of the palace, weaving in and out of corridors and dragging their hands along railings.

The wedding never crossed Julie’s mind once.

Despite the whole situation, they still managed to be lighthearted and have useless arguments, bicker and love each other all the same. Julie hugged them closer, relishing the warmth of having them close to her. Carrie’s strawberry shampoo was faintly there and she breathed it in, calming immediately. Flynn linked their pinkies together, and Mira kept her hand on Julie’s shoulder. Julie didn’t realize she was crying until Flynn asked if she was okay.

“Yeah,” she said, and it was strangely true. She wiped her eyes. “I’m not even upset right now, but I’m still crying. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“I do,” Carrie informed her.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Absolutely nothing.”

-----

Reggie POV

…

Reggie sat in the studio, suit vest draped over an empty guitar stand as he sat on the piano bench, sleeves rolled to his elbows and hands on the keys, silent but arranging themselves in chords. He hummed to himself quietly, sighing and closing his eyes.

As he played the first chord, soulful and melancholy, he started to sing.

“We’re no strangers to the dark

Every time we find the light

But no matter how much it hurts

Glowsticks have to break before they shine.”

He closed his eyes, letting the chords play only from muscle memory. Normally, he didn’t do much songwriting on his own, but this song, Glowsticks, was one that he’d written for Julie after Rose’s passing. He’d never gotten around to giving it to her, though, because of how much her love for music was affected. For a year, she hadn’t played or sang a note, and he knew that it would’ve been too painful.

Eventually, he’d forgotten about it.

But when he’d seen the heartbroken look on her face the hour before, coming back from the royal office with dry eyes but hollow and chipped, the memory of the page he’d torn out of his journal and stuffed in a drawer came flooding back.

And now here he was, like it was only yesterday he’d written the chords, shaky with tears but determined. This time, his eyes were dry and his hands steady, but his heart ached for Julie, for Alex, for Luke, for Willie.

His voice started out lighter and airy, with a slight rasp as he played the soft melody along with the base, but as he reached the second chorus, his voice sank to his chest, belting out the lyrics and playing the piano strongly, chords echoing in the soundproof room, the acoustics bending his voice to all angles until he was wrapped in a song of tragedy and pain and strength and hope, earthy and rich but airy and light.

“So breathe

Just breathe

You're already shining

You can break

You’ll be okay

I'll keep you safe until you rise.”

His breath shook as he flipped the last word from a powerful chest voice to a soft, airy falsetto, sighing as he played the last, low chord.

Reggie left his eyes closed, slowly taking his hands off the keys, resting his elbows on his knees and turning, finally letting the light pierce his eyes.

…

“Your highness,” called a palace staff member. “If I could steal you for a few minutes, could you give your opinions on possible place settings for the wedding?”

“Yeah sure,” Reggie replied, standing from the large leather couch in the palace living room, doing his best to smile at the young man. He was tall, and muscularly built, but his freckles, wide brown eyes, and messy red hair were proof that he was probably the human embodiment of sunshine.

“We were thinking white with gold accents,” he said, swiping through a few photos on his tablet. Reggie did his best to pay attention; they were, admittedly, beautiful. Soft white tablecloths and napkins lined with plates, each plate with gold paint on the rim, the wine glasses clear cut crystal, the same golden lining as the plates.

“That’s beautiful,” Reggie agreed. “Julie and Alex would love that.”

“I’m glad you think so! My advisor was skeptical, but I think it’s a nice scheme.”

“I do too.” He looked away, hating that he was giving suggestions for his sister’s unwanted wedding.

“Your highness, are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he assured him. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Sure,” he said softly. “Did you have any thoughts for flowers?”

“Dahlias,” Reggie said after a moment. “They were our mom’s favorite, and they’re Julie’s favorite too. I think she’d like purple.”

“Purple dahlias,” the man repeated. He opened an interior design modeling app, dragging tables around the virtual room and adding glass vases with bouquets of dahlias, plus the occasional orchid scattered throughout. Reggie stared in awe; even though it was just a digital rendition of the ballroom, it was gorgeous. The crackled marble floors shone in the light of lanterns and string lights, adorned with pillars and tables arranged in neat rows. He felt like he was in the ballroom, getting a peek at the future.

And yet, his heart sank.

It seemed to do that a lot lately.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Reggie met the man’s eyes. “You seem pretty down.” He sighed.

“I am, but I’ll be okay.”

“Alright. I’m Elliot, by the way.”

“I’m Reggie! Nice to meet you.”

“You too!”

…

“Dad, are you sure there’s no way to stop the wedding?” Reggie had gone to see Ray in the royal office an hour ago, to discuss an assortment of things, but always returning to the wedding.

“I’m sure. I hate it as much as you do, believe me, but I’ve explored every option.” Reggie shook his head.

“There has to be something-”

“Mijo, you can look all you want, but there’s nothing we can safely do. Even though there are multiple ways to stop the wedding, it wouldn’t be safe. There would be tension between Dahlia and Tambor, maybe even Krypto. Best case scenario would be rumors and unrest in our own kingdom, but even with that, Julie and Alex would be the subject of a ton of scandal for the rest of their lives.”

“I just hate it.”

“Believe me, I do too. I’ve done everything in my power, but I can’t endanger millions of people.”

“I know. And Julie wouldn’t want you to, either.”

“Exactly.” Ray pulled him into a hug, and Reggie buried his head in his shoulder. “Mijo, I’m so sorry. You’re a good brother.”

“Thanks,” he whispered. Ray nodded.

Someone knocked on the door. Reggie pulled out of the hug and, when Ray nodded again, he opened the door to see a short woman with pale skin and straight, dark hair reaching her shoulders, and bangs brushing her eyebrows. Her wide eyes were behind round glasses, and she gave a bright smile.

“Ah, Prince Reginald, just who I wanted to see! I’m Esther Pearlridge of the Dahlian Times. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions regarding your sister’s upcoming wedding?” Reggie glanced at his dad, who didn’t object, but gave him a look that seemed to say, it’ll be okay.

“Sure.”

“Your majesty,” Esther said to Ray, “you’re welcome to come along.” He agreed, and Reggie was eternally grateful.

…

“Your highness-”

“Please, call me Reggie,” he told her. Esther smiled.

“Reggie, the news of the wedding’s date being moved up came as a pleasant surprise to everyone across Dahlia, and surely Tamborian citizens as well. What are your thoughts on the matter?”

“Well,” he began, clearing his throat. “It’s definitely a unique situation. And while it is exciting, what a lot of people don’t consider is how stressful it must be for Princess Julie and Prince Alex. I mean, Alex is my age, Julie about a year younger. Arranged marriages are already very fraught situations, but this one especially.”

Ray smiled from his position behind Esther, letting him know he’d played it well.

“Of course,” she replied sympathetically. “That is a perspective that not many people consider.”

“Yeah.”

“How do you feel about Prince Alexander?”

“Oh, Alex is great! He’s quickly become one of my closest friends. Although, his taste in Star Wars characters is questionable. Everyone knows Han Solo is the best, right Esther?”

“Obviously! Though, I was always partial to Leia, myself.”

“Valid,” Reggie agreed.

“Moving on to the next question, what do you think will come of Prince Alexander becoming the Dahlian Prince Consort as your sister, Princess Julie, ascends to the throne?”

“Well, Dahlia is currently doing amazing. Homelessness rates are at an all-time low and still dropping; at this rate, they’re projected to reach zero by next Summer. Wealth equality is stabilizing even more, and our education system is constantly being revised and reviewed by scientists and historians to make sure the content is correct and unbiased, as well as by child psychologists to make them good learning environments for students. And our environmental status is one of the best in the world, second to the Republic of Isala. Greenhouse gases in our region are extremely low, and the CO2 levels are dropping as our reforestation teams plant more and more trees along the grasslands.

“Knowing my sister, and Prince Alex, I have no doubt that they will lead our country further into the future. Especially Julie; she may be a princess, but take it from her brother: she’s stubborn as all hell, but always about the right things. She and Alex will face struggles, as all people do, but I’m positive they’ll do great things.”

“That’s so nice to hear. And from other people, we’ve heard that they expect Princess Julie to be the best, most connected ruler in Dahlian history. Do you think this is true?”

“I would expect it to be, yeah! Julie really tries to connect with people, and tries to see things through others’ points of view. She’s always done that. She doesn’t want to stay secluded in a palace; honestly, I doubt anyone could keep her here if they tried.”

Esther laughed. “If I may ask, how are preparations for the wedding going?” Reggie fought the rising sadness in his chest.

“They’re going great! Although I’m pretty sure Julie’s gotten stabbed a few hundred times by the needles her lady-in-waiting is using to fit her dress.” Esther laughed again.

“Well, that’s all the time we have. Thank you so much, your highness. Always a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Yeah, you too! Thanks.”

As Esther rushed away, laptop under her arm and a pencil over her ear, Ray gave Reggie a warm smile.

“You did perfect,” he told him. “Excellently played.”

“Thanks. I just wish I actually felt as optimistic as I sounded.”

“It’ll be okay. I’m sure of it.”

-----

Willie POV

…

Willie’s phone buzzed with a text from Julie, with a request for their group to meet in her room, and if her tone was any indication, it wasn’t good. He ran to his quarters, doing his best to brush the flour Lilian had thrown at him after a witty remark out of his hair. Changing into a sweater and jeans, he made his way up the curving staircase and down the long hallway before knocking gently at Julie’s door.

“Come in.”

He walked in, heart sinking when he saw the upset look on Alex’s face.

“What happened?” Carrie asked from behind him, walking in with Flynn by her side. They were soon followed by Luke, Reggie, Erik, and MIra.

“They moved up the wedding,” Julie finally said, her fists curled. Willie’s heart dropped all the way to the ground, leaving his veins pumping blood made by nothing more than an organ beating rhythmically, called the heart but only doing what was necessary for physical survival. His actual heart, his emotions and love and memories, all froze, and he shook his head vigorously, forcing it to settle back in the center of his chest, taking a deep breath.

“Why?” he had to ask. Alex snorted.

“My parents gave an ultimatum disguised as helpful advice.” Each word was dripping with venom, but there was sadness behind it. Willie took his hand, feeling him clutch back as if he were the only thing holding him together.

“And there’s nothing you can do to stop it?” Flynn asked. “I mean, you and Jules are the Prince of Tambor and Princess of Dahlia. There has to be something you can do… right?” Julie shook her head.

“Nope. There’s been so much buildup and excitement that there might be riots and tension between our countries if we called it off so abruptly. We can’t risk anyone getting hurt.”

“Okay, but-”

“Mira, treason would definitely get people hurt.”

“Jules,” Mira said, “you have a good heart. It’s super annoying.” Willie cracked a grin at that, as did Alex.

“Even then, though,” Alex cut in, “my parents clearly want this. And they’re super influential. I wouldn’t even be surprised if they threatened trade routes but made it seem like it was for the ‘greater good.’”

“I hate to admit it,” Reggie said, “but he’s right. Sweet words can be even more dangerous than declarations of war. Especially if they twist the blame.”

…

After another hour of scheming, ranting, and trying to lighten the mood, Alex fell asleep near the wall in Julie’s room, curled up against a pillow. Willie watched him softly breathe, looking so much more peaceful in rest.

“We should let him rest,” Julie said. “It’s not like our group hasn’t done slumber parties before.”

“Yeah,” Carrie agreed. “He needs sleep.”

“All of us do,” Erik pointed out. Willie nodded, sitting next to Alex and putting his hand on his shoulder. Everyone found a spot and drifted off, and Willie had a feeling he was the last one awake. But, soon, he was able to curl up against Alex and find himself in a deep, dreamless sleep.

…

Willie had never been so grateful that he hadn’t been asked to bake.

He wasn’t sure if he could handle baking wedding cake samples for this situation. Any other time, sure, but not when the guy he was in love with was being forced to marry their other friend, neither of whom were interested.

He stared at the mirror, eyes blank. He hated the numbness overtaking him. He’d done his best to stay positive, to remember all the tips he’d picked up for focusing and not getting dragged under, and while they’d worked to some extent, he couldn’t deny the fracture in his heart. They were powerless; ironic, considering they were all either royal or close acquaintances of royals.

But, even with all of that supposed power at their fingertips, they couldn’t do the one thing they wanted to.

He wasn’t sure just how long he stared blankly at his reflection, but when his phone buzzed with a text from Julie, telling their group that they were going to practice in the studio, he made himself plaster on a smile and go join them. He hadn’t seen Alex play a full song before; this should be fun.

When Julie started the song, her powerful piano playing moved the whole room, voice strong and bright as she sang the first verse. Then, in the prechorus, she led into the big, adrenaline-pumping beat with a riff and belt,before finally going into the chorus. But all Willie could see wasAlex, whose face was a bit red from playing the drums, hair falling in his eyes,his pink t-shirt rather tight against his biceps. Willie was sure he was blushing, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

As Alex held the beat, Willie tapped his foot and grinned, letting the upbeat song envelop him despite their melancholy circumstances. Julie and Luke belted out the lyrics, harmonizing with such grace that Willie wasn’t convinced that soulmates didn’t exist; if they did, Julie and Luke fit the model. And Alex and Reggie sang the background vocals flawlessly, adding depth to the song with their steady music.

When the song ended, Willie’s heart was pounding. He clapped with the rest of the group, standing up, but unable to speak. God, Alex had such an insane effect on him. Normally he was smooth, able to recover and flip around. He’d thought it impossible to fluster him; but, then again, Alex had a rather annoying habit of making the impossible seem like child’s play.

Then, Alex ran his hand through his hair in an unfairly hot way - the inconsiderate bastard. Willie did his best to settle his blush, but to no avail. He giggled as Alex tried to brush off a compliment but finally accepted it.

He stammered through a compliment, hating how flustered he was. And then, because the universe had it out for him, Alex pulled him in and kissed his temple. If Willie hadn’t already melted, that would’ve been the tipping point.

Somehow, though, he found the ability to breathe again.

…

“Dude, I can’t say this enough,” Willie stressed, “that was amazing! You guys seriously need to go on tour.” Alex’s musical laugh filled the air.

“Flynn has already assigned herself band manager. With her ‘in charge,’ we’ll probably be playing gig after gig- well, you know, when Julie isn’t busy running a country.” WIllie laughed.

“Yeah, fair point. But still! Your guys’s song is going to be stuck in my head forever.”

“Forever?”

“I have ADHD, ‘Lex. Don’t underestimate the song sticking.” It was true; ADHD had its pros and cons, but one aspect that seemed to be both was his brain’s innate ability to have twenty-nine songs stuck all at once, and the strange fact that the How to Train your Dragon main theme, Kahoot music, Beethoven’s 5th Symphony, Roses by The Band CAMINO, and Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This) could all be combined to the same tempo- and the fact that it slapped.

As they walked through the long, windowed corridors, Willie got an idea. He grabbed Alex’s hand.

“Follow me!”

“What? Where are we going?”

“You’ll see!” They raced all the way to the west side of the palace, where Willie led him up a narrow flight of stairs, pushing open a door to reveal-

“Whoa,” Alex gasped in awe. “The roof?”

“The roof,” Willie agreed. “Cooler than you’d expect, huh?”

“Way.” Willie grinned; it was a beautiful view. The river curved and rushed around the bases of snow-capped mountains with forests decorating their slopes, and as he turned, the capital city of Dahlia was nestled between rolling hills, thousands of lights sparkling in houses, apartments, shops, restaurants, and offices. Headlights danced along the highways, and the striking comparison of the bright lights versus the dark, cloudy sky made for a dramatic view.

“Storm’s blowing in,” Willie observed as it began to pour, soaking his hair. Alex cracked up.

“You sure?” he asked. “This is the best weather this side of Constantinople.”

“Ah, but remember, now it’s Istanbul- not Constantinople.”

“Well, why did Constantinople get the works?” Willie giggled.

“That’s nobody’s business but the Turks.”

“You are such a dork,” Alex informed him, pulling him closer.

“I know!” He had to raise his voice over the rain, and Alex’s cheeks were flushed with the cold. Willie felt a calm rush of confidence wash over him with the falling rain, and he stood on his toes, reaching up to hold Alex’s jaw as he kissed him. Alex kissed back immediately, and sparks shot down Willie’s spine.

As he deepened the kiss, thunder rolled across the mountains. The clouds were practically black, but it gave a sort of calmness and confidence with it, like the soothing darkness of night cloaked with clouds of expectancy, waiting and hoping and understanding that love finds comfort in the dark, that there are risks in life, but that they had to be taken, because while the world might not have been made for them, they were made for the world. People, caught up in dreaming about what could be, lost sight of what is; so determined to be right and prove that someone else was wrong that they drive themselves mad.

