#thought of this during my lunch break and had to scrawl out the stick figures on a paper towel before the idea was lost

[journey-to-the-attic]

lucifer's never gonna recover from this

[literaila]

how could this ever be different?

spencer x reader 

warnings: criminal minds stuff. its not all accurate, i am not a genius.  thats it? suprising 

summary: spencer goes undercover in Las Vegas to catch an unsub. he might just catch feelings along the way...  part one: 

Blunt force trauma. 

Multiple lacerations. 

Young women. 

Different dump sites. 

The unsub had been killing women all over Las Vegas, with no specific victimology, just a bunch of different women who were in the right place at the wrong time. 

There was nothing distinctive about the unsub, nothing that made him stick out to the team. 

After a week in Vegas, a dreadful week filled with nothing but more questions and the sun. 

They were not getting anywhere. 

On the 6th day, after 10 bodies had been found total, and the unsub had stopped killing for two days, Hotch decided they couldn't be of any help, and that the case would be declared “cold” until more evidence came out. 

All of them were disappointed, angry that all of those women had died, and they couldn't do anything to avenge them. They all wanted to prevent anyone else from losing their life at the unsubs hands, but without more information, they couldn't do anything. 

They all left Nevada with sour expressions and hopeless mindsets. 

Four months later, more women had died. 

It had slowed down significantly when they had left, but one month after that, the unsub had picked up his pace, 2 women dead in the span of a week. More weeks went by, with no other signs he was still killing, and then suddenly he was killing once a week, then twice, and then during the fourth month, it had picked up so much he was killing an average of five women each day. Sometimes, multiple women a day. 

And while this provided more evidence, helped the team dig deeper into his mindset, it still wasn't enough. 

They were still sitting around the round table, still thinking. 

There wasn't enough. 

“Hotch, we aren't getting anywhere, we don't know enough about this guy.” 

Derek sighed and sat back in his chair. 

“I think we know some-” Prentiss argued, her frown plastered on her face. 

“But not enough.” Derek interrupted, his eyes were tired, and he wanted to move on to a case where they could actually save people, not a case where none of them knew what they were doing. He felt like he was holding this case on his shoulders, and until they were through with it, the weight wouldn't go away. 

There wasn't enough coffee to cure the exhaustion running around the room. 

“Do we move on again?” Hotch asked, not exactly sure what to do, they’d never had a situation quite like this one. 

They could keep working, keep searching for answers that weren't there, or they could move on, they could work on something, on someone, where they actually knew the answers. They could go home and start over again tomorrow. 

Or they could stay, exhausted, unmotivated, and keep working. 

It was clear what they all wanted to do. It was clear that the easiest answer wouldn't be the right one. 

“If only we could find some sort of pattern.” Rossi looked through his file again, looked at all the girls' history, read over the things he had already read hundreds of times. There had to be some sort of answer somewhere. 

The rest of the team copied him, all of them reading everything over and over, desperate to find something, anything. 

“Hotch we’ve been over this hundreds of times.” Derek sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was the most exhausted out of all of them, angry that they couldn't stop this guy from killing more women, angry that they couldn't save the other girl's lives. 

“I know, Morgan, but I don't think giving up is the right idea-” 

“Wait.” 

Everyone looked over to the genius interrupting, his brows were furrowed and his mouth was turned down, but they all recognized the look on his face, they could all see that he was thinking of something. 

If anyone had figured out anything, it would be Spencer. 

“It looks like it's some sort of schedule…” 

The tall man got up to walk to the whiteboard in the front of the room, he frowned as he wrote down different numbers. 

The rest of the team watched confused as he scrawled messy numbers, again and again, they were all trying to make sense of it, make sense of anything, but they aren't geniuses, and they didn't understand. 

“Reid do you mind explaining-” 

Spencer cut Derek up with a finger signaling he needed a minute. It caused a moment of laughter between the team as Derek looked startled. 

When Spencer looked back over at the other people in the room, capping the marker he was holding in his head, he smiled as if he was laughing at himself. As if he should’ve realized sooner. 

“It's a schedule- I mean, look-” he pointed at the numbers, laughing as he said it out loud for the first time, the rest of the team just stared at him, waiting for a bigger explanation. “He only kills between the hours of 6 AM and 6 PM- I mean look-” he pointed up at one of the girls “Megan Cooley was killed at 7:28 PM, Hannah Zen was killed at 5 in the morning, and all of the other girls correlate with this schedule.” 

They all stared at the board, the dots connecting, everything suddenly coming to light. It was so strange that just a small realization could change everything for them. 

“Garcia,” Spencer said, suddenly put into action. Penelope looked immediately at him, her eyes alert. “Can you find a list of Employees that work 6-6 hours in Las Vegas? It's probably as a manager, a position that doesn't allow sick days.” 

Insistent typing went on as they all stared Garcia down. There was a pinch of hope in the room, just the slightest realization that maybe they could finally start to do something. 

“There are… 48 total employees who worked on those days, who haven't taken any sick days,” Garcia said as she continued typing.

“Okay, how about employees that started working overtime a month after the case was opened?” 

A second went by, two. 

“There are 12 results,” she said, looking back up at Spencer, suddenly excited. 

Spencer thought for a moment, wondered what would stick out about their unsub. “How about someone who doesn't work under their degree? Like a manager of a store, or something like that?”

Another moment, every person in the room, waiting with anticipation, waiting for something, an answer, anything. 

“There's only one result.” 

‘Who?” 

“A Y/N Y/L/N. She works as a manager at a book shop, never takes any sick days, and has a 6-6 schedule every day.” 

It was silent for a moment. None of them knew what to say. 

“Maybe that's what we were missing,” JJ spoke up, “it's out of character for a woman, but I don't doubt that it's possible.” 

They all nodded in agreement, not wanting to start over again. 

At least this was a place to start. 

*

“Are we just going to arrest her?” 

After the discovery they had all decided to take a break, to take an hour for just themselves, to get lunch. 

Now it was back to the case. 

“We can't arrest her without any probable cause. As of now, we don't know enough about her to get a warrant.” 