“I’m gone on you,” Willie finally whispered, eyes closed and forehead against Alex’s. Alex didn’t respond, kissing him again. He sank into it, holding him close and letting the rain wash over them and combing his fingers through Alex’s hair.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he heard sizzling.

Without thinking, Willie jumped and tackled Alex, turning so he hit the ground and Alex landed safely on top of him. The rain blurred his eyes, but he heard crackling and felt the heat of the lightning striking the roof a hundred feet away from them.

“Son of a motherfuck what just happened?!” Alex asked. Willie could hear his heart pounding in his ears, but he couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped his lips.

“I think you fell for me,” Willie joked. Alex rolled his eyes. He grinned; Alex was still laying on top of him, and Willie’s back was soaked by the puddle they’d landed in, but they’d avoided being struck by lightning, which was decidedly a good thing.

“That was too close,” Alex decided. “We should probably go inside before anything else happens.”

“Probably.” Neither of them moved for a moment, until Willie leaned up and pecked Alex on the nose, who immediately turned bright red, even visible in the darkness between the rising night and falling clouds.

-----

Alex POV

…

Alex had known his life was never his. If you’re born into royalty, unless you leave the royal family, you’re stuck there, and it influences your life forever.

He knew that.

And yet, until the wedding was moved up, it hadn’t really hit him.

His life wasn’t his, and it never would be.

He would be forced to be in the public eye, forced to marry a girl he wasn’t in love with, forced to live the rest of his life away from the person he was in love with, forced to watch the girl, one of his best friends, pretend to be okay as if she wasn’t also being separated from the person she loved. He would be forced to plaster on a smile, forced to live with this so that chaos wouldn’t erupt in Dahlia and Tambor.

So that he and the people he loved wouldn’t be exiled.

Alex was tired of being strong. He’d always been told by his friends that he was strong for dealing with this, strong for bearing the stresses of being put into politics so young, strong for hiding who he was from his parents because he knew it would only bring more pain, strong, strong strong. He wished he didn’t have to be.

“Hey, Alex?” Julie eventually asked, directing his attention away from his thoughts and his glazed eyes half-scrolling his Instagram. They’d been sitting for over an hour as the sun set outside Julie’s window, not speaking much aside from angry rants when they’d just gotten out of the royal office.

“Yeah?”

“Should we text the group chat to meet here so we can update all of them? Or would you rather not?” Alex sighed.

“We probably should. Not like we can hide from it.”

“Yeah.”

treason buddies

juju: Hey guys, some shit went down. Meet in my room?

flynnigan: oh fuck, do we even want to know?

juju: Probably not, but you should.

speed bump: i’ll be up in a sec, i’m trying to get flour out of my hair alkjdfskjldf

Me: skjlsdfkjlsdf lilian i assume

speed bump: yep, the bastard

rockstar mcsleeveless: i’ll be there in a sec. are you guys ok?

juju: Not really, but we’ll live

care bear: omw

short stack: same

personal stylist: i’ll be there in a minute

Alex clicked off his phone once the typing bubbles had all disappeared, blowing out a tired breath as he flopped backwards, half-hoping the fading sunset would let him dissolve with the growing twilight, let him become another fleck of light in a vast abyss that was somehow both cold and vast yet full of curiosity and glowing stars. What would it be like, floating in nothingness, waiting for someone to find you yet dreading the day your solitude ended?

Maybe he’d be part of a constellation. What one? Would he add to one that already existed, or would he be part of his very own? What would it look like? Maybe he’d be an owl, a drumstick, a wisp of a wish, floating in the air taking no shape at all, a shimmering question piquing the curiosity of anyone stargazing who happened upon his star, a gentle hope carried by a breeze, full of life and loss and wonder and apprehension.

Or maybe he’d be a shooting star, flying across the atmosphere in the blink of an eye, there, then gone in an instant, burning brighter as his fleeting life ended. Technically, they weren’t stars at all, they were tiny meteors the size of a grain of rice, only visible because of their dramatic, fiery demise. But maybe that was fitting. It wasn’t a star, and neither was Alex. He was more visible now than ever because of the marriage, bringing demise to his hopes like a burning scar, beautiful but painful to the individual.

It wasn’t a star, and neither was he. But shooting stars were meaningful, too. People wished on them; children, usually. But what a wonderful feeling it would be to have the hope of a child in your light.

The thought didn’t necessarily comfort him, but he didn’t feel as alone as before, didn’t feel quite as worthless.

…

After enduring the grueling process of venting and explaining the new situation to the rest of the group, trying to hold back one stubborn tear that kept fighting, Alex finally fell asleep. He wasn’t sure how “asleep” he actually was; he heard vague whispers of “we should let him rest,” and “all of us should.” But he couldn’t move, and he didn’t want to, either, so he left his weary eyes closed and slept, barely feeling someone’s hand on his shoulder and faint warmth next to him.

…

“Your highness,” a butler said, rushing up next to him with a tray, with tiny bites of cake arranged neatly across it. “Would you mind tasting these and telling me which three are your favorites?”

“Hm? Yeah, sure.” Ignoring the numbness fighting to grow in his chest, he tried each one, finally deciding on a few, and promising he’d sample the frostings later. Wedding cakes really weren’t something he wanted to be thinking about at the moment. He’d already had to stand still for hours while his suit was fitted, text Julie a million different pictures of flowers, to which she’d replied “just pick whichever one is poisonous so we can fake our deaths and leave it on our plates.”

He felt sick.

He did his best to avoid other people as he made his way out the back door of the palace, tearing a hand through his hair as he made his way to the field where he’d been with Willie, admiring (and despising) how much progress they’d made on the palace reconstruction. It was almost done, which was incredible, but horrible for him, since it meant they were almost done with the giant ballroom in which he would have to marry Julie.

All things considered, though it was beautiful; the creamy white pillars were identical to the ones on the other side of the palace, which had been repainted so it didn’t look patchy. Intricate flower beds were arranged at precise intervals, and the crystal-cut windows reflected sparkling mosaics of light onto the pathways. Lanterns hung on every pillar, unlit during the day but glowing with soft, gentle flames by night.

Alex sat in the middle of the field, picking at a stray blade of grass and relishing the warm sunlight on his neck, even though he was probably getting a crease on his crisp vest from how he was sitting, slouched as he sat on the hill, elbows on his knees.

After he’d sat and sulked for a considerable amount of time, Julie’s voice snapped him out of it.

“Why don’t we go work on a song?” she suggested. “I can get Luke and Reggie, plus the rest of the group if you want, and we can work out some stress.” Alex shrugged. He knew he was being immature, just sitting there and feeling sorry for himself, but it felt good to be immature. He should really do it more often.

But… there was a lump in the dirt that was giving his butt a bruise, and he didn’t feel like getting up just to sit back down, so he supposed he could go to the studio.

“Alright,” he finally said.

“Awesome.” the sadness in Julie’s voice was tangible, but she masked it well as she smiled and stuck her hands in the pockets of her baggy jeans, between the chain, and squared her shoulders.

“Let’s go, drummer boy.”

…

In the few days since he’d drummed, Alex had somehow forgotten just how therapeutic it was to bash a bunch of drums on a steady beat but still adding variety to spice things up. Julie had convinced him to let her invite the whole group- which, of course, included Willie, who was intently watching him play.

He bit his lip, breathing heavily, cheeks flushed as he kept going. A reluctant smile broke out on his face when Julie started singing the chorus and he jumped in with the toms and crash, flipping his hair out of his eyes and keeping the beat going. Reggie’s rhythmic bass playing combined perfectly with Luke’s chords and riffs, and Julie’s angelic voice tied it all together as if their music was a gift with a shiny bow.

When the bridge started, and Julie and Luke did their Thing™ (the whole dramatic, lovestruck staring-into-each-other’s-eyes move), Alex held the beat with a quiet, rhythmic tapping on the hi-hat. He and Reggie shared a look, and he swallowed the rising sadness in his throat, refusing to let some stupid marriage ruin this moment. They were in perfect harmony, bright with life and love. Then, when Julie went into the final belt, he came in strong with the drums, lip between his teeth and a huge smile begging to break free.

When it finally ended, Alex stood up excitedly, setting down his sticks and leaping across the kick drum to fistbump Luke.

“Alex, dude,” Luke said, “you were smoking.”

“Nah,” he deflected. “You guys-” he gestured to him, Reggie, and Julie “-were the ones on fire.”

“Dude.” Reggie lightly punched him on the shoulder. “Could you just own your awesomeness for once?” Alex rolled his eyes, but it was clear he wasn’t backing down.

“Alright, I was killing it.”

“Yeah,” Willie agreed from behind him. Alex whirled around, having forgotten he was there. He was sure his face was bright red, but hopefully he could blame that on the physical exertion that came with playing the drums. Willie, however, was blushing quite a bit, and Alex felt a bit of accomplishment bubbling up inside him.

“I’m glad you liked it,” he said with a grin.

“Are you kidding? I loved it.”

“I’ll say,” Flynn stage-whispered to Carrie, and Alex decided once and for all that Flustered Willie was his favorite. Willie cleared his throat.

“Yeah, I, uh-” he cut himself off, and Alex bit back a laugh, pulling him in and kissing him on the temple.

Alex knew there was a bubble of numbness and depression fighting to take hold of him, but at least for now, it was under control. He was filled with adrenaline and had their song stuck in his head, the feeling of his arm on Willie’s shoulder anchoring him like a ship in a harsh storm, letting him drift but holding him close.

They would make this work. Somehow.

“Should we run through it again? I was a little shaky during the second verse,” Julie said. Alex nodded.

“I’m down.”

“Same!” replied Luke and Reggie, and the rest of the group eagerly sat and watched. Alex grinned, raising his sticks.

“One, two, three, four!”

-----

Luke POV

…

“I’m so sorry,” Luke whispered. They’d moved up the wedding. The wedding that nobody wanted any part of, the wedding forcing the girl he was in love with to marry their friend, neither of whom were interested. They were already hurting so much, but there was nothing they could do anyways, then to add insult to injury, they’d moved up the wedding six weeks sooner. They didn’t even have two months, just a measly two weeks, and Luke could already feel them ticking away, feel his time with Julie ending, feel Alex’s heart breaking with each minute.

He reached up to hastily wipe away a traitorous tear rolling down his cheek, before wrapping Julie in a hug as she stood and walked to him. She buried her head in his chest, and his hand found her hair, combing through her thick curls.

…

At some point through the night, Alex had worn himself out venting and scheming plans to get out of the wedding and eventually fallen asleep. They’d considered waking him, but he was exhausted and really needed the rest. Luke still had his arm around Julie, leaning against the end of her bed sitting on a pile of pillows. Willie curled up next to Alex, and soon it had turned into another slumber party, but much more somber.

Julie’s soft breathing leveled, indicating that she’d fallen asleep as well. Luke smiled sadly; this was peaceful, but under horrible circumstances. But the gentle part of her lips as she breathed and the lack of a crease between her eyebrows made it worth it; she deserved any brief moment of peace she could get.

He traced soft circles on the shoulder of her t-shirt, running his finger over the hem rhythmically, a song playing in his head as he closed his eyes.

Golden specks flew around in the darkness as Luke whirled around, disoriented. A melodic voice in the background that he recognized but couldn’t place taunted his mind, flashes of brown eyes blinking by in an instant, a retreating curl of hair that might not have been there in the first place.

The ground solidified under his feet, metaphysical but firm for him to stand on. It was all black and glittered faintly in the soft light from stars that were somehow so close he could feel their heat, yet so far that they were like flecks of light in the endless black sky.

The packed black sand cracked beneath him with the sound of a woman’s gasp, sending him hurtling through the void, falling faster and faster as the sliver of light from the cracked ground above him faded until it was so small it wasn’t even visible anymore. The darkness was suffocating and hot as fire, yet thin and cool like a light sheet in the air, whispering silent nothings into his mind.

His back hit a new surface, knocking the wind out of him even though he couldn’t breathe at all. It was all black, the ground invisible, but a soft fog rolled across it, apprehensive but inviting and cool.

“You have to fight for what you want,” a voice whispered, and Luke was able to place it as the same voice as his mother when he was nervous for a competition in sixth grade.

“Things don’t always come easily,” another voice reminded him, the familiar sound of his father’s voice sending a shiver down his spine.

What was he supposed to fight for? There was nothing in this vast black expanse but him and these voices, plus a warm tingle to his right side that felt imaginary, but had a weight to it that he couldn’t help but relish.

The voices disappeared, even though they’d been silent, Luke could feel their absence. The smooth, invisible ground under his feet faded, leaving him floating as the fog disappeared, phasing into particles like stars that floated around him like fireflies as the world shifted to a regal, royal purple, swirling like a galaxy, the faint sound of a piano barely registering among the stars.

…

When Luke woke up, the warmth on his side made sense, because there was Julie, her head on his chest. He glanced over, seeing Willie and Alex sitting with their heads resting together, scrolling through their phones and occasionally showing their screens to the other and laughing quietly. Flynn was asleep on a chair, where Carrie was squished next to her reading a book. Reggie was scribbling something in a notebook and tapping his foot, with Mira leaning on his side weaving braids into Erik’s hair. Julie, meanwhile, was still asleep.

He gave half a smile to Alex, who returned it with a quick sign of “you okay?” He nodded, gently taking his hand off of Julie’s shoulder, who didn’t stir.

Yeah, I’m okay. You?

Pretty good, all things considered. Alex glanced up at Willie, who looked confused, and whispered an explanation as to why they were using sign language. Julie, Flynn, and Erik were asleep, and Luke didn’t want to move and get his phone.

What time is it? Luke signed, and Alex checked his phone, signing back that it was 08:12. Luke glanced back down at Julie, who was still fast asleep.

When did I fall asleep? Alex signed back to him with an inquisitive look on his face.

Around eleven. You were exhausted, and for a good reason.

Yeah. I’m still so angry. I just want to… he trailed off, thinking. Luke guessed he was trying to remember a sign word. In the end, he just mimed crushing something very violently. Luke stifled a laugh.

I’m right there with you. Neither of you deserve this. He glanced down to Julie as he said it.

Neither do you, Alex reminded him. Or Willie. His face turned forlorn as he added the last part.

Yeah. It just sucks. Alex rolled his eyes.

You can say that again.

…

Luke tapped his fingers on his knee, anxiety coursing through him, which was very strange. He had no idea how Alex handled it. Anxiety was not something he was used to; what was he supposed to do with the nervous energy rushing around him when he couldn’t do anything but wait?

In hindsight, the brief text he’d sent Julie to meet him in that one hidden corner of the gardens because he needed to talk to her probably wasn’t the best way for him to go about it, especially since now the grey clouds hung over the sky like death hovered in a cemetery.

He’d rehearsed what he was going to say a million times, but it hadn’t ever seemed perfect; not that it would have mattered, because when Julie walked towards him, a smile on her face, hair down with frizzy curls bouncing over her shoulders, all of his thoughts drifted away, never to be seen again.

“Hi,” he said pathetically. She gave a halfhearted laugh.

“Hi. Is… everything okay?” Luke nodded. Then, he shook his head. A stray raindrop hit his face, the storm slowly crying itself out.

“Julie, I…” he sighed. “This probably won’t be half comprehensible, but I just need to get it off my chest.

“I know that we can't be together. I know that life just wasn't on our side, and I hate it. but I love you.” his heart both lightened and sank with the confession. “I love you, and I want you to know that, no matter where either of us end up in life, with you as queen and me as some guard, you will always be in my heart. you will be my heart in its entirety, wholly and truly.

“I tried to come up with the perfect things to say, tried to articulate and rehearse my feelings, but I guess that’s the thing about emotions. They can’t be described in an accurate way; especially love and pain. I’m not even sure there’s a difference between the two; love hurts, but it’s exhilarating; pain burns, but it makes you feel alive. But they both demand to be felt. And they’re so intense, so beautiful and full of fire and fury in their own regard that I’m not sure they can be described at all. Only with comparisons, but it’s never the exact same, because while pain demands to be felt, love demands to be seen. It’s why it hurts so much to hide it; that hurt, that pain, it demands to be felt, like fire demands to burn and the ground demands to quake and the rain demands to fall.

“I don’t want you to have to feel that pain your entire life. I don’t want you to love me and have to hide it. One illusion of false love is hard enough; but having to mask another layer, for me or you, would be impossible. So I think it’s best you forget me.”

“Luke, what are you-”

“Julie, we’re a grenade. People will get caught in the crossfire, and we’ll be burned completely.”

Tears streamed down his face, but it was impossible to tell with the rain now pouring, serenading his misery with its torrential downpour.