A sigh ran across the room, filling all of the heads with hopelessness again. 

Until Emily spoke up, remembering something they’d done before, an idea popping into her brain. 

“What if we sent in an undercover agent?” 

She had asked Hotch, but everyone was debating it, thinking of the possibilities, the risks that could come with being that close to a murder, the past experiences. 

It could be a very bad idea, something could potentially happen to an agent, more victims could get killed, the unsub could stop killing at all.

But, it was one of the only options they had, besides waiting for more evidence to show up. 

“We sent someone in, and they get to know the unsub, they profile her behavior, gage her way of living, look for similarities. And undercover, they could get a lot more information than any of us could get by arresting her.” Emily went on, her mind running over the positives. 

Hotch sighed. He knew it wasn't something they often did, the BAU was used to getting through cases, used to arresting people immediately. But this was a special case, and he knew that it would only get worse and worse as long as they waited. 

But he wasn't sure. 

“We don't know what she's like, what if she suspects something? She could kill an agent.” He said, doubtful, stern. 

“So we send in a male agent, she isn't interested in males, she's less likely to kill them.” 

“We still don't know if she will even connect with a stranger, we don't know if she can connect with anyone. It won't be helpful if the agent can't get to know her.” 

“But, Hotch, we could still learn her schedule, we could learn about where she goes when she's not working. 

With each sentence that Emily said, they were all becoming more convinced. 

A nod went around the table, and they all looked to Hotch for confirmation. 

He sighed and rubbed his eyes, exhausted with the day, with the case, and nodded. 

Relief went around, all of them glad to finally have a plan. 

“So who do we send?” Rossi asked. 

There were dozens of agents they could send, plenty of them trained for this exact thing, but they were all looking around the room. They all knew the case best, they knew how to gage human behavior, they knew what they were supposed to look for in the unsub. 

It had to be one of them. 

“Prentiss and JJ can't go,” Derek said, looking at the two of them who looked relieved at the fact. 

‘And Hotch you can't go, you have to take care of Jack.” 

Rossi cleared his throat, his team members looked at him. “I’m taking my name out of the ballet. I’m too old for this,” he said, sending a laugh around the room. 

Derek sighed and looked at Hotch. “I don't think I’m a good choice. I’m more intimidating, and she would be more comfortable around someone her age.” 

They all silently looked to Spencer, who was looking down at his file, reading everything over again. 

It was only when Hotch cleared his throat that he looked up. 

“Reid? Are you comfortable going?” 

Spencer stared at him shocked. “Me?” he asked, his voice cracking. 

He wasn't good with people in general, and he’d never been good with girls. If they wanted to make the unsub comfortable, he was the worst option. 

“Come on kid,” Derek started, “You’re the closest to her age, you’re the most approachable. You’ll remember the most about her behavior, and you’ll learn her schedule quicker than any of us. Plus, you already know your way around Las Vegas.” 

The rest of the team nodded in agreement, while Spencer still looked terrified. 

“And plus,” Emily spoke up, hoping to convince Spencer, “She works at a bookstore.” 

Everyone but Hotch and Spencer laughed. 

Spencer was stuck. He didn't know how to talk to people, he didn't know how to get to know someone. He was only good with facts, and talking to an unsub- one that he was supposed to make comfortable -did not involve facts. 

But, he knew his team needed him, he knew that they were all stressed, that the others had taken the losses harder than he had. He knew that if he could do this if he could learn about this girl, the world would be clearer for his family. 

“Reid, I only want you to do this if you’re comfortable.” Hotch pulled Reid out of his thoughts, his eyes stern and unmoving. His voice was completely serious, and Spencer could hear hints of reassurance in his words. It was comforting to know that Hotch trusted him to make the right decision. 

Spencer took a deep breath. Reminded himself that his team trusted him too. 

“Alright. I’ll do it.” 

***

An apartment. 

They would get him an apartment. 

He would live in Las Vegas for as long as he deemed necessary. 

He would stay and he would learn everything he could about Y/N. 

He would profile her, send reports back to his team. 

He would try and talk to her. He would try to get to know her. 

He would change everything. 

He would do his job. 

He would talk to a girl. 

A girl. 

A murderer. 

A girl. He would have to talk to her. 

He would. 

A girl. 

“Hi, I’m Spencer.” 

***

reminder that this is part one, and its more of a introduction than the actual story

sorry if it sucked 

my masterlist: 

part two

[searchingforstarss]

irondad prompt: accidental poisoning, peter whump? pleeease? love your writing! hope you enjoy your time away!

hi lovely anon!! this took me a little longer to do because it kind of got away from me and turned out a lot longer than i was thinking! i hope you like it because it’s not as whumpy as i originally intended but as soon as i saw accidental poisoning i couldn’t get this idea out of my head so here you go. i hope you enjoy :)) x

---

Morgan’s gleeful yells are the first thing Peter’s greeted to when he arrives at the lake house on a Friday afternoon.

“Peter’s here! Peter’s here! I can hear him!”

The six-year-old barrels through the living room and out onto the front porch, excitement practically radiating off her in waves.

No matter how many times they try to explain to her that it simply isn’t feasible for Peter to stay with them any more than two nights a week because he has school in the city, she whines about how long he’s been away whenever he arrives, without fail. Today is no different.

“You’re not allowed to stay away for that long anymore, I miss you too much,” she declares. “Daddy can’t do the right voices when he reads Harry Potter to me either. You’re wayy better.”

Petter grins broadly down at her, about to open his mouth to greet her properly, ask about her week at school and whether she learnt how to do fraction multiplication like she had excitedly told him that she was going to during their Wednesday night phone call. He can’t even get a word in edgeways though because before he can, Morgan is babbling on again in her same gleeful tone that Peter adores.

“I have a surprise for you!” she announces proudly, tugging him up the creaky porch steps with her smaller hand tucked inside his.

“Whoa, that’s cool. What is it?” Peter asks. He tries to hide the apprehension from his tone, because Morgan’s surprises always swing one of two ways.

He’ll either end up trying to pretend he isn’t choking up when she presents him with a hand drawn-picture and note or craft project that she made at school during their art hour. Or, he’ll end up as a victim to one of her latest ideas, experiments and schemes. Last week it was her determination to teach Peter how to roller-skate on the cul-de-sac a few blocks over, which ended in Morgan clumsily pressing an excess number of band-aids onto his scraped knees. The month before he ended up as a human canvas to entertain her desire to learn how to face paint (that was all-around just as much of a disaster as it sounds like it would be).

“You can’t know what it is, silly!” Morgan sing-songs, “you’ll ruin the surprise.”

“Silly me, of course,” Peter deadpans, but he’s ignored as she tugs him through to the kitchen as soon as he’s dumped his backpack on the couch.

“Surprise!” she exclaims as soon as they’re both in the room. She guestures excitedly towards a few slightly sad looking lumps of something drenched in icing and severed onto sticks. There are sprinkles as well, which look like they might have been a nice touch to cheer the entire thing up, had the majority of them not ended up scattered around the surrounding bench space.

“Daddy and I made cookie pops! Well, I made them, he just helped me use the big scary whisk-y thingy. They’re for Katie’s birthday party tomorrow because we all have to bring something yummy to eat, and Daddy wanted to do regular cookies but I told him that was boring. So we made these instead!”

“They look great, well done you guys,” Peter praises. Secretly, he’s almost certain that Tony was onto something with his suggestion. Cookies would have definitely been the safer option.

“I want you to try one! I saved the first one for you because I’m the best sister in the whole wide world.”

Peter eyes the pink ball of cookie dough being waved in his face dubiously, but Morgan’s creations often look worse than they actually are so he bites the bullet and accepts the treat that she’s thrusting towards him.

He takes a bite, partly because he’s being watched expectantly by large brown eyes and partly because he’s absolutely starving. He’s had a long day. Decathlon practice in the morning, AP classes back to back all afternoon and then the drive up here. Plus, he really wasn’t planning on Spider-Manning today, but there was a gas station robbery on the side of Interstate 87 that he pulled over to break up on his way because the man was threatening the poor guy behind the counter with a gun for a raspberry slushie, a hot dog and two packets of cigarettes and Peter had to intervene because that was just stupid on so, so many levels.

The shopkeeper gave him a free hot dog in return which he gladly scarfed down before he disappeared back out to his car, but that’s all he’s eaten since lunch. So as he chews Morgan’s baked concoction, he figures that the cookie dough is crumbly, sure, and maybe they went a little heavy with the icing sugar in the icing but Peter is so hungry that he thinks anything would probably taste good to him at this point.

Footsteps thud down the stairs, and Peter hears Tony’s voice before he sees him.

“Morgan, I swear if you’re force-feeding Peter. Your dear old brother doesn’t want any of our atrocious attempt at baking-“

Tony rounds the corner, eyes falling on Peter, mouth full of icing and cookie dough.

“Oh, I’m too late. Great.”

“Hey, Tony.”

“Hiya, Pete. Enjoying your snack?”

Peter carries on chewing on the food his mouth. “Mhmm. Definitely. Good job you guys.”

Tony shakes his head. “Nuh-uh, not a good job, not at all. I just got off the phone with Pepper, turns out you actually have to partially bake the cookie dough first. It honestly just seems like a lot of extra work if you ask me, but she’s the boss.”

“You’re starting again?” Peter asks.

“Yep, and since you’re here you can actually make yourself useful,” Tony snarks but there’s a fond smile on his face. Peter nods willingly. “Don’t just stand there then, kid. Grab the flour from the cupboard would you?”

Peter grins and turns to grab the flour like Tony requested. He doesn’t even have to think about it anymore, he knows exactly which shelf to reach for with the same sort of instinct that he has in his and May’s apartment.

(Even with all three of their hands on deck, the second round of cookie pops only end up looking mildly more appetizing than the first, but at least all of Morgan’s tiny friends won’t have uncooked, crumbly cookie dough forced on them so Tony claims it as a win - he’s never had the patience to deal with other kids’ whining parents anyway.)

---

Peter sleeps in the next morning, and the house is silent when he wakes. The first thing he notices is the way he’s shivering, even in the balmy morning sun streaming through his windows. There’s nausea as well, constantly threatening to make its way up his throat as it sits at the bottom of his stomach, churning and rolling uncomfortably,

The second thing he notices is a note sitting on his bedside table as he fumbles out one arm to grab his phone and check the time. Peter recognises Tony’s scrawl immediately.

Morning, sleepyhead. Gone to drop Morgan off to her party. Be home soon. T

He’s content to lie there for a while and wallow in his own misery and how dreadful he feels while he’s all alone in the house until his stomach lurches violently and he’s hauling himself out of bed, sweaty covers pooling around his feet. The room around him is spinning, but the singular thought occupying his hazy mind is get to the bathroom, Parker. Just make it to the damn bathroom.

He does, even though his legs are shaky underneath him, and he just manages to stumble through the open doorway of the bathroom and drop to his knees in front of the toilet. He doesn’t even register the pain that shoots through his knees and up his legs as he slams into the tile.

A charming mix of gas station hot dog, Morgan and Tony’s tragic attempt at a cookie pop and the lasagna Tony made for dinner last night ends up swimming at the bottom of the toilet bowl.

Gross.

“Peter?”

That’s his name. It sounds like it’s coming from somewhere down near his bedroom. He tries to call back, but acid coats his raw throat and he can’t seem to get the words out. He retches again, before dipping forward to lean up against the ceramic of the toilet.

“Peter, oh, there you are-” Tony begins, but he drops off as Peter sees him appear around the corner of the bathroom door and take in the scene in front of him. “What’s going on?”

He blinks up at Tony through cloudy eyes.

“Think ‘m sick.”

“I thought you couldn’t even get sick?”

Peter tries to give a coherent answer, he thinks, but all that comes out is a whine. He looks up at Tony, eyes pleading. He’s not sure what he’s asking for, really. He just wants someone to make it better.

“Okay, okay, got it. That’s not really the point right now.”