“No,” Julie said, shaking her head back and forth. “No. Luke, you’re going out of your mind. I’m not just going to forget you. If you think I can do that, then you don’t know me at all. Besides, acting as if something never happened is just a form of mental editing, purposely erasing things you regret. Well, that’s not how it works. If you want to break up with me… then fine. But don’t expect me to forget you, because that won’t happen.”

“Julie, I don’t want to break up with you.”

“Then don’t.” Luke looked up and pressed his lips together, even though his tears would be indistinguishable with the rain.

“I’m not. But I don’t want to cause you more pain.”

“I don’t care! Sometimes you have to fight for what you love. And as much as I wish we could lay down our arms, we can’t. I won’t. Not if it means I have to lose you.”

You have to fight for what you want.

Things don’t always come easy.

Luke shook his head, shoving his parents’ dream voices out of his head. He’d tried and tried, but now it was too late. He needed to cut losses so people didn’t get caught in the crossfire.

“Julie, I-”

“No! Aren’t you the guy who says you have to ‘smash those stupid rules out of people’s brains?’” Luke looked away.

“This is different.”

“Is it? Because you’re the most stubborn, bone-headed, amazing guy I know. You’ve never given up on anything in your life, so don’t you dare start now. I’m not giving up on you, either. So are you going to keep trying to make me? Or are you going to make it worth it?”

“I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“Well, news flash, people already have, and will continue to get hurt, because life isn’t all butterflies and glitter. So if you want to minimize the hurt, don’t deny your feelings. Don’t try to make me deny mine.”

“But that’s the point! People have already gotten hurt, and will continue to, because of this. Because of me. If people found out about us, there would be collateral. Probably our friends.”

“Don’t pretend you’re doing this for them,” she snapped. “Don’t try to act all heroic. Luke, you’re amazing and selfless and kind and strong, but you’re only doing this because you’re afraid. I’m afraid too. But this? This isn’t how we need to go about things.” Luke tore a hand through his hair.

“Don’t you get it, Jules? I love you. I love you, and I hate that I’m part of the reason you and Alex are going through all of this pain.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. You didn’t suggest the arranged marriage. I know you just want people to be safe, I know you’re trying to protect me, but I don’t need to be protected. I can take care of myself, but I want you by my side.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “but we’ll figure it out. I’m not giving up.”

She stepped forward and laced her fingers with his, and his heart softened. He gently cupped her jaw and brushed a raindrop off of her cheekbone, and she leaned up to kiss him.

“Please… stay.”

Luke didn’t want to hurt her. He knew staying would only make things harder, more dangerous.

And yet, he closed his eyes and nodded.

“Okay.”

[peaches-writes]

there’s nine days left until christmas

skz of christmas day 1: early morning mass with jisung

member: jisung wc: 1.6k genre: fluff, comedy, childhood friends to lovers au (but the lovers part is so tiny), neighbour au warning: explicit language note: this the one time im making church boys skz happen bc it’s kinda funny + i made a rlly corny joke somewhere there but u hav to squint rlly rlly hard

Having to live in the city for almost 350 out of 365 days a year in order to study at university, you’ve naturally come to appreciate the peace and quiet of the countryside you would spend long stretches of holidays at. From the screeching but natural sound of roosters replacing your phone’s alarm clock to the gentle breeze that doesn’t need you to run around in circles a few times to brush past your open arms, you’re always looking forward to staying with your grandparents in a small mountainside village just an hour away from the main road because of all the healing it has to offer.

Well, maybe except small but constant inconvenience in your visits in the form of your neighbor, Han Jisung.

“Ji, I swear I will drag you out of your bed and take you to church in your pajamas if you don’t get up right now.” You threaten the still snoring boy on the bed you’ve been crouching next to for the past five minutes. Slapping his cheek once more, you frantically try and wake him up again by adding, “Han Jisung, get up now! We’re going to be late!”

Like you, Jisung only visits on Christmases and a few weeks at the beginning of each summer. He stays with his own grandparents who live next door to yours which, in hindsight, sounds like it doesn’t give you much reason to be hovering over him at 3:55 AM on a Thursday if not for the fact that when there’s 9 days left before Christmas Day (aka today), your grandparents want to attend the early morning mass in the town proper but the only means of transportation is the shuttle that only comes at 4 AM.

Jisung’s clearly not a morning person, either, so you can see where your problems currently lie.

“Jisung...” You call his name again between gritted teeth now. You’ve pulled the covers, took his extra pillows away, and switched off the electric fan across the room but to no avail—the boy just groaned, whined, and curled up into a ball on his sleeping bag. “Deadass the only reason I haven’t killed you yet is because your grandma promised me rice cakes again if I got you dressed before the shuttle arrives so wake up, you dumbass, or I’ll turn you into the rice cake.”

In front of you, Jisung only rubs his closed eyes and whines even more. “Five more minutes, baby.” He mumbles under his breath, lazily bringing his bare arm up to his face to cover his eyes from the harsh light flickering on the ceiling.

The nickname has you rolling your eyes and smacking his head. In frustration, you then stand up from your position and walk over to his closet, throwing him his clothes. “I’m going to count down to five and if you still haven’t opened your eyes and started changing, I’m calling Minho in from next do—“

The mere mention of your other childhood friend across the street immediately has the boy opening his eyes and throwing the random shirt over his head.

-

“You have drool on your face, dumbass.” You point to Jisung with your index finger, chuckling when he aggressively wipes on the area right next to his bottom lip. “The whole church would smell the morning breath through the speakers.”

“Shut up.” He rolls his eyes, sinking into his seat with his acoustic guitar hugged to his chest and a yawn. “What’s taking so long, anyway?”

“The priest who’s supposed to preside had something come up last minute, apparently,” You shrug, flipping through the song book and practicing on the old piano in the mean time. Nearby, both of your grandmas are conversing animatedly with the rest of the choir while your grandfathers have both wandered off somewhere—most likely to the small vendors outside the building. “I’ll give it ten minutes until they get the priest from the next village.”

Jisung groans, finally placing his guitar back on its stand and sitting up properly only to scoot closer to you and rest his head on your shoulder. “I could’ve gotten more sleep at home.”

You immediately shrug him off in response but to no avail. “And who said you can sleep on my shoulder?”

“You woke me up so you take responsibility.” He pouts, linking your arms to hold you in place and adjusting his head on the crook of your neck. “Wake me up when we’re about to start, okay? Goodnight!”

“Ya, Han Jisu—ya!” You tilt your head down to meet his gaze to find his eyes already closed forcibly shut. When you flick his forehead and complain even more, he simply cusses at you and swats your hand away with his free hand. “So that’s how it is...”

“Don’t you dare...”

Moving your hands as close to the piano keys as you can, you then surprise the sleeping boy by practicing on the piano as loudly as you can. Great Amen echoes throughout the entire church, amplified further by the speakers set up near every pew and, naturally, veryone in vicinity jumps in surprise, including your own grandma who drops her fan, Jisung’s grandma who almost topples over in her seat, and even Seungmin who’s supposed to help sacristans this morning with the candles. 

“I hate you so much.” Jisung mumbles with furrowed brows. 

“Then get off my shoulder.” 

“No.” 

- 

“Why are you playing a Bb6? It’s a Gm7.” 

“No, it’s not.” 

You and Jisung squint your eyes at each other as you continue playing through the song anyway. Fortunately, the people sitting in for choir haven’t noticed the small mistakes yet and you’re already halfway through the mass.

“It was a Gm7.” Jisung insists anyway, leaning forward on your piano to look at the handwritten music score properly as he strums his guitar. “Whoever wrote this needs to get their ears checked.”

“You wrote this in last year with Changbin.” You point out, biting down a chuckle. The song then finally finishes and the two of you lean back in your shared seat to wait for the next one. When you look over at the choir where your grandmas have been for the past forty minutes, you see them paying attention to the mass and not at all caring about the two of you arguing. “I’m trying to follow you, dumbass.”

Stubbornly, Jisung scrunches up his nose in denial. “No, I don’t think so? I’d remember if we did.” He defends himself, earning him an eyeroll from you as he then picks up a nearby pencil and writes the ‘correct’ chord on the paper. “Anyway, it’s only the first mass.” 

You’d erase the correction on any other day had your grandma cued you again for another song. Sitting up properly (and making sure you elbow Jisung enough for him to scoot away and give you space to play on the lower keys), you then deadpa, “You don’t even remember anything else you write.” 

“Yes I d—!” Before his tone of voice could rise up higher and disrupt the entire mass, you make sure to push him back from the microphone nearest to his mouth by placing a hand over his face. “Ya!”

- 

Speaking of your other other childhood friend, you and Jisung immediately trail after Changbin once the mass concludes. Stifling your giggles as you try and blend in with the crowd of aunties who are now talking about where they could eat breakfast together and children who’ve just woken up from napping throughout the entire ceremony, you find your target by the rice cake vendors at the church entrance with the same (almost annual) look of distress on his face. 

“Third year in a row.” You whisper to Jisung as the two of you hid in the mini garden right in front of the church. Just a few meters ahead, Changbin is still contemplating on buying the rice cakes. “Do you think he’ll do it this year?”

Next to you, Jisung is quick to shake his head. “Sorry to break it to you, baby, but did you see him back there? He couldn’t even hold the other person’s hand!” He laughs, a hand hovering over his lips to muffle the sound. “I’m pretty sure the rice cakes are gonna take another two years.”

“I did, I saw him! He looked nervous as fuck I felt really bad for him!” You topple over in laughter at this, clasping your hands together. “Ah, Changbin shouldn’t always be hanging out at the rice cake vendors after every mass if he’s not going to buy. He keeps giving them—and us—false hope!”

“Can you believe this guy ditched us to flirt? He can’t even do it properly.” Jisung dramatically scoffs, breaking into another fit of laughs when Changbin walks away from the rice cake vendor at seeing his crush already walking home. “We should ambush him later when we play basketball, ‘no?”

“And you think you can do better?” You quirk an eyebrow teasingly, elbowing Jisung by his side. “Flirt, I mean?” 

“Yeah, totally!” Jisung nods with so much conviction and exaggerated determination in his expression that it makes you laugh again. “Stop doubting my skills, Y/N!” 

“Of course I’d doubt it, you’re all bark and no bite most of the time.” You scrunch up your nose, making his eyes widen and a string of protests to come out of his lips. “What? It’s true!”

“That’s not fair, you only see me on Christmas and summer!” 

“Exactly.” You cross your arms smugly which he squints his eyes at. “So, think you can do better than Seo Changbin, Ji? Prove it!” 

Taking your hand in his, Jisung then pulls you up to a stand and starts dragging you over to the rice cake vendors. “Oh, I will prove it.” He rolls his eyes, even going as far as intertwining your fingers before you could even fully comprehend what’s happening so suddenly. “What color of rice cake do you want, baby? Also, you like cheese on the rice cake, right?” 

-

december 17 (lee felix)

skz of christmas (masterlist)

m.list

@skzwriternet 

[soundofseventeen]

Snapshoot (OT13)

Hi, in case y’all didn’t know, I have declared war on Erin and Haley and this was one outcome lmao! It’s also one of my favorite songs and I’m really happy with these! Credits to the owners for the gifs!!! I couldn’t find names!!!!!

Seungcheol: (Ahh, that’s how it’s done...3,2,1 shoot) the way you had fallen on your butt when you two had decided to take an evening stroll after dinner one night. You circled the nearby park a couple of times when you noticed your shoe had become untied. You let go of Cheol’s hand and knelt down to tie it up. You’d been so focused on looping the laces, you didn’t notice the furry little creature trotting up to you until it barked to get your attention. You let out a small yelp and fell back from the scare, only to squeal in delight when the pup sniffed your face and licked your cheek. She ended up sitting next to you while you petted and cooed her. Seungcheol took out his phone and snapped a photo of you nuzzling noses, the biggest smile on both your faces, until the rightful owner came calling for the pup a moment later and she vanished, breaking your heart. Cheol did help you up eventually, shaking his head at your expression. He posted all over social media, gushing over your cuteness.

Jeonghan: (snap shoot, you) the way a bucket of paint managed to fall, spilling the orange color all over you. After agreeing to help one of your friends paint their new house while they went furniture shopping, you invited Jeonghan to help you. Okay, he wasn’t really helping, but he did occasionally dip his brush in the paint and got it on the wall, and he liked changing every song that came on because it didn’t fit the mood, but you couldn’t complain much. At one point, Jeonghan did get up on the ladder to paint the parts you missed (because his eyesight was better than yours), and when he had forgotten he had the can of paint on the top step, he buckled his knees and one of them hit the can and it spilled on the ladder and on you while you were removing the tape. He captured the perfect moment with you rubbing the paint off your clothes and hair, the laughter being heard throughout the house. And before he could do anything else, you splashed a different color of paint on him and going to hug them so the colors could blend together as well as you did.

Joshua: (the way to set the focus on you is a tutorial of love) the way you held his guitar in your hands. In the entire time you’ve known Joshua, his most prized possession had never been far behind. In the midst of his collection of rice cookers, Winnie the Pooh plushes and never ending love letters, his guitar had been his first and only love. He loved dedicating a few minutes of his day playing Encantadora, the name he had given her because he was so enchanted by her. And whenever you hung out together, he’d always ask if it was okay if he could fill the silence with her music. And it’s not like you could say no. Sometimes he sang along with her and sometimes she sang alone, but both were always beautiful. The last time he was at your place, Joshua had been called back to work for some last minute changes and Encantadora had stayed with you since then. You were always afraid of carrying his guitar, because of the things that could go wrong and you couldn’t handle him hating you if something did happen. So naturally, it stayed on your couch where you hardly moved her. But Joshua was picking Encantadora up today, so after Google searching what was safe, you cleaned her up, making sure to rid any specs of dust. Curiosity eventually got the best of you and picked her up and fixed her on your lap, strumming the chords lightly and cringing because she didn’t sound anything like when Joshua played her. Joshua had quietly let himself in during this time, just in case you were asleep, and he saw you tenderly caressing the strings, you frowning when it didn’t like the way you expected it to. He smiled, exiting the app he currently had and opened the camera. He clicked the button a couple of times before announcing his presence and taking a spot next you, showing you how the basics. 

Junhui: (capture this moment right now) the way you stopped to smell the roses, literally. One of Junhui’s favorite times of year was the rose festival. Businesses all around the Seoul area closed and gathered at the park to support the small businesses. Jun often woke up early to get a good seat for the parade that kicked off the momentous occasion; the only difference was that this was the first time that you’d be joining him. Other than being mostly sleepy and resting your head on his shoulder it was fun. The people on the floats engaged with the crowd, throwing candies and small toys and even fliers to vote. Junhui constantly disappeared and then reappeared with food, only sharing sometimes. And with the parade ending, he brought you to your feet, making you follow it (yes, walking) until you ended up at the park which had been up with various booths, the dj barely setting up his stage, and the bounce houses getting ready to go. You didn’t know how Junhui managed to fit so much food in his stomach throughout the day, and how many items he buried in his pockets and once he started getting recognized by the fans, he had to hide in one of the public bathrooms until you got him a hat and sunglasses. And once the early evening followed the humid afternoon, he pulled you onto one of the benches to let you catch your breath and once you were on your feet again waiting for your ride, you recounted the day’s events, you swearing you were gonna be full for the rest of the year when you noticed the rose bush. You stopped in the middle of the story, making a beeline for the bush and petted the flowers, adoring the color and everything and even inhaled the scent, praising their beauty and you didn’t notice Jun pulling out his phone and taking pictures of the candid moment, your nose pressed to the petals, your skin tone complementing the rose.

Soonyoung: (to me baby, you are the greatest gift) the way you ended up falling asleep on him curled up on the couch. He had just come after an exhausting practice and all he wanted was to cuddle you in his arms until his idol duties separated you again...or until his limbs fell off; whichever came first. He opened up Disney plus, telling you about the movie that he had been wanting to watch since forever just to see if he still remembered it. Soonyoung found the movie, pressed play, and let you snuggle close to him, throwing a blanket over yourselves. At one point he asked you if you wanted to order pizza for a late, late night dinner when he noticed you weren’t responding to him. He turned to you, ready to ask again, but he saw your eyes closed, breathing in and out deeply and he smiled. He kissed your head and fumbled around for his phone, wanting to capture the moment. He finally found it and after turning off the flash, took a couple of photos, even coming in for a few of them and sent them to you so you’d have something to look forward to when you woke up in the morning. 