Peter isn’t quite sure what he’s expecting as Tony hovers around the doorway. He wants comfort, he wants Tony, but he doesn’t dare to move far from the toilet.

“Oh, shit. Kid, you actually ate that garbage attempt of baking that Morgan gave you yesterday, didn’t you? There was raw egg in that.”

Peter just nods feebly, not entirely listening. His head is head still resting on the toilet seat. He doesn’t have the energy to lift it.

“I hate to break it to you, kid, but maybe Spidey is just as susceptible to food poisoning as the rest of us.”

Peter’s certainly listening now, his glazed eyes shooting open. Weak displeasure simmers within them.

“You poisoned me?”

Morgan’s surprise has now definitely landed on the bad side this week, leaning towards absolutely-fucking-awful.

“Technically, Morgan poisoned you. I just operated all the heavy machinery,” Tony says. Peter glares at him, but it’s so pathetic that Tony’s own stomach clenches in sympathy.

“You’re the adult-” Peter points out, feeble indignation in his voice before he cuts himself off with another round of heaving.

“Oh, Pete,” Tony sighs, stepping further into the bathroom at the sight. He lowers himself to the floor right next to Peter. A warm hand finds his back, rubbing in slow circles right at the base. A fraction of the tension leaves Peter’s body.

“You’re alright, bud” Tony soothes. His voice is gentle and calming, and Peter lets it wash over him. He’s always loved just listening to Tony talk. “You’ll feel so much better once it’s all back up.”

Peter finds that hard to believe because caught right in the throes of pain, shivering and feeling like a total and utter mess, he struggles to remember a time when he wasn’t wholly consumed by Morgan’s attempt to poison him.

There’s nothing left for Peter to bring up eventually, and he’s left gasping for air.

“Think you’re done?”

Peter nods, stomach still clenching painfully. He shoves himself away from the toilet, legs giving way underneath him as he slumps into a pile of shaky, sweaty limbs against the bathroom counter. This doesn’t seem to faze Tony though, and Peter watches through bleary eyes as he goes into Dad Mode. It all fades in and out in front of him, but he registers the corners of his mouth being wipes gently with a warm washcloth, the hair being brushes back from his sweaty forehead, a cool glass of water being tipped down his throat.

It was because of moments like this that after the snap, it took Peter a while to correlate his Tony with Morgan’s Tony.

His Tony had only ever cared from afar and he usually shied away from physical affection and comfort unless either of them were on their deathbeds. They always loved each other, but it was sort of a given. An undeniable fact with little physical expression. Now though? Morgan’s Tony tucks her into bed at night and smoothes kisses into her hair and lets her curl into his lap during lazy evenings on the couch with absolutely no reservations or qualms. He tells her he loves her at least five times a day.

It then took Peter even longer to realise that Morgan’s Tony wasn’t exclusively hers. He’s just Tony, softened around the edges a little with parenthood and settling down, but he’s Peter’s as well, still.

That’s evident in the way that instead of leaving Peter to his own devices once he’s taken care of him and cleaned up his mess, Tony just leads him gently downstairs instead, a warm solid hand wrapped around his forearm to make sure he doesn’t stumble forward and end up on his face.

Tony lies him down on the couch, before taking a seat himself. He lets Peter pillow himself against him, head buried into the soft cotton of his t-shirt. Tony’s hands trail along their time-worn path in Peter’s hair, the action almost second nature.

“I’m never eating anything you make me ever again, I swear,” Peter mumbles into Tony’s chest. His words are quiet, scraping against the rawness of his throat but Tony hears him loud and clear. He chuckles.

“Fair enough, buddy.”

---

Peter’s nap is only interrupted when Morgan bursts into the room sometime in the afternoon. He blinks slowly from where he’s resting against Tony’s chest, head tucked up against his collarbone.

Morgan has a goody bag clutched in her grip and a few flyaway pink streamers caught in her hair. She beelines for the couch.

“Petey, Mommy said that I need to apologise for poisoning you!”

Peter feels a deep rumble in Tony’s chest as he attempts to stifle a laugh. He can’t quite muster up the energy (and he’s far too comfortable anyway) to get up from his position resting against Tony to hug Morgan, so he just gives her the warmest smile he can manage.

“It’s okay, bug, I know you didn’t mean to. I forgive you.”

She beams up at him. “There was one cookie pop left so I saved it for you, see?” she says, rattling her goody bag around, which Peter presumes contains the cursed treat. “They’re really good, I promise!”

Peter’s stomach churns again at the thought.

“That’s really nice of you, Mo, but I think I might give cookies a miss for a while.”

[kpopandcream]

Hand Print - Act 2

Pairing: ReaderxWooseok.

Genre: Angst.

Warnings: Dark themes, Foul Language, Implied Smut,

You greatly believed in the strength of togetherness. When together, nothing could rip you apart. You knew this. You were so much stronger with him and so much happier too. He caused so much good, wrapped you so tightly in a cocoon that you forgot what it was like to not feel safe. A knife to that silk was all it took to rip you out of his home.

Word Count: 8.9K

Play: Act 1, Act 2

Masterlist

Act 2, Scene 1: Is You Down?

“Can I ask you a  question?”

Hwi was sitting on your bed, back pressed against the backboard and pillow being used to prop up his notebook on his lap. He had it open, scrawled with words and scratched out phrases and you were sure if you asked, he’d let you see what he was writing. From your desk, you turned around, sticking the pen in your mouth while you nodded. He spoke as you tied up your hair again, fixing the sloppily done bun from before.

“What are we doing? Together, I mean. Are we dating or is it a friends with benefits kind of thing?” He waved his pen around, trying to make the question seem light when it wasn’t. You should’ve known this was coming, the two of you too careful around each other to bring it up. Yet, the passing days had brought you closer and he seemed fed up enough to say something. To be honest, you were glad to hear it, though the question still struck you speechless.

Your mouth moved around, curving into an ‘o’ but not exactly forming words. Hands dropping from your hair, you managed something that sounded like ‘I don’t know’. Hwitaek’s eyes which started out bright during the day when you first met up for lunch were now a darker brown, lips coming to press together as he nodded. Feeling him retracting into himself, you got up from your chair and came to sit in front of him, folding your legs under you as you did so. He looked up at you over his knees before they softened and his legs fell to either side of you. He had discarded his notebook and pen, putting it to the side with a slight pout on his lips.

“What do you want us to be?” you asked, taking initiative for the moment. Your hands fell into his, weaving your fingers between his. It was silent in your house, the gears turning in his head the only sound that filled the space.

“That’s not fair,” he chuckled, though it was sad and without humour, “you know I can’t focus when you’re looking at me like that.”

“Well try,” you pressed, trying to tug your fingers from his but he resisted, pulling you in so you rested on his chest. Twisting, your back pressed against his front but your cheek was still half on his cotton sweater. He held you around the waist, fingers stil entwined with yours and tracing shapes on them, and was silent for a bout.

Them deciding on his words, he said, “I want us to be together but that has to be a two-sided thing. Jisoo said you went through a rough break up, told me to be careful and I didn’t bring it up because of that. I want you to take your time but I also want…”

Trailing off, his finger came to your chin and tilted it towards him. He pressed his chin to his chest to see your eyes and slowly, he murmured, “I also want you to only look at me, like you’re doing right now. I don’t want to see you give this to anyone else. I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Tell you what,” you started, sitting the slightest bit up in your seat so you could kiss him comfortably. Between them, you whispered, “I promise not to look at anyone else like this if you promise to give me more time.”

“Deal,” he breathed, leaning further into every kiss, keeping you longer, holding his breath along with yours. Not a single heartbeat was rushed and you relished in the way he ran his fingers through your hair with one hand and held your jaw with the other. It was like he was telling you exactly where you needed to be and how and when. The control was new but something that caused blood to rush through your ears and you gave yourself up to every movement.

You wondered if this deal was a good one later that night, lying in his arms on the couch. Your parents would be home soon and you both knew this but it didn’t seem to bother either of you. Hwi was watching the movie intently, chewing on his bottom lip, and you stole glances at the screen. You knew he saw you staring and was avoiding your eyes to be coy but you rather liked it, suppressing the giant smile that slipped on your lips.

“Watch the movie, you creep,” he chuckled under his breath, moving only one half of his mouth and you grumbled, squeezing in closer to him and trying to focus.

The people on the screen were having an argument, talking about the ghost in the house or something to that effect. They were walking around their crisp, white room wearing their pajamas, the girl in a white nightgown. How cliche, you thought, wondering at what point she’d be splattered with blood. Silently, you made a bet that it was the husband’s as you fixed your position again. Hwi asked if you were comfortable and, since your nod was a lie, he shifted and let you fall closer into him. Your ear was now against his heart, breathing matching up with yours while your eyes fell to the screen.

With a heavy blink, body tired from earlier activities, you found yourself in a similarly white room as before. The details were all the same and yet warped at the ends, like they didn’t really exist. Striking the end of a cupboard with a flick, you watched it ripple. The circles started out small and slowly, slowly, they spread until they reached your feet. Everything became distorted, including your legs. You felt yourself stuck when you wanted to run but you couldn’t. You knew you should but you just couldn’t move and the moment you opened your mouth to scream, your throat rippled and you no longer existed. You were a figment of your imagination, a head stuck in your a jar filled with nothing but dying memories and the faint smell of cologne.

Jolting awake from the sound of the door behind you opening, you lifted off of Hwitaek immediately and were met with your chatting parents, taking their shoes off at the door. Your dad saw you first, waving with his free hand. The other held a large white bag and his plaid shirt stretched over his stomach.

“Hey, kiddo,” he seemed to beam instead of say, smile growing until he saw Hwitaek and it paused, dropping to the floor. Your mother looked between you two, hanging up her coat and waving hello. Hwi resorted to a slight bow, inclining his head as he went to say hello.

“This is, um, this is my boyfriend, Wo- uh, Hwitaek.”

He gave you a look from the corner of his eye, probably stuck on the word boyfriend rather than your slip up, you hoped. Your mother, beaming and excited, bypassed the handshake and went in for a hug, squealing, “a boyfriend! Y/n’s never brought home a boyfriend before!”

“Really?” He looked back at you as your father shook his hand and they exchanged pleasantries, then said, “hopefully, she won’t have to again.”

It was a joke but your father wasn’t impressed and it showed in the crease by his mouth when he asked, “so you plan on marrying her?”

Hwi’s thin smile faded, quivering under your father’s stare and you sighed, trying to figure out how to save the situation. Your mother, forever your saviour, laughed mechanically and smacked your father’s arm.

“He’s such a tease,” she crooned, dragging him to the kitchen and hoping you were following behind, “he does that all the time.”

“Does he?” Hwitaek mumbled under his breath, still keeping his smile on while his fingers locked with yours. You shook your head and the look he gave you, spelling ‘save me’ across his brows, was pricelessly comical.

“Alright, boyfriend, come on,” you said, hushed and wheeling him to the kitchen where your mother was bumbling about, getting cookies and tea.

“Wait,” he muttered just as you were about to lose the cover of the wall, pausing and pulling you back. His lips fell onto yours, hands cupping your cheeks before he let you go. Bringing your heels down to the ground slowly, he whispered, “thank you.”

You curled your fingers around his palm, your cheeks pushed up to your eyes due to his hands and the smile you gave him squished them closer up. Glad he knew the phrase was for him, you wordlessly led him to the kitchen and let him embarrass himself in front of your parents. He had an awkward charm and you could watch him for days, knowing he fit right in despite your father’s jabs. He was deflecting them pretty well, though, and that was telling enough. You found yourself comfortably at peace, especially when you squeezed his palm under the island where you’d set a few chairs up to speak to your mom while she prepared the sweets. The way he returned it so effortlessly, so no one would even know you were connected, made you smile.

Quiet and mundane, you passed the night along in an uneventful way. Your mom loved him and your father was on edge. He gave you a kiss goodnight and got in his car and drove away. You texted him before bed and were asleep by eleven o’clock. There was nothing special about it and yet nothing ordinary about it. It felt ordinary but lying under every word- every look- there was so much weight and emotion. You felt it in places that hadn’t been awoken in a while and half of you, the optimistic half, wondered if you could make him stay; because pushing him away would be too hard.