Wonwoo: (let’s remember this happy day; let’s capture it in a picture) the way you lit up with your photocards. Wonwoo had promised you that when your albums from the other kpop group that had stolen your heart arrived at the boys’ dorms, he’d let you know (even though you got the notifications by email to track their every movement.) Sure enough on a clear Saturday afternoon, he had woken up from his second nap because of your constant knocking. He let you in, rubbing his eyes and grumbling how he could never get any peace and quiet, despite being the only one home. You saw the package on the couch addressed to you and you ran, tripping over someone’s blanket. And then the package disappeared from your sight as Wonwoo picked it up and said you weren’t opening it until you had something to eat and as if knowing you, your stomach growled so you complied grumpily slurping the ramen noodles without really tasting them and being the little shit he was, didn’t let you open the box until he finished eating. You didn’t ask for much, just that you’d be gifted with a bias card. Just one, and then you’d be happy. And with each one you opened, you could feel a little sadness at not seeing your favorite face and Wonwoo made sure to capture your reaction each time. You had given up hope at the fact you weren’t getting your bias this time, but still you opened the final album, thumbing through the photos when you saw the photocard. You flipped it over, and then you showed it Wonwoo with a big grin on your face, radiating with the same happiness and he snapped away, the smile making its way to his face.

Jihoon: (you in viewfinder, the focus is auto. Naturally following the movements, it follows you) the way you covered your face when he was singing the song he wrote for you. You had been under the guise that he had been holed in Universe Factory while everyone spent the day in the great outdoors, so he asked if you could pick up his lunch order and bring it to him. You didn’t bother changing out of your comfortable clothes so you left almost as soon as you read his message. He was surprised to see you so soon, but stammered out how you didn’t want him to be hungry when he still had so long to go. Jihoon smiled at your sweet response, otherwise not being able to form any words. You feel your face warming up, so in order to move away from the awkwardness, you asked him if you could hear what he was working on. He was slightly embarrassed but he took a collective breath and went to pick up his guitar and played. Once you realized it was about you, you looked for something to hide behind so you didn’t notice that Jihoon had stopped playing and quietly pulled out his phone and captured the moment until the sound gave it away but he set it to his lock screen to remind himself of his muse. 

Seokmin: (to me, you’re the most precious) the way the wonder etched across your face. You weren’t sure how you managed to convince Seokmin to play hooky but here you were at the sea turtle reserve you volunteered at during the season. You showed him the in and outs of the place, giving him the rundown of how you normally spent your time here. He nodded along, not really understanding a lot but he enjoyed hearing you rave about it and seeing you light up. You even got to show him the nest that you found one day while picking up trash and gave him an estimated date on when they were gonna hatch. You picked up an egg, dusting the sand off when it began to shake and move. Seokmin, not knowing what else to do, searched his phone, finding it in his back pocket, and almost dropping it while trying to unlock it so the perfect moment wouldn’t pass him by. He snapped several of them, from the way the shell cracked open to the way the baby sea turtle popped its head out, all the while you being so mesmerized with a live baby in your palms and he swore he found a new favorite animal as you gingerly placed it on the sand and said goodbye before the ocean wave took him home.

Mingyu: (I want to capture that smile, just as the way you are) the way he got you laughing again. After a long week of struggling with your work life and being dragged into unnecessary family drama, Mingyu snuck into your house and turned it into a mini photography studio, complete with stuffed animals, all your favorite foods and running up your energy bill from all the light sources. The moment he heard you unlocking your door and stepping inside, he ambushed you with his camera, throwing out every compliment that came to his mind and it took everything in you not to cry into the plush when he tossed one at you. He reassured you that you didn’t have to talk to him but he wasn’t gonna leave you alone until you smiled like you meant it. Mingyu then proceeded to poke your cheek, telling jokes, doing aegyo and impersonating his brothers until the corners of your lips turned upwards and you forgot about your hard week. He even went as far to develop the photos and telling you he was keeping them somewhere in the studio so he could always see you happy (and you bawled.) 

Minghao: (Ahh, this is how it feels like...3,2,1 shoot) the way the leaves fell around you. When Minghao’s Polaroid came in, the first thing he wanted to do was take you out on a date and capture as many moments as he could. The only problem with that was that he forgot to order extra film, so he had to wait until that arrived. The air had a crisp feeling to it, an uncommon occurrence during the hot weather, but he took advantage of that and took you hiking. The camera was a little heavier than he expected it to but he carried it around, nonetheless. The few butterflies that came out, he snapped; the names you engraved on a tree to symbolize you were together forever, he got twice. He even got the little squirrels chattering at you as if getting you in trouble for vandalizing their home. He loved your hand around his, feeling as if you were one with nature. Minghao, at times, felt as if he was looking at you for the first time, because he couldn’t speak. The light breeze that followed you around blew on the tree as you carved your favorite lyrics into a different tree and you had to stop to catch the falling leaves. Minghao, after refilling the film, raised the lens to his eye and clicked on the camera, the candid moment captured and already developing. He was almost sure he’d put the photo behind his phone case. 

Seungkwan: (me by your side and you by my side) the way the fantasy life took over your life. When Wonwoo had raved about a book, your curiosity had gotten the best of you and bought the book for yourself just to see it was worth the buzz that he created and unfortunately for you, it did. Even worse was that Wonwoo failed to tell you that there wasn’t a sequel, but it was a series that just had you ordering all of them at once to save you shipping costs. In that week you read them cover to cover, Seungkwan invited you to Pledis while they worked on songs, vocals, choreos and antics of every size, especially since they stayed late to the point where they went straight home after work. One night while they were perfecting the choreography, you finished another one, and you couldn’t remember where you placed the other book to start reading it, until you found it under Chan’s hoodie and opened it straightaway, immersing yourself in the newest adventure. You missed the way Seventeen finally nailed the moves and the 15 minute break they took to enjoy their soda and burgers and just how loud they were in general. The only thing you complained about was how you couldn’t find a comfortable reading position so Seungkwan took a spot next to and draped an arm around you to bring you close to him and you decided to rest your head over his heart and resumed your reading, although you could feel yourself growing more tired now that you were finally comfortable. Seungkwan picked up his phone that had been charging by an oultet and called you softly once he opened the camera. He placed a soft kiss to your cheek and clicked on the shutter, ecstatic that you didn’t push it away.

Hansol: (a perfect subject that is more than perfect) the way you modeled an old hat you didn’t wear anymore. After your family had threatened to throw away the belongings in your old room, you asked Vernon to take a trip with you to your hometown to clean it out and take with you what you wanted to your new home and the rest could be donated or trashed. He helped you throw your posters away (although that hurt your teenage self a bit), stuffed the shirts you cringed at in a trash bag, and packed some CDs into boxes so you could ship them back. While clearing out one of the drawers on your nightstand, he pulled out a digital camera, the strap decorated in puff paint peeling in some parts. Hansol pressed the power button, unsurprised when it didn’t turn on, so he asked if you had any batteries and you pointed him in the direction of where you remembered you kept them, but you focused more on throwing everything you kept hidden from your nosy family, making sure to rip your notes into tiny pieces in case they decided to rummage through the trash, even going as far as dousing them in water just to be safe. When Hansol managed to finally turn it on, he skimmed across your photos, hardly recognizing the person you used to be but also believing it, since you never lost your smile. He came back into your room, telling you to wear the first thing you grabbed and snapped photo after photo, capturing every movement, even going as far as throwing the hat as you posed for the grand finale. Naturally, Hansol dragged you to the nearest place that developed photos, and picked out a book to keep these in. 

Chan: (I know, even if it turns to be hard somehow, but since I have you, everything is alright) the way you couldn’t stay still before getting ready to go to work. When you had quit your last job, you felt a mixture of emotions but mostly the relief of no longer taking people’s shit and the fear of not knowing how you were gonna survive without money. Chan had been more than helpful, letting you move in with him while you got back on your feet. During those days, you had grown closer and eventually started dating, and you found a short college course that could help you in achieving something close to what you wanted. And when you received the degree, you immediately looked for a job in hopes of paying Chan back as soon as possible (even if the idea did offend him. He was more than happy to help you out after all. It seemed that Chan was your good luck charm because you found it...your dream job and got it almost as quickly. You guys celebrated that night and you found yourself being unable to sleep the entire night and you were still up early the next morning. Chan, feeling more like a proud parent than a supportive boyfriend, made you breakfast while you got ready and didn’t let you leave the house until he got many, many, many pictures of you to show off to his friends when he left for Pledis. He sent the selfies to you as a way to remind you that you could conquer the day.

[natromanxoff]

Queen live at Capital Centre in Landover, MD, USA - November 29, 1977

(x)

A fan filmed the first couple minutes of the show on a silent Super 8 camera, but he was caught by a security guard and the film was confiscated.

Another fan recalls the band took a 30 minute break in the middle of the show, and started the second half of the show with Tie Your Mother Down. He also says they performed both Spread Your Wings and It's Late.

Here is a review of the show from the next day's Washington Post. It reveals that the band have swapped Keep Yourself Alive with Now I'm Here. The former now follows Bohemian Rhapsody in the setlist, as it had earlier in the year.

There is a great story on Brian May's website by Tracy Chevalier, who attended the show as a youngster:

It started with a champagne toast and ended with a limo pulling away into the night. In between these two gestures symbolising glamour and sophistication, I lost my virginity. Not in the technical sense (that would take another few years), but in other ways. At my first ever rock concert — going with four friends to see Queen at the Capital Centre in November 1977 — I got an eye-opening peek at elements of the adult world, with its power and its limitations, its glittering artifice and dirty reality, and it demonstrated how little I knew and how much I had yet to learn about life.

I was ripe for it; overdue, really. I had turned 15 the month before the concert, and though people thought I looked older than I was, I was remarkably naive and unworldly at that age. Despite a few character-building events in my childhood — the death of my mother when I was almost 8, the experience of being a minority in DC public schools — I was so unsophisticated, so unaware of the world, that I didn’t even realise Queen was an English band until the lead singer Freddie Mercury appeared in a tight white catsuit on stage at the Capital Centre, raised a glass of champagne at 18,000 screaming fans, and toasted us with “Good evening, Washington” in a fruity English accent. I was stunned. Then I started screaming.

I had been a Queen fan for a couple of years by then. A Night at the Opera was the first LP I bought, and I could sing every word of every song. I don’t remember how I was introduced to Queen — though I do remember hearing their biggest hit, Bohemian Rhapsody, on the radio and being impressed by its audacity. It sure beat the hell out of the Beatles, Bob Dylan and Neil Young, which had been my older sister’s staple music diet. By 14, I was writing Queen lyrics on the desk where I sat for algebra class, swapping them back and forth with a boy I had a crush on, and daydreaming of guitarist Brian May kissing me.

The concert was part of Queen’s News of the World tour. While not a great album, especially after the double whammy of A Night at the Opera and its follow-up, A Day at the Races, it did produce two of their best-known songs, We Will Rock You and We are the Champions, which drop-kicked them firmly into stadium anthem territory. Appropriately, the concert began with the lights going down and the primitive, effective, impossible-not-to-join-in-with BOOM- BOOM-CHI, BOOM-BOOM-CHI, BOOM-BOOM-CHI intro to We Will Rock You rolling over the audience. Everyone immediately jumped up out of their seats and began to stomp and clap along. I, too, stood and stomped and clapped, watching in awe as people began flicking their Bic lighters, a gesture I had never seen before. What, were they going to set light to something? I had tried not to act surprised earlier when people nearby started smoking grass in public, but now was there going to be a riot? What other illegal things would go on that night? Then a spotlight picked out Freddie Mercury, who began to sing, “Buddy you’re a boy, make a big noise, playin’ in the street, gonna be a big man someday . . .” and I thought, “Jesus H. Christ, that is the loudest noise I’ve ever heard! Is that legal?” The wall of sound terrified me, and I wanted to cover my ears, but I didn’t dare, as it would have been a very uncool thing to do. I think I looked around for the exit, wondering how many people I would have to climb over to escape the sound. It was just so goddamned loud — exhilarating, yes, but painful, too, dangerous and overwhelming. I wavered between loving it and hating it, but knew it would be uncool to hate it, so I’d better try to love it.

Towards the end of the song the single note of an electric guitar began to hum louder and louder under the chorus we were all singing and shouting, and Brian May stepped into the light to add his distinctive sound, ending We Will Rock You with low, long-sustain, three-part harmony chords, overlaid with a high melody he made fuzzy and metallic by using a coin as a guitar pick. I adored Brian May. He was the reserved, straight guy (literally) to Freddie Mercury’s camp high jinks — tall, dark, good-looking, with long curly hair and a melancholy pensiveness that made every teenage girl want to comfort him. At this concert he was wearing a silvery white jacket with long, pleated wing sleeves; that combined with his mop of curls should have made him look effeminate, but instead he was deeply sexy.

I loved Freddie, too, for his outrageous antics, his riskiness, his joy at performing and glorious indifference to how ridiculous he looked wearing glittery leotard jumpsuits, eyeliner and a mullet, prancing and strutting and posing, twitching his hips, smacking his lips and otherwise hamming it up. But even without being conscious of Freddie’s sexual preference — I hadn’t yet met anyone who was openly gay — I instinctively sensed he was not to be lusted after. For all his extrovert, welcoming stage presence, he was clearly playing a part, which served to hold us at arm’s length; whereas Brian May’s taciturn moodiness was clearly himself served up raw.

Thank God for Freddie, though. Without him, no one would have moved on stage: Brian May was not a dancer, John Deacon, in time-honoured bassist tradition, stood solidly in one place throughout, and Roger Taylor was trapped by his drum kit.

To set us at our ease, after We Will Rock You Freddie toasted us with a glass of champagne — “Moët et Chandon, of course,” after the reference in the hit Killer Queen. My friends and I heard this and screamed and clutched one another. He mentioned Moët et Chandon! That was our champagne! He was acknowledging us! I swear he made eye contact with me, 200 yards away and over the heads of thousands.

For we had done what we thought was the most original and extravagant gesture (for 15-year-olds) a fan could make: we had sent a bottle of champagne backstage. We’d pooled our money and gotten an older sister to buy it for us — the same sister who had been obliged to drive us all the way to the Capital Centre, smirking at our overexcited fandom. We’d even made our way to the stage door down a loading dock at the back of the arena and reluctantly handed over the precious bottle to a bored roadie, who said he would take it to the band. We’d had our doubts about his reliability, and his jadedness had dampened our enthusiasm a bit: had we really blown all that money — $20, which in those days meant 20 hours of babysitting — to have some unshaven jerk with a beer belly swill the precious liquid? But clearly the roadie had pulled through for us, for there was our champagne in Freddie Mercury’s hand, and he was referring to Moët et Chandon in his pretty cabinet, the lyrics we had so cleverly quoted in the note we sent along with the bottle. We were sure we — among the many thousands — had managed to get through to the band.

If we had bothered to look around rather than feast our eyes on Brian and Freddie (I’m afraid John Deacon and Roger Taylor never got a look-in from me), we probably would have seen other clusters of fans also screaming and clutching one another during Freddie’s toast. But we didn’t look around or harbour doubts, or we ignored them. It was only much later that I allowed myself to consider the veritable champagne lake that must have existed backstage at every Queen concert. Tip to rock stars: want a free truckload of champagne wherever you go? Sing a song that mentions some — preferably name-checking a more expensive brand to ensure better quality — and watch it pour in backstage every night from adoring fans. There must have been a hundred bottles from fans back there, not counting the stash the band may well have brought with them in case Portland or Houston or Detroit weren’t so generous. No wonder that roadie looked so bored — he’d probably been put on champagne duty that night.

Freddie’s toast worked its magic, though, giving me the connection I needed to negotiate a place within the strangeness of the concertgoing experience itself: the weird, scary power of a crowd; the mixture of exhilaration and embarrassment at collective participation; the physical discomfort of standing for two hours when there’s a perfectly comfortable seat behind you. It is one of those tricky, unresolved tensions at concerts: are we there to listen to the music or actively respond to it, participate as a group or answer our needs as individuals? It’s an issue I’ve never entirely resolved — from Queen onwards I have spent concerts going in and out of myself, losing myself to the music and spectacle one minute, the next minute overly conscious of myself clapping or singing or screaming, and wondering why concerts have to be such an uncomfortable physical ordeal.

I was taken aback by the sound of Queen’s music live: not just the volume, but the familiarity and also the strange rawness of the songs. Studio albums have all the mistakes airbrushed out, the layers added in, the balance between players carefully calibrated, like clever dialogue in a play without the awkward pauses and unfinished conversations you get in real life. Queen albums were highly produced, multi-layered affairs. Live, the music was necessarily stripped of a lot of the choral mixing, more raucous, simpler and much messier.