Act 2, Scene 2: Jasmine

The music was muffled the moment you shut the door to the large bathroom. It was on the first floor and, to be honest, you were surprised it wasn’t flooded with people looking to get a light. Instead, it was just you and you exhaled deeply, eyes screwed shut. The air here was relatively free of smoke and you didn’t cough just standing there so you let yourself relax. Sliding down to the floor, you bent your knees and put your head in your hands.

Coming to this party had been a mistake. Hwi and you had gotten into an argument and a bad one. He told you that you weren’t committed to him and he didn’t understand why. He picked you up from school, he met your parents, he was nice to your friends, he did everything he could for you. You saw him behind you eyes, nostrils flared while the top of his nose was pressed down. He looked so mad, standing a few feet away from you and listing off the ways he liked you, as if you didn’t already know.

It wasn’t like you didn’t feel guilty. Hwi was a man of precision and planning, of futures and goals and everything that scared you. He talked about big ideas and the possibilities of time travel and everything that the world still had left to show him. It was what you admired about him and, knowing that, you probably shouldn’t have asked him to give you time. He’d ask what you were once a month, letting you lead him on and on and say that you needed just a little bit more.

“What are you waiting for?”

His voice rang clear in your ears, and you whimpered on the floor, digging your palms further into your eyes to try and get him out of your mind; but you couldn’t. You didn’t know what you were waiting for and why you asked for more time. Though, you supposed the question he should have asked was ‘who are you waiting for?’. It was hard to explain to someone that you were still in love with someone else, that they were still the person you last thought of before bed, and hoped to see on campus even though it would kill you. How could you ever tell Hwi that you had to fight not to pick up calls from an ex-boyfriend whose hand prints were still all over your heart? How could you tell him that it ached to see him smile because kissing him made you think of someone else?

You were selfish and guilty and the tears that slipped through your fingers were hard to ignore. God, you wanted to try for him but you couldn’t bring yourself to. Focusing on Hwitaek meant giving up on Wooseok and you didn’t know if you could bear it. Loving someone was one thing. Being in love with someone was another. It wasn’t hard to know how you felt about who.

You tried not to make a sound as you cried, holding in your sobs and taking in shallow breaths. It felt stupid, hiding the fact that you were crying in such a place. The music outside more than covered it up and you could probably be wailing without anyone knowing; but you were ashamed of yourself for crying like this. You didn’t have a right to sit there and make it a sob story, to feel like a victim when you were hurting people just as much as someone hurt you.

Stopping was easier said than done but you felt it every time you told Hwi you weren’t dating. It crushed him and you saw it when the lifting of his lips happened less and when he stopped wanting to kiss you. There was the comfortability of the honeymoon stage without any certainty of the future and it bothered him. It bothered you, but you were holding out for something you weren’t sure you were going to get. You supposed that was the worst part: uncertainty. The only thing was that you didn’t want to do what you knew would set him free.

The tub squeaked, quiet and sudden and you yelped, tearing your fingers apart to find Wooseok sitting in the white ceramic. His face was scrunched together painfully, like he wished he hadn't moved and you growled. Picking up a toilet roll that was on top of the sink, you threw it at him, free hand wiping at your tears.

“You just saw me crying and didn’t do anything?” Your voice cracked often and you hated yourself for it, wanting to appear strong despite your heaving chest and the redness in your cheeks.

Despite how meek he must have felt, he gave you a straight face and muttered, “you looked like you were having a moment.”

“Oh, fuck off, Wooseok,” you spat. You didn’t know why but seeing him made you mad and you couldn’t contain it. There was nothing he said that warranted you being mean but it was a volatile emotion and it grew in your stomach the further you stare at his profile.

He shrugged, not saying a word back. Realizing it frustrated you more, you debated getting up and leaving. You couldn’t be faced with another problem, especially when you were trying to suppress every thought of him. You didn’t want this to be another thought that would creep into everything you did or have it be something you day dreamed of on the bus. You couldn’t let that happen anymore. You were drawing a line: and yet, he spoke and you were stuck on the floor, back against the door and legs bent lower so you could see his face.

“Do you want to talk about it?” His voice was so quiet and resembled the Wooseok you knew so well- the one that laid himself bare for you often and would rub circles into your back for comfort.

With bitterness in your mouth, you shook your head and mumbled a ‘no’, knowing he wouldn’t want to hear a word you had to say about someone else. Besides, you weren’t supposed to be friends. You weren’t even supposed to be talking, that was the rule. Still, here you were, striking one up anyways as you picked at your nail polish.

“So, what are you doing here?”

“Vernon’s in a group with one of the guys invited so we tagged along,” he said so offhanded, as if it was information he didn’t want to know, “you?”

“Hyojong is Hwi’s best friend,” you murmured, not looking up at him, like you were ashamed to drop his name in conversation so easily. Did you have a right?

“Oh.”

There was no other response. From over your knees, you could see him nod. He had a red cap on, lips pouted and hands shifting around a small tennis ball. He threw it to the wall in front of him, catching it within the large sleeves of his jean jacket and looking embarrassed by it, turning his head further away from you. His black jeans were torn at his knees, legs bent since they were too long to fit in the small bowl that held him. Everything about him was easy to fall into and you had to stop yourself from staring, biting your lip and returning your eyes to your chipping nails. Thumbnail scratching hard at the blue colour, you asked, “so you’re still hanging out with Vernon?”

“You’re still dating Hwi?” The response was immediate and sharp, like he was saying you had no right to comment on his life. His words were bitter and were spat, left by your shoes for you to try and clean up but you couldn’t

Scrutinizing, you narrowed your eyes at him. Trying to catch his gaze, with no success, you managed, “how’d you kno-”

“Vernon.” The name slipped of his tongue like velvet and you snorted. Of course. “So is Vernon your source of information now? How you get the daily gossip?” You waved your hands around, disdain dripping off syllables and hitting his ears with ease.

Woo simply shrugged, keeping up his rhythm with the ball as he stated so plainly, “well, he’s the school’s community centre. People go in and out of him all the time. Of course he knows.”

“Who told him?”

The whole conversation was staccato, no word dragged out for too long. “Jisoo.”

Scoffing, you crossed your arms and sat up straight. Legs extended in front of you, you asked, incredulous, “they’re friends?”

“They hooked up once and meet for coffee sometimes.” Another shrug fell from his broad shoulders. With a long nod, you understood why Jisoo was always so secretive and why she ‘could never get a boyfriend’. My ass, you thought, she just didn’t want to admit who she liked.

“Does he like her?” Your interest went further, no longer hostile and now genuinely falling into the normal conversations you could usually have. With an eyebrow quirked up at you and head half turned to you, Wooseok noticed it and seemed to sulk more.

Pulling in his chin and sticking out his lips, he returned his gaze to the wall, bouncing the ball and catching it in tune. Giving you nothing, he muttered ‘probably’ and dropped it at that.

The smile you didn’t realize you had forming on your lips was wiped down and you returned your gaze to the floor. Only when a buzzing came from your phone was the silence broken and you looked at it. Hwi texted, asking where you were, and you didn’t know what to say. So, you simply placed the phone on the sink counter and sighed. Rubbing your eyes again, you tried to take your guiltiness off your face. You didn’t want to look so weak, not in front of Wooseok, who you felt was scrutinizing you.

Yet, his voice was so thin and quiet, absolutely hurt and shaking, murmuring, “why didn’t you pick up my call?”

Staying silent, you swallowed and was unsure what to do. Not looking at him still, the bouncing of the ball stopping and letting the muffled music take over the scene. You felt suffocated, upset with yourself and torn. He wasn’t helping though, chin tipped down and lips still pushed outwards.

“I know we said we wouldn’t talk but I miss you.” “Wooseok,” you whispered, hands shaking and the tears you’d been holding back from before slipping. You wiped them away, not wanting to let him see it but you knew he did. It was a mournful situation and hurt but his mouth kept moving.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve told Vernon off when he insulted you. I did after though. Got a black eye for it and this scar here. See?” He chuckled after, sadly and trying to angle his cheek for you to see. Coming closer, you sat beside the bathtub and raised quivering fingers to touch his skin.

He watched you as you did so, eyeing your slightly open mouth and your smudged makeup. He didn’t dare reach out and you felt the electricity spark under your fingertips as you retreated. Back leaning against a drawer, you huffed a sigh and thought about a cool night. Crystals would rise in the air and be outlined by the overbearingly white fluorescent light of the bathroom. It would look like a cloud, floating up in the air and away from you, like something taking away all your stress.

“Why’d you start smoking?” you mumbled, hoping it would be for this same purpose. As a stress relief, to watch his worries flow away in time; like some form of therapy.

“What?”

“Why’d you start smoking?” you repeated, locking eyes with him in a show of strength, like you weren’t scared of what he thought anymore, “you said you hated it.”

“I do,” he said softly, whispering it almost and toying with a string on his sleeve. His arm was propped up on the bathtub ledge, sheltering the small ball in a large hand made to protect. The sleeves on his jean jacket were too short, showing the cuffs of his long sleeve under, though they were also too wide on his thin bones.

Tugging at the string for him, removing it from the shirt easily, you pressed, “then why?”

The look he gave you was somewhat sour, like he wanted to show he could do it all by himself. Yet, rubbing at the spot and letting his arm hang, he turned his gaze from you again. The ball dropped, rolling to your feet as he spoke, words sounding like static.

“Because I needed something to do, I guess.”

Snorting, you gave his shoulder a flick. “That’s stupid and you know it.”

“Yeah, alright y/n, don’t act like you’re any better,” he spat, condescending and sour, like he was letting go of everything he wanted to say. His eyes narrowed and his mouth curled into an ugly sneer, “you’re using that poor guy as a rebound because you need something to do.”

“Don’t act like you know anything about me and Hwi,” you rebutted, eyes coming to match his though you were sure your words didn’t hit as hard.

“Alright,” he snorted, seemingly dismissing you as he waved towards your phone, “go and answer his text then.”

“You know, you’re a real prick,” you bit, trying to defend yourself but it didn’t work He could see right through you, looking past the chill of your voice and thinking it amusing. Everything came out bitter and held nothing but suppressed anger.

“That why you broke up with me? Been trying to figure it out.”

“Oh shut up,” you huffed, moving away from him. This elicited a scoff and the bouncing off the ball overpowered the thumping music. The only sign of the party was the pulsating on the floor and the lights that seeped through the bottom of the door.

Neither of you moved to leave, a telling sign he had more he wanted to say. The thing was that you didn’t have much to say but would think of anything just to keep him around. Chewing on your bottom lip, not wanting to leave this unresolved, you managed, “you know you didn’t do anything wrong right? It’s not your fault we broke up.”

He didn’t meet your eyes, though the pace of his ball slowed down. Then, it picked up, anger showing through the crack starting to form in the weak marble wall of the bathtub. He wasn’t going to respond, keeping his tongue behind his teeth in a way that would rile you up. He knew how much you hated having him ignore you, pushing and pushing him further until he was backed up against a cliff and forced to speak. Maybe it wasn’t the best way to go about this, but old habits die hard and you couldn’t stop yourself.

“Why’d you call?”

“I told you why,” he muttered, trying to throw you off and chilling your bones. The air was frozen and dry, making it hard to swallow.

“You miss me?” you repeated, confused. You just wanted to get something out of him, anything, but he wasn’t budging. The thumping of the ball hit your ears like a tribal beat, forcing your heart to match it. The increasing speed was coupled with your anxiety, the way you bit on your lips and sweat formed on your neck.

“No.”

“I want to have a real conversation with you, Woo. I want to solve this.” You were trying so hard, trying not to lose your temper and trying not to bite into what you couldn’t handle. But it was hard and digging your nails into your palms wasn’t enough to solve this restlessness in your chest.