The band wisely didn’t dare attempt to reproduce in its entirety the long, baroque confection that is Bohemian Rhapsody. For the infamous operatic middle section, the band members left the stage as the studio recording played. Freddie and Brian then changed costume, and, at the word “Beelzebub”, all four men popped out of a door in the stage floor and joined live again for the heavy metal section, fireworks going off, dry ice pouring out, everyone going berserk, me in tears of excitement. It was one of the best live moments I’ve ever witnessed. Indeed, I was spoiled by seeing Queen play live before anyone else; for sheer exuberant theatricality, no one else has come close.

The concert ended with an instrumental version of God Save the Queen and once more the flicking of the Bics, which, no longer the virgin concertgoer, I understood now as a gesture of tribute. My friends and I weren’t finished, though. Emboldened by Freddie’s toast, we decided to go to the stage entrance again and say hello. I still choke with embarrassment when I think of it. When we got there, a black limousine was pulling away, our heroes and their entourage inside, and we were left with the detritus: older, dolled-up, hard-bitten groupies who had followed the band around and not made this night’s cut. I stared at one, at her long, bleach-blond hair, her miniskirt, her bright red lipstick. She glared at me briefly; then her face went slack as she dismissed the idea of me being any sort of competition. In fact, I had not really taken in that there was a competition, that the girls (and I?) were here to spread our wares and catch the attention of one of the men, and then . . . And then? I hadn’t thought it through at all. I wouldn’t have known what to do with such a man as Brian May if he even so much as looked at me. All I knew was that I was way, way out of my depth, that even if I had eluded the roadie minding the door, there was no way I was ever going to get past a woman like this.

The contrast between the sparkling theatricality of the concert and the gritty reality of the backstage, with its dirty concrete, anonymous faces and unfulfilled dreams turned my stomach, and almost ruined the night. I wished I hadn’t seen it, because it reminded me that the show was a fantasy, while it was my aching feet and the roadies’ boredom and the groupies’ hard desperation that constituted real life. As I stood watching the limo pull away and the unsexy women stand about, licking their wounds, looking for a ride to the next city and another chance, I felt as if a door had been kicked open a crack on to a world I knew nothing about: the seamy underbelly of the concertgoing experience, a mix of sex and power and exploitation, of cigarettes and poorly applied make-up and long, cold nights waiting to be noticed and defining yourself by someone else’s attention. If that was grown-up life, I didn’t want to know about it. I wanted the champagne toast, but not the limo. Not yet.

Fan Stories

“I had just turned 16 a few weeks earlier. I was absolutely 100% in love with Queen (since age 13 when first hearing Killer Queen on the radio) and therefore could hardly believe my sister's friend, who worked with her at the Roy Rogers restaurant at the mall, who said she knew Freddie Mercury's girlfriend, Mary, and that she was going to get a backstage pass and would try to get one for us as well. Well, just before the concert she met my sister at a pre-arranged point (inside the venue) and said that she was unable to get us the backstage passes. You can imagine my disappointment and my thinking at this point that this girl was not telling the truth about knowing Freddie's girlfriend (it seemed too good to be true to me to begin with). Then after the concert, which was great of course, we were depressed (my sister and I - but especially me) at not getting to meet them, so we decided to wait for their limo to come out of the underground parking area at the Capital Centre. When it emerged we got so excited we decided to sprint to our big blue station wagon and follow them. With my learner's permit only, I followed them at probably over 80 miles per hour - I remember it being the fastest I had ever driven but I was determined not to lose them - to a restaurant somewhere in DC. At that age, I didn't have my bearings around the city. We didn't want to freak them out so I think we just watched them go inside from our car. Then we ended up waiting outside in the cold air for I think around 2 hours - anyway - enough to turn my nose red and make my lips and toes numb. We weren't allowed in the restaurant - and there was a bouncer from Liverpool out front that prevented us from even going in the lobby to warm up. At one point Roger came down the stairs into the lobby and I smiled at him and he smiled back and started over to the door - but was stopped by another man who grabbed his arm. So then he just continued downstairs to the bathroom, and ignored us when he went back up the stairs. When they finally emerged from the restaurant, I was frozen in more ways than just the temp. Brian said, "It's a bit cold out here". One of them (I don't know who because I think I was in shock) said, "So, were you at the concert?" And we said yes. My friend who was hardly a Queen fan grabbed the attention for herself by shouting "That was the best concert I've ever seen!" or some such thing. I was so embarrassed not being able to think of anything to say in my stunned condition. Freddie looked at me briefly then looked over at my sister. He nodded at my sister but he never stopped walking to the limo. Brian walked over to me and said something like, "Did you enjoy the concert?" and I think I mumbled something like, "Yes. It was fantastic." Then all I could think to say was "Can I have your autograph?" He said "Sure" and ended up giving me the autograph and his pen. So I had to tap him on the arm to get his attention to give him his pen back. "Here's your pen." Can you imagine - here I am meeting my idols and all I can say is this? This all happened within about 20 or 30 seconds it seemed, and they all got into the limo quickly - they seemed pretty tired. I can't remember if they had one or two limos. All four of the members were there and I think a couple of other men - probably manager and driver(s). Freddie didn't say anything, just acknowledged us without a smile and got into the limo. John did the same. I remember thinking Brian was pretty tall. I stood very close to him. I am almost 5 foot 9 and he towered above me it seemed. Of course the hair probably added several inches! The best part of the story I guess is that my sister's friend, the one who knew Mary, said that when the band got back to the hotel they said there were some "nice working girls" waiting outside the restaurant. I guess they thought we were older - we were only 16 and 17 and still in high school of course. We were dressed very conservatively and with long coats.

My sister's co-worker said that she was good friends with Mary, because their families had been neighbors, and so was happy to get to visit with her. Also she said she thought that Freddie was the nicest member of the group, but very shy.” - Donna13

[clumsyclifford]

bella i’m just SAYING if you felt like writing boyfriend jalex in LA like they are rn why are they there just vibing together why is alex there i’m hella emo just saying i wouldn’t be MAD about it 😘

well PAIGE you may have been ONTO something here. alex is in LA because he loves his boy next question

read it here on ao3

-

Death By Hug is not a bad way to go, Jack thinks. It certainly beats Death By Loneliness.

The longer he and Alex stand here, the more Jack wonders if they really are going to die here, holding onto each other like Alex is a soldier returning from war and Jack is his lover who's been writing constantly to the front lines. Or something. It's also possible Jack has watched too many war movies lately.

"We gotta move," Alex finally mumbles. They’re at the gate and people are stepping around them.

"We don't have to."

"Well, I can't kiss you with a mask on."

That is a very good point. Jack squeezes Alex one last time and finally steps back.

Los Angeles looks good on Alex.

-

Supposedly, Alex is here to write. It's not like that's a lie; they are going to take advantage of Alex's presence and log as many studio hours as possible, but that still leaves a lot of early mornings and late nights unaccounted for. Well. For Jack it does. He knows Alex has been dying to get back in the studio, to put words to music in a way that sounds less like a kid messing around on his dad's guitar and more like a professional musician making demos. But if Jack has to pull Alex from the studio by force, he will. 

He will do his best. He is definitely not stronger than Alex but he will try.

For now, though, they have the evening to themselves.

Even with a suitcase, Alex looks right at home in Jack's place. "I'm gonna put my stuff in your room," he tells Jack, and Jack just nods.

"I'm gonna have some cereal," he decides, because he's in the mood for cereal and it is his right as a grown-ass man to eat cereal at all hours. Alex just laughs as he heads towards Jack's room, and Jack grins.

He heads for the kitchen and spends a minute deliberating over what cereal to have before yielding to the eternal power of Fruity Pebbles. They’re practically calling his name. Jack’s strong, but not that strong.

As he’s pouring the cereal into a cup, arms snake around his waist, squeezing tight.

“Hello, cereal boy,” says Alex, tucking his chin into Jack’s shoulder. “Mm, Fruity Pebbles for dinner. You’re the master of health.”

“Yes I am,” Jack says. “This is how they do it in L.A., Al.”

“Who exactly is ‘they’?”

“Me and Bree.”

Alex laughs. “Man, L.A. has really changed.”

“Maybe you should spend more time here.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Alex says. “Next global pandemic I’ll be sure to quarantine here with you.”

Jack shakes his head, smiling a little. “That’s all I want to hear. Do you want some cereal?”

“I was thinking we could order a pizza.”

“Oh, pizza,” Jack says, hesitating with his cup of cereal in hand. “Pizza sounds good.” He shrugs one shoulder. “I can have both.”

“You’re the weirdest person ever,” Alex says as Jack sets the cup down and turns around, forcing Alex to loosen his grip. The moment hits Jack full-force; it hadn’t really sunk in until now, but Alex is here. Here. In Los Angeles. With Jack.

Alex is here.

“I’m so fucking happy you’re here,” Jack says. Alex’s smile grows, the way it always does following any kind of emotion from Jack. It’s been weeks since Jack has seen that smile in person, weeks since Jack has seen Alex in person, and he’d forgotten how good it feels to be the reason for it.

FaceTime is good, but nothing is as good as the real thing.

“Well, I’m really fucking happy to be here,” Alex says, pulling Jack closer with the hands around his waist. “I’ve missed you.”

“Yes,” Jack says. “Same. Me too. I feel like I’m going to wake up any second.”

“What, and this will all be a dream?”

“Yes,” Jack says emphatically. It could be. He’s had similar dreams. Granted, he’s never eating Fruity Pebbles in any of them, but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible. 

“Me being here?” Alex asks, sliding his hands up Jack’s sides and chest to come to rest on his shoulders. “Or the whole pandemic?”

“I wish I could wake up and have the pandemic be a dream,” Jack huffs. “Or nightmare. Worst nightmare of my entire life.” He’s gotten a little bit off-track, but to be fair, Alex is being very distracting, what with the brushing noses and hands under the collar of his shirt and everything. Jack has yet to build up an immunity to Alex Gaskarth. This is something he has in common with the entire rest of the world.

Alex kisses him. Jack stops thinking about whatever it was he was thinking about. The important thing is that Alex is here and it’s not a dream, and Jack has Fruity Pebbles and his boyfriend and potentially pizza on the way and several hours of nothing at all, to occupy themselves however they choose. The possibilities are endless.

“Doesn’t feel like a dream to me,” Alex says sweetly, pulling back.

“You’re so mean,” Jack says. “Are you saying I’m not your dream guy?”

He gets an eyeroll for his troubles, but then Alex agrees to order the pizza, leaving Jack to eat his cereal in peace instead of having to deal with phones and Other People. Normally he’s a fan of Other People, but tonight it’s all Alex. 

(As far as Jack is concerned, as long as Alex is here, every night is all Alex.)

-

The pizza arrives as they’re half an hour into rewatching the first episode of The Mandalorian. This is the first and last time they pause until Alex yawns, and Jack realizes that midnight in L.A. is three in the morning in Maryland.

“Bedtime,” he declares. If Alex weren’t as nocturnal as he is, he probably wouldn’t have even made it to midnight. As it is, he drags his feet every step from the living room couch to Jack’s bedroom, including his detours to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Jack cleans up a little in the meantime, breaking down the pizza box to dispose of it and rinsing all the dishes for easier cleanup in the morning. The responsible thing would be to wash them now, but Jack can’t find any reason to be responsible. It’s his own home. He’ll wash dishes when he chooses.

By the time he’s turned all the apartment lights off and shuffled into his room, Alex is curled up under the blanket. His eyes are closed like he’s asleep but he’s breathing like he’s awake. Jack putters around, quietly putting on his own pajamas and brushing his teeth, before he, too, climbs into bed.

As predicted, Alex turns over. “Wh’time are we waking up?” he slurs.

Jack reaches blindly for his phone, plugged in on the side table. “Dunno. What time are we going to the studio?”

“Ten?”

Jack sets an alarm for nine, though it’s more for Alex’s sake than his own. “Okay. Done.”

“Love you,” Alex mumbles, burrowing into Jack’s chest. Jack smiles — he has his own stupid Alex smile for when Alex is being lovably, adorably, uniquely Alex — and pulls the blankets up over him. 

“Love you,” he hums, pressing a kiss into Alex’s hair. The quiet moment swells around them both. Jack falls asleep fast. He’s holding Alex close in his dreams, too, like even his subconscious can’t come up with anything better than this.

-

It’s hour nine in the studio, and Jack is ready to call it.

They’ve gotten a lot done. It feels good to be back, or as “back” as this is, back in the studio, back to writing music. Alex has obviously been overflowing with ideas from being cooped up at his farm in Baltimore, which has led to an extremely productive studio day. Hardly half an hour has passed without someone picking up a guitar. 

For the first eight hours, Jack is totally invested. This is his lifeblood, too, and by now he probably has a hundred separate voice notes of guitar riffs and chord progressions that he hadn’t wanted to forget. Getting those off of his phone and into real recordings is a big sigh of relief. 

Also, he and Alex are really good together.

This has been pretty reliably true throughout their career, but somehow it never fails to give Jack a thrill. Watching Alex’s eyes light up as Jack plays through Lead Guitar Part #37; his rapid “waitwaitwait play that again” as he pulls out his phone to scroll through lyrics jotted down in transient moments of thought; the spark that catches when somehow Alex has the perfect line to sing over this four-note riff that’s been echoing around Jack’s empty apartment for weeks. It feels a little like fate every time. Alex can drive a lyrical stake through an elusive melody like no other.

The progress today has been sufficient, so Jack thinks now is a good time to bow out, before they run out of steam. Quit while they’re ahead. There’s always tomorrow and the next day. Nine hours is a respectable studio day, and if today is any indication, they could have a song or two tomorrow at this rate.

It’s just, Jack wants to go home. He’s not going to say it — at least not yet — because Alex is still operating at full capacity. But he’s thinking it. If anyone asks, he won’t hesitate.

When Alex glances over, Jack is pretty sure it’s written all over his face.

“You okay, JB?” Alex says. His eyes soften around the edges when he smiles. It’s completely unfair. Just like Jack to have the most irresistible boyfriend on the planet. Perfect for being in love with, but extremely difficult for saying no to.

“Tired,” Jack says, biting his lip. The guitar he’s holding has been idling on his lap for about twenty minutes, ignored by Jack, who’s been on Instagram instead. Finally he sets it aside. “Just think I’m done for today.” As a compromise, he adds, “If you guys have another half hour, I don’t mind.”

“No, that’s okay,” Alex says. He glances at Zakk, who’s fucking with the levels or something. “Yeah? You think? Good for today?”

“Yeah,” Zakk says. He tilts his head bizarrely to flash a grin at Jack. “Man, it feels good to be back here with you guys.”

“Dude, don’t even start,” Jack says. “I think if I had spent another day alone at my place I would’ve probably, I don’t know, started trying to learn Korean or something.”

“Why fucking Korean?”

“Exactly.” Jack points at him, then at Alex, who jumps out of the rolly chair he’s been occupying and grabs Jack’s finger. Jack shakes his head, smiling, as Alex laces their fingers together and ducks down to kiss his forehead. “Is that a yes, we can call it?”

“I can call it,” Alex says. “Cervini?”

“Yeah,” Zakk says. “Let’s call it.”

And that’s that for the day.

-

The stupid TikTok they’d made on the way to the studio has, predictably, blown up. 

Jack can’t stop watching it; it’s a little bit cringey but that’s the point, and also, Alex looks insanely good in the red flannel and that yellow beanie. Maybe their merch is designed specifically to look good on Alex. Probably. Not that that’s difficult. Basically everything looks good on Alex.

“Stop watching it, oh my God,” Alex says, crawling into bed on top of Jack and flattening him against the mattress. Jack makes varying noises of protest as Alex pries his phone out of his hand, turns it off, and tosses it aside, forcing Jack’s attention instead to Alex’s face.

If he looks good onscreen, it’s nothing compared to real life.

“Lose some weight,” Jack grunts, shifting to tip them both onto their sides. They’re forehead-to-forehead, one of Alex’s arms trapped under Jack’s side and the other slung over his waist. “You’re not twenty-one anymore.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, are you complaining?” Alex licks Jack’s cheek, and Jack’s protest of Alex, gross! is lost in Alex’s laugh. “Sorry. That was gross. I’ve just missed you.”

“Weird fuckin’ way of showing it,” Jack says, grinning. “I thought we kinda did this yesterday. We spent the entire day together. And I’ve missed you too.” He hesitates. “You could just stay here, you know.”

Except he couldn’t, and they both know that. Alex has a farm to tend to. He’ll be here as long as they’ve got time in the studio but then he’ll be gone, back to Baltimore. Growing up sucks sometimes. It means Jack has to be mature about Alex having a life of his own. If he expects Alex to respect his decision to stay in L.A., then Jack has to respect Alex’s decision to stay in Maryland. Which he does. He does.

But he also misses his boyfriend a hell of a lot. These days it’s worse than ever. They’ve never really been apart this long. 

“Come on,” Alex says, smile flickering. “Don’t.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” Jack says. He sighs. “I take it back. I don’t want you to stay anyway. I don’t even want you in L.A. at all. Who invited you here? What are you doing in my house?”

Alex laughs. He extracts his arm from underneath Jack and runs his hand through Jack’s hair, slotting their legs together. “Cheapest listing on Airbnb. I was told there would be free sexual services?”

“Uh, I don’t know about free,” Jack says. He smirks and steals a kiss off Alex’s lips. “You can repay me by doing household chores.”

“Then it’s just fucking prostitution.”

“That,” says Jack, “is true.” Alex scratches lightly against the side of his face, and the kiss he draws Jack into is so sweet that Jack contemplates never ever breaking it. This is all he needs in life, just Alex — anywhere, but especially here. Jack has never found his apartment to be bleak, but now that he knows how vibrant it can be, how warm and lively when inhabited by Alex, he suspects it will feel grim when he’s alone again.

Thinking about the future gets dangerous. He’d much rather stay in the now. Alex is still kissing him, drawing Jack nearer in such a familiar way that when Jack closes his eyes he can almost hear the rumbling of the tour bus and the low murmurs of conversation happening outside their bunk. They’ve found themselves in this position too many times to count over the years, using the excuse of a small bunk to press together like they didn’t do exactly the same in two-person hotel room beds. It’s been too long since Jack has had anyone to cling to in bed. Comfort settles like a talisman in his chest.

They’re not twenty-one anymore, but sometimes it still feels like they could be. It was easier for the years to blur together when they were spent largely chasing their way across the globe. These days, the contrast between then and now feels blindingly stark. It’s nice to sink into something this familiar. Almost like Alex is pulling him back in time, too.

Or maybe like Alex is pulling the past into the present. Jack doesn’t feel twenty-one. He feels thirty-two and still in love with Alex. Eleven years from now, he’ll probably feel just the same. The way that Alex kisses him, holding him close, has nothing to do with how old they are. It’s only familiar because nothing has changed; Alex loved him then and Alex loves him now. 

Their love grows, but it never wavers.

Alex doesn’t pull away so much as just tilt his head until they’re not kissing anymore, tucking his face into Jack’s chest. “I’m tired,” he announces. Jack could basically have guessed that. It’s only eleven, but in Maryland time it’s two in the morning. 

“I know,” says Jack. “That’s why we’re in bed. To sleep.”

“Really, you want to sleep now?” Alex sounds surprised. “It’s not even midnight.”

“I am capable of having a responsible sleep schedule sometimes, you know.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Jack I know.”

You haven’t been around for a while, Jack doesn’t say. “Shut up, you bully. I take care of myself.” He makes a face. “Also I want to sleep when you do. I don’t think that’s a crime.”

“I’d love that,” Alex says. His words come out muffled. “I love you. Have I told you today that I love you?”

“No,” Jack says, smiling.

“Liar. I’m sure I did. But I’m telling you again. I love you.” Somehow Alex’s grip on Jack becomes even tighter. Prying him off is going to be a difficult task, if Jack can muster up the willpower to do it. It won’t be easy. This is probably Jack’s favorite position to be in, tangled up with Alex. It doesn’t hurt to hear Alex repeating, “I love you, you’re my favorite, I’m so happy I’m here,” quietly, almost as if to himself.

“You need to put on your pajamas,” Jack says. 

“I don’t wanna,” Alex whines. “I can sleep like this. Tour life. Too busy for pajamas.”

“So rock ‘n’ roll,” Jack says dryly.

“Yes. Exactly. I’m too cool for school.”

“Yeah. Really badass of you to fall asleep in a flannel.” Jack kisses Alex’s shoulder over the plaid pattern. “Which, may I say, looks very good on you.”

Alex hums contentedly. “See, that’s why I love you. Ego boost.”

“You are the most lead singer to ever lead singer. Jesus Christ.”

“Damn right I am, baby! Own it. I gotta own it.”

“Everything you say just dates you more. You sound so old.”

“You’re exactly as old as I am, old man,” Alex says, trying and failing to kick Jack even though Jack has both of his legs trapped.

“Old men put pajamas on before sleeping,” Jack informs him. “The buttons on this thing will be so uncomfortable to sleep in.”

“Yeah, but consider this,” says Alex, in the tone of someone about to make an extremely good point. “I don’t care and I’m tired.”

Jack sighs. “Seriously, you really wanna sleep in your clothes?”

“Yes,” Alex says. He buries his face in Jack’s neck, softly humming. When he speaks, Jack’s skin buzzes. “Please? Just tonight? I’m sleepy. Being a grown-up is for losers.”

Jack smiles to himself. “You’re such a lazy boy.”

“Yes. I am a lazy boy. This sounds like you agreeing.”

“I can’t stop you, can I?”

“Nope,” Alex says cheerfully. “But you can support me.”

“I support you all the time. I am literally the lead guitarist of your band. How much more supportive can I get.”

Alex laughs. It’s a tired laugh, on the brink of falling asleep, and Jack likes that he’s managed to make it happen at all. “It’s our band.”

“Comrade.”

Alex snorts. “Comrade.” He kisses Jack’s neck. “I’m gonna fall asleep right here, if that’s cool.”

“Get under the covers at least,” Jack says. It takes a little bit of bitching and moaning, but eventually Alex concedes, unsticking himself from Jack like it’s a physical burden to do so and crawling under the blanket with Jack.

“Oh,” Alex says, fishing around on the mattress underneath him. He pulls out Jack’s phone. “This is yours.”

Jack plugs in his phone and sets the same alarm he used yesterday. Loudly announcing that “boy is asleep” cuts out the lights. In the dark and quiet of the room, Jack hugs Alex as close as he possibly can, pressing his nose into Alex’s neck. It’s easy when Alex is making the same effort. Jack wonders if Alex feels the same as he does, like he has to engrave this memory in his mind, the way he’d never gotten a chance to when lockdown first set in. It had never occurred to him, before, that they’d be separated. That there might once come a time when Jack would want to hug Alex and Alex wouldn’t be there to hug.

Now, the threat of knowing that their clock is already ticking down is enough to make him want to burn this sensation forever into his skin and bones.

“Goodnight, my love,” he whispers with a tight squeeze. “Did I tell you today that I love you?”

There’s a sleepy hum in response. “You tell me you love me every second of every day,” Alex murmurs. “But I never get tired of hearing it.”

Jack smiles. He breathes his own I-love-yous, softly enough that it’s almost white noise, and before Alex falls asleep he tilts his head towards Jack. His eyes are closed, so Jack closes the gap and brushes their lips together. 

Alex falls asleep soon after. Jack likes that, that neither of them have had the last word. The gentleness of the kiss soaks through his body and he drifts off with a smile, warm and content.

[agoodgoddamnshot]

Hey, Little Songbird - Geralt/Jaskier [G]

Gif isn’t mine. 

Originally posted to my AO3 account.

The sun perches higher in the sky with each day that strolls them further into summer. Even the biting winds that would tumble down from the mountains, the last remnant of a bitter winter, are being chased away. If a breeze does blow through, it’s always warm. It doesn’t prickle his skin. As he walks along the dirt roads, the ground is firm and sure beneath his boots. He doesn’t fear of treading into a puddle or getting his feet wet and cold, unable to warm them with a fire that probably wouldn’t have started because of the howling winds.

But now, Jaskier tilts his head back and feels the sun on his face. Farmers are out in their fields tending to their animals and their crops. Green grass and fields lined with a growing harvest spread out, reaching for the horizon. Life has returned to the continent.

His lute is slung over his shoulder, swaying with how he walks. He’s like the rest of those living on this stretch of land. Sunlight warms his blood. It makes him giddy and inspired. The next town is only a few more miles of a walk. He wouldn’t have even bothered travelling a couple of weeks ago, when the roads were waterlogged and the air bitterly cold. But when the first of the daffodils started sprouting their buds along the long stretches of road, everyone knew that spring wouldn’t be far behind.

The days have been getting warmer. It’s been steady, but Jaskier knows by the middle of the year, the sun will perch and stay there for hours on end, scorching everything and everyone underneath it. It’s a fine line the world treads, trying to find a good balance between being not too cold and not too warm, for the benefit of the people living on it and off of it. Whatever forces are at play in the making of the weather seem to be doing well so far; but Jaskier has lived through some excruciating seasons.

By the time he gets to the next town, a fine sweat starts speckling along his brow. Everyone milling around seems to be the same. Men wander around in their loose linen shirts and breeches, while women cover their heads with light shawls. Market stalls line the streets with wares already stacked in front. Vendors call out to those passing through, offering small free samples of produce. Those selling silks and cloth hold out segments for people to touch. Jaskier’s pockets are light on coin; nothing a short performance in a tavern won’t fix.

People are merrier when the weather is kind. When he picks a tavern’s table to serve as a stage, when he strums the opening chords of the songs he wrote during the spring, people smile and sing along with him – or as best as they’re able to, with the tankards of ale and wine flowing. A good summer means plenty of barrels of grapes and barely.  

The summer becomes excruciating. It holds nothing over the summers of the south – not the south of this continent, but beyond the expanse of Nilfgaard. Not that Jaskier has ever been that far south, of course. Nilfgaard stretches on for leagues, and to the best of his knowledge, there are no maps of anything further south. But he imagines oceans of sand and rock.

It’s too hot to travel, so he holds up in Cidaris – with the only real problem being that he has to spend his days listening to the droning tones of one particular troubadour echo throughout the entire city. Even when he ventures out from tavern to tavern, the troubadour’s voice is always grating against his ear.

He’d rather lie down in the middle of the road and let himself wither underneath the sun.

But as he’s standing out in the middle of the street, counting coppers for a small bag of apples and considering letting the summer sun prune him, he spots a familiar sight out of the corner of his eye.

“Geralt!”

The Witcher stops mid-stride, looking towards Jaskier. His expression, outwardly, doesn’t change much. But Jaskier has known him for too long to know the little tells of an Annoyed Geralt to a Not-So-Annoyed Geralt. The Witcher is much like the rest of them; his hair pulled into a messy bun, out of his face and neck, and wearing one of the light black shirts Jaskier so often used to see him in.

Jaskier palms the coins in his hand. “What are you doing here?”

Geralt gestures vaguely to a wooden notice board fixed to the side of a nearby building. “Monsters don’t let up just because the weather is nice,” he explains simply. When he starts walking towards the board, Jaskier follows.

The last time he’d seen the Witcher was before the last of the crops were hauled in. It was what they usually did; both of them wintering in their own ways. What it was, exactly, that Geralt did, or where he went, Jaskier could never find out. When a Witcher’s most used word is not a word at all, but a grunt, one learns to stop awaiting answers to questions.

They always find each other after being parted for some time. Even with the Continent being as sprawling as it is, their roads will eventually cross one way or another. Geralt takes the offered contract, and Jaskier follows. There’s a griffin nest nearby, apparently. “I heard about that,” Jaskier hums, rolling up his shirt sleeves. Heat scalds the cobbles beneath his feet. “A few sellswords who were staying in the Red Arrow Inn went to investigate.”

Geralt hums. “Did they come back?”

Jaskier blink seems to be enough of an answer.

He finds out quickly that Geralt is just as crotchety in the summer. Maybe it’s the heat, or the swells of people insisting on packing themselves into every street and road they can find just to mingle, but Jaskier doesn’t get much in terms of conversation as he trails after the Witcher.

Not even an order to stay behind, because it’s a griffin, and those things are fierce beasts.

Jaskier does stop underneath a grand oak tree, though. The overarching branches full with lush green leaves provide a shield from the sun overhead. “I think I’ll stay here while you...do whatever it is that you do,” he waves his hand towards a nearby hill where the griffin is supposedly nesting.

Geralt looks over his shoulder and grunts. He holds out Roach’s reins. “Try not to get her killed. Or I’ll kill you.”

The mare has grown used to him. Now, she only tries to nip his fingers when he tries to lead her underneath their shelter, instead of kicking out for his shins. “Come now, you dame,” he sighs. She comes with him easily enough, recognising that standing underneath a tree’s branch, catching passing cool breezes, will be something better than facing off a griffin.

It takes Geralt almost two hours to come back to them. Roach is the first to notice him returning, pawing a hoof into the ground and nickering softly. Jaskier looks up from his lute, fingers stilling over the strings.

Jaskier’s eyes widen slightly at the sight of the Witcher returning; he carries a slight limp and a smattering of blood across his face and arms. Clutched in one of his hands, a griffin’s head swings with every footfall.

Jaskier’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out for a while. “You’re covered in blood,” he notices as soon as Geralt gets closer. The front of his black shirt is drenched.

Geralt gestures to the griffin’s head. “Most of it isn’t mine.”

“Most of it?” Jaskier narrows his eyes. Huffing a sigh, he clambers to his feet. “Come on then; we’ll get your pay and get cleaned up.”

The year trudges by. The sun doesn’t let up. When Jaskier does move between towns, he watches farmers in their fields, tossing buckets of water over their crops, trying to keep them hydrated and green. The celebrations of harvests keep going, though. And where there are celebrations, there will be Jaskier with his lute in hand. He doesn’t see much of Geralt during the rest of the summer, but he does hear whispers about the Witcher’s adventures from patrons of taverns and inns.

He had a nursemaid when he could barely reach his mother’s waist. She told him a story once, when they were out of ear-reach from his parents who probably wouldn’t have appreciated elven tails being spoken of underneath their own roof. But Jaskier always listened intently, letting his imagination run wild. His nursemaid spoke of gods who loved each other, but couldn’t be together. They found a way, of course. They always did. It wouldn’t be much of a story if they didn’t. But Jaskier remembers his nanny’s face turning serious for a brief moment; harsh summers make for harsh winters. Even when the world seems out of balance, one thing must always equal another.

So when the summer gets hotter, and the grass and trees turn yellow and threaten to catch fire, he worries that their winter will freeze the continent over completely. He doesn’t worry for himself, so much as he worries for those who live off of the land. How will people ration their crops if it withers away during the summer? How will those living outside of city walls cope in their cabins and shacks, where one strong gust could blow it away?

The transition is spent worrying. Niggling thoughts in the back of his mind flare up whenever he feels a cool breeze nip at his skin. The sun still sits in the sky. Clouds are still wisped along the blue sky. But everyone knows that winter will be upon them if they’re not careful.

Toussaint is quiet. Jaskier’s fingers pick at the strings of his lute. He’s sung his summer songs. Other bards in other towns have been left with their echoes. Oxenfurt would be the best option. A city of sturdy walls, well stocked with food and wine. The Academy would have his accommodation still held on to. All he needed to do was start his trek there; weather keeping good, that is.

But whether it’s his own time management or something else entirely, Jaskier looks out one of the tavern’s windows one day and sees a greying sky. He blinks. Not a single cloud had been seen for most of the summer. But now, he wanders over to the window, peering at the sky, it’s starting to look bleak.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath.

The trees hardly had a chance to turn red and yellow before their leaves litter the sides of roads and pile up against buildings. Shop windows, that would have been open, are now barred closed. Down every stretch of road, Jaskier is accosted by a shrill breeze of cold air. He swears sometimes it whispers to him; telling him that he needs to move. Where he needs to move to, he doesn’t know. And it never tells him. But just move.

His arms are full of bread and portions of dried beef when he spots Geralt again. The transition seems to have treated the Witcher a bit better; Jaskier notices a new cloak draped over his shoulders, with a woollen thin blanket pulled over Roach’s hindquarters. The mare’s winter coat is starting to come in, if her feathered ears and fetlocks are anything to go by.

Jaskier wanders over. “I thought you would have gone to your keep by now,” he says as soon as he’s close enough. Roach spotted him coming, the mare’s ears twitching forward at recognition.

Geralt cinches up the girth to her saddle. “I thought you would have gone to your academy by now,” he fires back, checking on some provision bags attached to the saddle.

Roach nudges Jaskier’s arms. A loaf of bread almost goes to the ground, but he manages to catch it. “Yeah, I,” he clears his throat. “The weather caught me out, unfortunately.”

It’s only then does Geralt turn to look at him. Yellow eyes drop down to the food-laden in Jaskier’s arms. “Where are you staying then, if not the academy?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Here, I guess. I don’t want to risk trying to get anywhere else.”

Geralt’s frown only deepens. Toussaint is a nice town, but it’s built for warmer weather. People don’t winter well in places like Toussaint. Especially people who can only live night-by-night in taverns and inns, which Jaskier is going to have to do—

“I’m going to Kaer Morhen,” Geralt says stiffly. “Come with me.”

Jaskier’s mouth falls open, but he’s quick to shut it. Geralt holds his gaze. “I’m...what?”

“Would you rather spend your winter here?” Geralt’s voice hardens. “Out in the cold with ravens watching from the trees, waiting for the first of the starving or sick to drop?”

And he’s seen it all before; winters were he didn’t make it to Oxenfurt on time, winters spent weathering out howling winds in shabby road-side inns and taverns. His bones shiver at the memory of it.

Something must give away his answer. Geralt hums and turns back to Roach, doing up the last of her bridle. “It will be a long walk,” he says, “but if we go now, we’ll get there before the snow starts.”

Jaskier frowns. The winds have already started to nip at his skin. All the clouds need to do is turn grey with rain, and they’ll have feet of snow in no time at all. But Jaskier nods. He knows that the keep is a province away, and a trek up the mountain. They’ll need to move before the weather turns too cruel.

It’s something he never thought about when he left to explore the world; relying on the weather to be kind to him was something he had to quickly learn.

He’s heard stories of Kaer Morhen; whether or not any of them are true, he has no idea. But none of these stories have come from Geralt, so he can only assume that they’re full of shit.

He follows the Witcher on the path back to the keep. Geralt seems to know the way as if the wind just carried him along. Not once does he look up at wooden posts point in the directions of towns and other settlements. He keeps his eyes on the horizon and just keeps walking.

When they reach the foot of the mountain, the wind starts to change. Geralt lifts his head, squinting at the dark skies above them. Roach shakes; her winter coat keeping her warm, but it’s useless against any rain or snow that will fall if the clouds continue to grow heavier and heavier.

“It’s going to rain,” Geralt says after a time. He tugs at Roach’s reins. “There’s an inn nearby.”

And the innkeep lets them have the room for nothing. He’s an old man with a weathered face and pearl white hair. When Geralt steps into the tavern, the man nods towards the staircase and goes back to polishing a tankard.

There’s a hearth in the room, already lit and laden with wooden blocks. A large bed sits in the middle of the room, woollen blankets and throws and fur pelts sitting at its foot. When his eyes fall on a bathtub with hot water already in it, Jaskier’s bones groan. “You wouldn’t mind if I...?” he trails off, gesturing to the tub.

Geralt regards him for a moment before shaking his head. He stalks off to the other side of the room, resting both sheathed swords against the wall before pulling off his cloak and the heaviest of his armour. Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek, but turns for the bath.

There’s a slight chill to the room when he gets rid of his own clothes, folding and setting them nearby while he dips his hand into the water. And he just about swallows a moan at the warmth of it. There’s a faint scent of oats and lavender, and Jaskier can’t get into the bath quick enough.

Geralt pads around the room, tossing some of the blankets on to the bed and arranging his own side. Jaskier watches him out of the corner of his eye.

This isn’t new; sharing a space. In all the summers he spends with the Witcher, he finds them sharing the same bed for the most part. Though most staying in taverns and inns will be in good spirits, and laden with coin, sometimes gold is scarce, and can only stretch so far.

But it doesn’t stop the tips of his ears from warming. This is new; sharing winter with Geralt. The thought of what the keep will be like circles his head – as does the wonderings of what the other Witchers will be like. Geralt rarely speaks about the others; but Jaskier managed to wrangle out a few names from the Witcher.

He lowers himself deeper into the tub, letting the water lap against his chin. The room is quiet, with nothing but the hissing and sparking of the hearth’s fire to break it. Even Geralt is silent, lying on the bed, head turned towards the other side of the room.

Jaskier hums.

His nursemaid’s voice, decades-old now, whispers into the shell of his ear. He can remember her words as if he were still a boy held on her lap, lulling to sleep listing to sleep with songs and stories.

The lady loved him and the kingdom they shared But without her above, not one flower would grow So the King agreed that for half of each year She would stay with him there in his world down below. But the other half, she would walk in the sun And the sun, in turn, burned twice as bright Which is where the seasons come from And with them, the cycle of the seed and the sickle And the lives of the people And the birds and their flight—

“Even your thoughts are loud, bard.” Geralt’s voice cracks through the silence. “You’re thinking about something. What is it?”

Jaskier pushes himself out of the water slightly, resting his arms on the edge of the tub. He can blame the growing blush on his cheeks on the water. “Nothing.”

Geralt grunts. “Either come out with it bard, or quieten your mind.” When Jaskier glances over to the other side of the room, he blinks as he sees Geralt lying in the bed, blankets already pulled over him.

“Did you ever hear the tale of how the seasons came to be?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt hums.

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently. A nursemaid told me about it,” Jaskier says. “It’s a sweet tale. There’s not many of them, particularly where folktale is concerned. But I always liked that story. Two gods being in love with each other, not wanting to be apart, and the weather suffered for it.”

The room is silent for a moment. “Did your nursemaid tell you that one of the gods tricked the other? Got the poor girl to eat food of his world, damning her to stay there for certain parts of the year?”

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “Yes, that is a version of it.” Jaskier huffs. “You’re so old that you were probably there witnessing the entire thing. What were they like, the gods? Did you know them well?”

It earns a light laugh out of the Witcher – a sound that always sends a thrum of heat through Jaskier’s veins. “Why are you thinking about stories like that?”

“The weather hasn’t been right in the last few years,” Jaskier says. “A few people in Cidaris were talking about it; saying maybe it had something to do with the gods.”

“Never took you for being superstitious.”

“I’m just noticing, that’s all.” The water is cooling and gooseflesh prickles his skin. Outside the window, he spots the sky turning black, and the moon making a valiant effort to fight through a cover of clouds. When he stands, he tries not to groan at the chill that runs over his body. Grabbing a towel, he dries off quickly. His clothes are clean, if not for the light sheen of dust from the road; something solved with a quick shake out.

By the time he pads over to the bed, slipping beneath the blankets, he fears Geralt might have fallen asleep. The Witcher is still, with even long breaths filling his chest. But the second Jaskier’s head meets the pillow, the Witcher turns on to his side to face him.

“I don’t know what’s happening with the seasons,” Geralt rumbles, “but Kaer Morhen is open to the friends of Witchers.”

Geralt doesn’t even open his eyes. Jaskier stares at him for a moment. “Are you admitting that I’m your friend?” A slow smile pulls at the corners of his lips. “Because if you are, I’m going to need you to confirm that. In a full sentence. And, if possible, could I have it in writing?”

“I don’t want to come down from the keep one spring and see you dead on the side of the road,” Geralt mutters. When he does open his eyes, Jaskier has to stop himself from inhaling too quickly at how wide the Witcher’s pupils have become. “The keep will shelter and feed you for the winter.”

Jaskier swallows. “Why?”

“Because,” Geralt sighs, eyes slipping shut again, “you’re important to me.”

And a shiver wracks through him. Not one he could blame on the cold. The burning hearth and the small mountain of blankets and furs covering the bed shelter him from the cold. But this is different. Warmth settles in his core. A smile breaks out along his face. “You’re important to me too,” he rasps, hoping that, even though the Witcher’s eyes are closed and he’s sinking further into the mattress, he can at least nod off knowing that Jaskier said what he said.

Because gods be good, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to say it ever again; not when Geralt’s glower could return at any moment.

He gets confirmation of the Witcher hearing it in a soft hum.

[skaryskylar]

Cherry Wine

Pairing: ZoSan

Type: One-Shot

Summary: There is a song that pervades throughout the land of Wano. Zoro can't hear the words, but somehow he still understands the lyrics.

Also available on AO3     

   He first hears the song when he's drinking on Kin'emon's porch. The sake O-Tsuru brought is hot on his tongue as it eases its way down his throat, rim of the porcelain cup cool on his lips. The sharp tang of alcohol clashes with the sweetness of plum, just as the heat of the drink clashes against the cool gusts of wind fiddling with the branches of the trees, playing with sturdy sakura wood and pliant, lush leaves like strings of a shamisen.

Zoro grants an ear to its melody. The white katana at his hip hums along, vibrating in its sheath. This was something secret. Sacred. And though he caught the rhythm and flow, the lyrics weren't meant for human ears. It feels like a memory teetering on the brim of his consciousness, the triumph of knowing that it was there and reaching for it before the bitterness of watching it slip through your grasp.

       There was a song he could understand though. He hears the familiar thwack-thwack-thwack of a strainer, the cacophony of knives against a cutting board. Light, rich laughter that hung in the air, rustling his hair and easing the tightness in his chest. The stretch of rubber. The twang a of violin being tuned. A resounding slap as a hand is pushed away. Feminine voice mingling with a deeper baritone (Together. Always together those two.) closely followed by a child's squeal. A boisterous voice rising above all the noise, weaving a tale of insects that were larger than men and the valiant hero that dared to tame them.

This was a song of nakama, and it spoke to something deep within his center, allowing a zen even meditation did not grant him. It was one of peace and trust and love that ran deeper than blood.

He knows all the words by heart, even those unspoken.

A whizz through the air is his only warning.

He catches the bowl that was thrown at him with ease. The udon swims precariously inside but does not slip over the rim. He looks down at the thick noodles swimming in the dark dashi. Fresh, green scallions scattered over the swirling narutomaki, a few pieces floating in the broth past thin slices of beef like leaves in a river. He breathes in, savors the rich scent, then raises his hand to catch the chopsticks shot his way.

(He got used to the pain of them smacking his palm a few islands ago. He had missed it during that long week at the beginning of all this, when he wandered the land of Wano with no one to spar with nor a Captain to follow.)

"Hurry up, before Luffy gets his hands on it."

Sanji settles next to him. He can tell by how the air shifts to accommodate his lithe form, plucking the acrid smoke from his pipe and casting it away. Though they did not touch, his entire left side suddenly feels warm. The cool night does nothing to beat the sensation back, encouraging it if anything else, forcing the blonde closer with a shiver.

His hair, golden and wavy without his tools to straighten it, is strung back into a low ponytail. The stubble given a chance to reign for the day took full advantage, casting his entire jaw in shadow, relenting only to the pale, plush lips that tugged on the vice between them.

His eyes were on the stars, but they shift their attention quickly when he notices Zoro staring.

(And he was closer to that memory. He could feel the softness of it in his hands. The song was getting clearer. Wado hums at his side, bidding him to keep reaching and maybe with a final stretch-.)

"It'll get cold dumbass. Hurry up, or I'll give it Luffy."

"Don't push your luck Curly. You won't get this bowl unless I give it to you."

He takes his first bite and tastes the sea. The crisp salt of the ocean and freshness of the unpolluted air. The grit in his teeth when Luffy launched him into the grass. The billow of a mast unfurling. The crash of the waves against the Sunny's strong, sturdy Adam's wood. Early mornings in the crow's nest, a fresh cup of jasmine tea in hand as he stares out to the edge of the blue expanse.

Yes, this tasted like home.

The song grows in its intensity as he eats. The last chord only ends when the final drop of dashi slips down his throat. Sanji takes the bowl from him, making a point to get close enough for Zoro to smell the ginger-spice of oil he used for his skin, before he scowled, ripping it and the chopsticks away from him to return to his kitchen.

As soon as his foot crosses the threshold, the song stops.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   He hears the song again as he walks through the forest. The morning sun sits heavy on his skin, sweat forcing the tan to glisten in its wake. The light that shone through the trees started off the ballad, soon joined by birds that darted about overhead. They seem to follow him as he walks down a rough path, nearly overrun by nature. The soil sinks beneath his sandals without resistance, an easy tempo followed by lively chirps of the birds and the cry of cicadas.

It wasn't difficult to sink into the dreamlike haze. The familiar zen of meditation washes through him, easing his breath and loosening his grip on the hilt of his swords. Which was why he jumps when Wado rattles in her sheath.

He pauses, looks around, and is entirely unsure of where he's found himself. While the rest of Wano is well-loved and taken care of post-Kaido, this area seems to be untouched from Oden's time. The trees grew tall and unhindered by human folly, wildflowers sprouting at their roots in a myriad of colors. Tiny woodland animals dart about, sniffing at his feet, pouncing at his sword. They're curious. Unafraid of him because they have never seen one of his kind.

The most noticeable of them all was the golden fox. It was perched on a branch, lazily flicking its milky tail back and forth as it peers down at him with bemused black eyes. Zoro tightens his hand on Enma's hilt. It follows the movement, then gives a huff, as if laughing at the notion that the swordsman could harm it.

It stands, stretches into a long, arc, then opens its maw in a silent yawn.

Smacking it's lips, the fox gives Zoro one last look, smirks, then scampers down the tree and trots away.

A childish, petty anger surges in his chest at the disrespect. He doesn't hesitate before he goes to follow. The little woodland animals fall over themselves to track his footsteps as he goes deeper into the forest, following the sway of that golden tail. The song in his ears grows louder, sounds forming the beginning of words till he steps into a clearing, and everything falls to a low vibration.

Wado is warm in his hand. Every nerve fires off, putting him on guard. But the clearing is empty save for the overgrown grass and the wooden markers that stood high, covered in moss and rot.

He found his feet stepping towards them before he could resist. The wood is cool against his fingertips as he brushes away the dust, struggling to make out the faint characters etched into the surface.

'Noa'...'Ro'....

"They say that they're proud of you." Kuina's voice says in his ear. Wado's hilt has turned hot in hand as he crouches.  He brushes against the wood again, wanting to hear that sweet sound once more, peeling lichen out of the way to make out the rest of the name. So fervent is he in his efforts, that he fails to notice the crunch of leaves underfoot until another, deeper voice rings out, fondness sewn into the tone beneath the harsh words.

"Honestly, marimo. Can't we go to one island without you getting lost? You missed lunch asshole."

Sanji stops a couple paces away. There is nothing remarkable about his appearance. He is dressed in his usual kimono, white and yellow with the sleeves rolled up. He had just come back from work. If the low ponytail didn't indicate as much, then the carefully wrapped bento in his hand would.

Zoro had seen this man in this same position-with a frown on his face and a hand on his hip so many times before. So there was no reason for his breath to freeze in his lungs despite the heat of the day. Clearing his throat, he shiftsdiscreetly, trying to force his heart to jumpstart in his chest and give his brain the blood it needed to think clearly.

A moment of silence grew too long.

Sanji looked beyond Zoro, over to what he was doing, then his face crinkled in disgust.

"Is...Is that a grave marker? You sick necrophilia-loving fuck. Stop touching that!"

Heat flooded his face. He heard a little girl's laughter on the wind as he scrambled backwards, rubbing his hands on his dark hakama.

"I just wanted to read them! Get your head out of the gutter you perv!"

"What'd you say matcha-brain?"

"Exactly what I said Curlicue!"

He felt the kick coming before Sanji even raised his leg. Their timing is perfect, as always. A splinter of wood flies off the man's sandal when the heel meets Enma in a sonic clash. Blue eyes meet his through the burst of flames, merriment dancing in their depths despite the scowl on their owner's face.

He smirks back.

They pull apart and come together time after time again. It is their own elaborate dance, and the steps are much too complicated to be taught to anyone else. Around them, the clearing begins to roar its approval.

Wano's song descends upon the scene seamlessly, ringing in Zoro's ears as if it was always there. The golden fox adds to the chorus, cheerfully yipping as it darts about, watching the fight with the same excited vigor as the rest of the creatures gathered to watch. With each kick he meets with his blade, the words become clearer. Verse after verse, lyric after lyric, kick after kick pushing him higher, sending him towards the finale.

He rushes towards it in a flying leap. Wado sings between his teeth as he bore down on the man, unafraid of the heat of the flames even as they licked his bare skin.

When a well-placed kick knocks his swords from his hands, the song did not falter. He moves with its cadence. Slipping Wado back into its hilt to go no-sword style, he braces himself for impact and grabs Sanji by the shoulders, sending them both tumbling to the ground.

Their breaths mingle, a cool gust on the crook of his neck as he presses his nose to blonde tufts, breathes, and listens.

He knows he's close. He can taste it on his lips, sweet as plum sake and just as pleasing to his tongue. The strands of blonde tickle his nose. Vanilla and ginger mingle, scent of his conditioner strong through the man's sweat. He wasn't aware the rumble in the air was coming from him till timid fingers flutter at his shoulders, resting there as if they belonged.

He looks down into deep azure eyes and he hears the song as if it were in another room. There are lyrics, words that slit his heart open and let it weep, an outpouring of emotion so thick he can't speak.

He licks his lips and tilts his head to see if he could get a better listen.

"OI! Zoro! Sanji!" The rustle of grass beneath hooves cut off the song abruptly. The men scramble apart just as Chopper appears from the trees. The deer pants, obviously having run all the way, but his expression is joyous when he clambers up to them.

(The golden fox takes one look at the reindeer and rolls it eyes. After a pointed, pained look at Zoro, it turns on its heel and scampers away.)

"Izo and Marco are setting up a sparring contest! O-Robi's going to use swords! One hundred sword style!"

Zoro is up and running before the kid can finish. The song is left forgotten.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

       Hiyori's fingers are a blur against the strings. Nimble, pale, and skilled, they dart across the instrument with a self-assuredness he recognizes quickly. Her shamisen is like his blades: an extension of the self so integral it was like another limb. Her chords blend easily with that song, and yet he can't help but think it is a pale mimicry of the original. He doesn't dislike it, no.

But it still feels like something is missing. The build-up is there. The rush that heats his blood and makes him want to fight is there. But it's surface level. There was a depth to the original that her song didn't achieve.

His time with the cook was the closest he got to hearing the end of it. Was anger the key? Did he need to get pissed off to understand?

(Wado laughs in her sheath, high and feminine. Free and true. It's a sound that never failed to make him feel like a fool, going back to when he was a child.)

He doesn't realize she stopped playing until she speaks.

"You seem distracted."

"Got a lot to think about," He grunts.

"Let me try to ease your mind."

The response annoys him. He wanted a push, a snarky rebuttal. There was no resistance. The pliancy-the way she bends to serve-it's unnerving.

She looks him over and he can't help the goosebumps on his skin. Her eyes are a stunning shade of blue, but they were wrong.  This is the blue of the sky, of stability, the promise of 'forever' no matter how stagnant the days may become.

He craves the blue of the sea. He wants to look deep in the whorl of the waves and fall headfirst into the chaos of their storms. He seeks mystery and adventure because they can make him strong.  He wants to discover the unknown, to let its tide roll through him. He wants triumph in the face of disaster. An unrelenting fire to forge his swords. The smell of ginger, spices, tobacco, steel, leather and sea salt.

Not this. Not sitting in a tiny room with an empty bottle of sake at his side, idly listening to rehearsed music as his blades waste away and grow dull.

Wado is silent. Even as Hiyori starts a new song, she is silent.

He's growing impatient. He knew it was showing on his face because her fingers began to still on the strings. She looks him over again, displeasure rolling off of her in waves. Sighing, she sets the instrument aside.

"My songs don't please you."

"They don't displease me." He offers, but he sees from the way her face shuttered that it wasn't the right thing to say. He isn't clever like the cook. He wasn't raised to be suave. His tongue is a thick, heavy clod in his mouth that resists even if his lips manage to move in the right way.

Hiyori ducks her head. One by one, she plucks the pins from her hair, setting each to side with careful clinks as waves of her silken, cerulean hair fall over her shoulders. Once they are all complete, she pushes it behind her back, revealing her face and the determination that settles in her gaze.

"Perhaps," Confusion makes his heart swing as she leans forward. Close. Much to close. "I can help with that."

He freezes back as she pulls herself onto his lap.

"Relax," She says softly. His heart batters against his ribcage, heat climbing up his skin as the slow, dreadful realization as to what was going on rattles his brain. Her hands are tiny but firm on his thighs, fingers reaching for the tie of his obi as he begs his frozen mouth to move and resist in a way that wouldn't physically harm her.

But shock isn't easily shook off. It forces a series of syllables that didn't belong to any language out before he finally, thankfully, spluttered a:

"Wait, no! Lady, stop I-!"

The shoji slides open and the voice of the last person Zoro wants to see at that moment rings out bold and true.

"Hiyori-chan!!!! I've got tea for you, then Izo and Okiku-chan helped me make cookies!  Maybe you could show me how-! Eh, mosshead?"

This shade of blue is correct. He studies the myriad of navy and azure in the irises as the black pupils shrank. This is the one that reminded him of freedom and the sweet taste of victory. They promised greatness.

But there's something wrong.

Emotions flash across their surface, quick and intense as a thunderous storm. Wado rattles in her scabbard, but that sound is overshadowed by the tea set crashing to the ground, sending porcelain shards and matcha powder arcing through the air. The kettle tips over, hot water streaming quick to socked feet but it was like Sanji didn't notice. He only stares at the scene before him. His hands quiver, shaking as if he were cold, until he regains the sense of mind to clutch at the sleeves of his kimono, abruptly dipping into a low, stiff bow.

"Sorry for interrupting." He says coldly, then he turns and runs.

Zoro's heart hammers in his chest before it loses its place and falls to the depths of his gut. He scrambles to get up through the pain, chasing after the man through the hallway as Wado yells at him to 'run, run, run', bolting past rooms with booming laughter and delicious smells, ignoring Luffy's shouts of his name.

But by the time he comes to a stop at the front door, the yard is empty save for the swaying grass.

The angry chittering at his hip stops.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   The rain has a long, mournful solo. There is no chirping of cicadas, no rush of the wind through the trees, no sun to kiss his skin and bid him welcome to Wano's orchestra. There is only wetness and biting cold, barely fought back by the sake in his hand.

He sits alone. Usopp had stopped by earlier with dinner. The empty bowl is at his side, resting against a still white sword, silent as the day its original master died. He watches the world in all its grayness from Kin'emon's porch. How the rain sweeps in and cleanses them all, nature and man alike, dropping its sorrowful tune on the world, slipping its melancholy through his thick haori till it chills his very bones.

The sound of the door opening and gentle yet sure footsteps perk his ears. He doesn't need to look to know who it was. (Sanji's steps were just as graceful, but they were heavier. The only other Strawhat with this grace was-.)

"I'm reading a book about soulmates," Robin says, folding her legs beneath her as she sits down. The wisteria of her perfume tickles his nose, sweet and stark against the fresh scent of the rain. He doesn't look away from the downpour. She follows the line of his gaze and does the same.

"I'm not usually one for fiction, but Franky saw fit to buy me something he'd thought I'd like. The fact that he stepped foot in a bookstore at all speaks volumes."

A stabbing pain shoots through him. He loosely knows the crawling heat of envy, and is sure it wasn't for either half of the couple in particular but that thing that they shared.

Robin could be morbid and cruel but Franky makes her laugh. He loosened her grip on the grotesque, brought her down from the icy pedestal of perfection and lets her bare her weaknesses for the crew to see. Franky is a madman, loyal to his family to a fault, a perverted genius. She forces his kindness, literally gripped him by the balls till he dared to share his visions with the world, to use his smarts to help a boy become a king.

(They are two of the most amazing, worst people he has ever met. Separated, they're horrible. If Luffy asked him to cut them down back then, he wouldn't have hesitated. Together, he trusts them with his life. Would give up his own for theirs. They made each other 'good'. Stable enough to act as parents to a genius, teenage reindeer with a knack for sticking his hands in human bodies. Wasn't it funny how fate worked out sometimes?)

"It's an interesting concept isn't it? One soul ripped into two by the gods, doomed to roam this earth for years just searching for their second half..." A red-breasted thrush flutters into the grass before them. It cocked its head at the two, rustling its feathers even as the rain pelts down, unbowed and unbroken under the deluge. Zoro straightens as its beady eyes settle on him.

Wado gives a little shiver.

"It would be easier if we were birds," Robin continues. "How lovely it must be to find someone that's singing the same song as you."

"I don't believe in fairy tales."

She just smiles softly. The rain does not cease. The melody of Wano does not come.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      The days pass. The repairs on the Sunny are nearly complete. Marco the Phoenix flies back to Sphinx. Momonosuke studies hard to become a worthy leader of his beloved country. Hiyori finds him and apologizes. Outwardly, he accepts it with a grunt. Inwardly, he can't help but bluster. He resents her. Just a little bit. Only time and distance could let him overcome the instinctive surge of embarrassment every time he thinks of the incident.

(He wants to set sail. He wants to set sail. He wants to set sail.)

He trains.

      He swings his swords and ignores how they no longer sing. Usopp gives him a wide berth after a particularly snappy remark. Nami forces him into bathhouses, thinking the water should 'cool him off'. Chopper fixes his practice-induced injuries but does not reprimand him. Franky keeps asking if he's okay. Robin sends him those knowing glances, saying whatever cryptic words come to her mind in that moment. Luffy says nothing, places the strawhat on his head, and encourages him to nap.

(His eyes stay wide open beneath the brim.)

He does not see Sanji outside of meal times.

He didn't realize he was looking till one day Luffy plucks the hat back, staring deep into his eyes with that rare, serious expression that made him seem years older than he was.

"Try again. Whenever you think you're going the right way, go the opposite."

The air shifts, and the boy grins once more.

"That's what I do whenever I need to find Law! Guys like us can't listen to our heads! What matters is our guts! The stomach is the answer to all our problems!"

As if summoned, the organ in question gives a loud, long rumble. Luffy groans. He flops over, letting his hat cover his face in the exact same position Zoro had been in.

"Please...hurry...Sanji doesn't make extra snacks when he's angry."

As First Mate it was his duty to follow his Captain's orders. He repeats this mantra in his mind, using this justification to steel himself as he plucks his swords from where they lean against the tree, saddles them at his hip, and begins his search.

Sanji was not at the udon shop. Nor was he at Kin'emon's place. He was not drinking tea at O-Tsuru's shop, nor was he aiding the rebuilding efforts at Oden Castle. He was not at the ship. Not flirting with girls at the geisha house.

Zoro keeps searching. He walks until his stomach begins to grumble and even sake can't silence it.

Mt. Atama was the last place he would've checked.

He finds him atop the hill, hidden in the shadow of a cherry blossom tree. He is not alone. Izo and Kiku are at his sides as they had been since the end of the battle.

(They took to each other quick. The gunslinger said the blonde reminded him of someone he used to know. That sitting in the kitchen as he worked calmed him. Sanji laid his hand on his in understanding and showed him how to make mochi.)

Tama and Toko are seated with them. All five wear flowers in their hair, carefully weaved by Tama if the stems scattered around her are any indication. They chatter and laugh, sharing tea and cookies. The cook's face is flushed red from his laughter. Toko is doing a funny dance that brings tears to his eyes. He only laughs harder when the girl drags Izo and his sister to join.

It's mid-spin that the gunslinger senses him approach. A dark, thin brow arches high, frown playing at painted red lips. Zoro waits as the man leans down to whisper to the girls, tugging his sister by her kimono sleeve to give the two some semblance of privacy.

Of course, the group has to pass Zoro on the way. Izo gives him a look that was less of glance and more of a silent threat, but he says nothing, nor does his swift pace falter.

The swordsman begins his silent rapture, ascending the curve of the hill to meet the golden man waiting for him above. The song starts again. He's in the room where its playing. He can hear every plucked string, the reverb and chorus's lively echo.

"What do you want?" Sanji asks. He's no longer laughing. The light in his eyes has gone cold. Zoro doesn't respond as he sits. The winds stirs, blowing through their hair. He smells matcha tea and flames.

They speak at the same time.

"What you saw that day-."

"You don't have to explain yourself to me-."

They stop, take a breath. Zoro tries again.

"She apologized. For, uh..." He coughs, chest suddenly feeling very tight. "She misread the 'signals' I was giving. She told me to apologize to you on her behalf."

He sucks on his lower lip, letting a short 'tch' rip past his teeth as his heart bounces in his throat. Sanji still wasn't looking at him.

"Well, I forgive her. So you can run and tell your little girlfriend that if she wants to keep you here in this tiny country all for herself, she can. You can stay here with her and make little sword-stabbing babies with weird hair and-."

"I don't want to stay here." The blond freezes. Zoro takes a breath. He reminds himself of his Captain's words and jumped to instinct.

"I want to go to sea." The 'with you' goes unsaid but, if they're listening to the same song, then it didn't go unheard.

The cook's hands are shaking. He pulls out his pipe, struggles to pack it tight and light it up. When he manages to take a long drag, the wind gives him the same affectionate consideration it did the first time, plucking the smoke and casting it towards the clouds.

Sanji watched it fly away. Zoro watched him watch it, tracing the firm collarbone and V-shaped sliver of skin with vicious longing tearing at his insides.

"She'll be disappointed."

"I don't care."

He hears a girl's gasped laughter. Wado rattles in her sheath. He unbuckles all three swords and sets them to the side. Then he takes two quick steps up to Sanji, reaches for the man's jaw and tilts it till they're making eye contact.

(His eyes are so, so blue.)

"Are you singing the same song as me?" He asks, because his mind is blank but his gut has a lot of strong opinions. Sanji pulls the pipe from his lips. Sets it aside. Then his expression crinkles into something exasperated and fond all at once.

"Have you been talking to Robin too?"

He was not stopped when he leaned in. There was no one to intervene when he pressed his lips to Sanji's own and relished the soft, little whine that rose to meet him. He's in the room where the song is playing. He can hear every beat of the drum. The chorus of Wano's ghosts sings about adventure, a great battle, victory, and love of their motherland.

The lyrics let him know he is home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     Zoro isn't a music kind of guy. He's not like Brook, playing ballads to the calm sea at night, hoping a friend living hundreds of nautical miles away was still listening close enough to sing along. He doesn't play jazz records in the middle of the night like Robin. He yells at Nami to shut up when she sings that old Navy song her mom taught her, and grits his teeth when Luffy hums that weird country song he's fond of. He has no interest in Franky and Usopp's loud, radical rock and roll nor Jimbei's strange underwater yodeling.

But he has a favorite song. He listens to it daily. It's in the smack of chopsticks against his palm when he catches them. And in the clatter of a plate of onigiri set on the ground while he's training. He hears it in a loud- nearly violent-argument over a game of jenga and the screams when the Sunny lurches and the entire tower falls over.

He hears it in soft, discreet touches (that never quite manage to miss Robin's hawk-like gaze if her little smirks mean anything) and in the affection hidden behind spat vitriol whenever a certain idiot lays it on too thick with all the compliments to the sea witch.

The lyrics are easy to remember. The trick is convincing the singer to say them.

You see, you can't just rush him into it.

No, you have to make sure his guard is down. Spar with him in the morning after breakfast to make sure he gets any aggressive energy out of his system. Don't interrupt to get sake while he's making dinner.

(If you can't resist your alcoholic tendecies, then at least stick around while you drink instead of walking away. Compliment how his hands move with a knife in them. Mention that the food smells good. Rest your hand against the curve of his ass and place your lips against that spot on his neck just the way he likes. If he laughs and nudges you away with his shoulder, you're in the clear. If he kicks you away, you will not get to hear him sing that night. Try again tomorrow.)

When dinner is done, the dishes are set to dry and the kitchen is clean, linger in the Crow's Nest. Resist the urge to work out. He'll complain if you're sweaty and that's all you'll hear about for the rest of the night. No, instead open up the overhead dome so that the light of the stars comes in through the glass, bathing the room in a pale, silver tinge.

(Allow yourself a swig of sake. Stare up at the thousands of brilliant blazes in the sky and try to remember where he showed you his favorite ones were. Andromeda. Pisces. Draco. Scorpio. Vulpecula. You couldn't find the Ursas. Make a mental note to ask him to point them out again.)

When he clambers over the ladder, pluck the bottle of wine from his hand before he accidentally breaks it.

Sit next to him as he pours himself a glass. You two will drink, whisper in the shadows, point up at the stars and listen to the stories his father told him of old, legendary sailors and the gods. Then, when the alcohol is done for the night and there's a twin flame in your hearts, he will settle his head on your chest.

(This is the most complicated part. Don't fuck it up.)

You can't rush it, but you can't go too slowly otherwise he'll fall asleep. Run your fingers through his hair. Tease him to rile him up (Never, ever mention the V*nsm*k*s). Let him torment you back and respond to his attempts with nothing more than a low grumble of a laugh. Then, when he shifts his weight to look at you, skinny arms like iron bars on either side of your head, let him lean down to kiss you.

Yeah. Let him lean down to kiss you.

It's a power thing. You don't care either way but he likes having that control of the situation. Let him pry your lips open with his tongue. Feel his fingers trace the ridges of the scar slashed across your chest. Groan as his thumb circles a nipple and hiss when he takes your arousal into his fist.

Listen carefully for the song to start. With patience, you'll find it.

The thump-thump-thump of two heartbeats sharing the same tempo. Scratches against the wood as limbs scramble to reposition themselves. Huffs, groans, whimpers, and moans all adding to create a wonderful melody as you thrust into a sweet, tight heat.

Then, if you've played all your cards right, you'll hear him sing.

They lyrics were simple. A hushed, rapid chant of:

'Iloveyou. iloveyou. Iloveyou.'