“Then maybe you should pick up your calls,” he whispered under his breath, harsh and curled, sounding the way smoke felt when inhaled. 

“God, okay I will just-!” Having to bite your tongue, lowering your voice from the scream that was building in your stomach, you calmed- or at least pretended to.  Softly, weakly, you breathed, “just talk to me now.

The air went still, no wind blowing through the barren bathroom. The music seemed far away, the cracking tile becoming louder and louder with each toss. Wooseok didn’t seem to care, wrist flicking with ease. He didn’t say a word, jaw clenched and muscle stretching the thin skin there. On the verge of falling into another stale argument, one that would hurt and make you regret coming, more than you already did. Breath thin and hand quivering, placing itself on the bathtub’s ring. Lips parted, breath taken, you nearly spoke and yet-

“I know about- I know I didn’t do anything wrong,” he corrected, soft and obviously holding back his tongue. Exhaling deeply, body caving in like a weight lifted off your shoulders, you let your mind run. Mouth moving quick and guilty, asking what you wanted- what had bothered you.

“Then why are you beating yourself up over it?”

“Why are you?” he asked, so simply like it wasn’t a heavy question. You hadn’t told him a thing and yet, there he was, seeing through you like you were liquid paper. In his hands, which dropped the ball and let it bounce to the tub floor, you were puddy. Yet, he was so gingerly holding you, cherishing a small moment like this and never forgetting how much he knew you.

In his eyes, you found the strength to admit to yourself everything you’d done wrong. The only difficulty was getting that past your thin lips, dried and in need of care, but he helped. He leaned closer, the divide seeming so unimportant at the moment, and lowered his face to yours. The water in your eyes formed slowly, looking at him and remembering everything that you’d done to him and regret boiling like a summer day. He didn’t dare touch you but there he was, so present and making everything else disappear, like he always did.

Eyes on him, blurred due to your tears but also crystal clear with your resolution, you whispered, “because I did something wrong.”

Your voice cracked, so weak and fragile. You felt so broken, knowing it was your guilt and regret tearing you down. Saying goodbye to someone you loved was the hardest thing to do, people would say. Yet, still loving someone and never getting closure, never being able to end anything properly- it hurt more. Every single time you saw him, you were put on your knees. He would make you beg to let go of him, and you would try but it never worked.

The look in his eyes, the way they glowed like diamonds, it conveyed the same meaning. He was just as torn. He was just as broken. Closer and closer you came, tears right at the end of your eyes but not heavy enough to fall. Your emotions weren’t enough. They’d have to be coupled with his.

As an immediate response, a silent and sudden step forward, Wooseok’s hand came to the base of your neck. So quietly, just as fragile, he spoke.

“Because I still love you.”

Managing only to say his name before his lips covered yours, you felt the streams down the sides of your cheek. Nothing else could swallow you as wholly as he did, both of you pressing into each other and trying to make up for a time lost and forgotten. You’d leaned up on your knees, him straightening in his seat, and your hands were clutching at his shirt. There was a solidified hunger, but it was softer within him when he pulled away to wipe your tears and comfort you. He shushed, trying to comfort you and massage you back into his life, and you leaned right in again.

Both of you not caring, both of you not feeling anything but the moment, you let everything rush in. Your guilt, your uncomfortability, your hatred for yourself- everything. It all came in and you let it fuel the gasoline that dripped from your eyes and caused fires in your heart. You were trying, wanting to make yourself feel guilty for ignoring the buzzing phone on the counter and but not being able to, you pulled further away. The tears fell faster, interrupting everything you wanted to say to him, and you were choked.

Apologizing, quiet and the two of you crumpling on either side of your tub, he rubbed at your cheeks. He too, was trying. He wanted to help, to bring you back and let you fall again. He wanted you to fall again and a deep, secretive and blackened part of your heart nearly pushed you over the edge. There was Hwitaek, the man who called after texting, who cared, who wanted you to see him. The man that wouldn’t let you forget him even if you tried. Tugged both ways, you were caught in the familiar web and struggled to find a way out.

“I hate this,” you sobbed, disgustingly upset with yourself. You wanted to pull away but the circles he was pushing into your skin, trying to love you in a way you didn’t know how to receive.

With shame, he murmured, “me too.” Another kiss, this so different from the last few, came over your lips. You felt like giving in but you couldn’t. Your phone stopped it’s assault on the counter but that only started your thoughts. Yes, you weren’t dating but you were indebted to him. He held your heart in ways and you couldn’t be so deludedly selfish anymore. Pulling away and distancing yourself, you got up immediately.

With your few steps back, you wiped at your eyes with your forearms. It caused red streaks across your face, irritated lines growing as you looked at this tall man, in between getting up. Your heart thumped, still matching the tribal drums of his breaking tile and you couldn’t breathe. Wooseok said your name, trying to call you back but you couldn’t.

Leaving without a word, you snatched your phone and ran out doors. Smoke filled your nose and music flooded your ears but you were empty, sobbing rivers that ran under ice. There was nothing but you and your phone and your head.

Nothing.

Act 2, Scene 3: To Me

“You okay?” Hyorin asked you from across the table. The two of you had brought your laptops and were having a working lunch, where you could both be together and ignore each other all at once. Occasionally, she would throw a pen at you and laugh or you would flip her off, but words were few and far between. Maybe this threw her off though because you two weren’t quiet together.

With slight surprised in your eyes and painted on your parted lips, you looked up from your screen and nodded. “Yeah, fine. Why?”

She shrugged, lowering her screen a bit so she could lean forward and slur, “dunno.”

The way she was looking at you through bangs that had grown into her eyes and were dipped blue was searching and understanding. Her stare was piercing, trying to see through your general, daily mask. You simply leaned forward as well after saving your document. Getting and lower and lower until both of you were resting your chin on your arms, which were folded on the table, you were both stupidly looking at each other. She popped a small smile, sticking the tip of her tongue out at you.

“How’s Kyuna?”

Eyes lighting up but body not shifting much, Hyorin’s grin grew and she exclaimed, “great! We’re doing great! I was kind of worried you wouldn’t ask.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Eyebrow arch up and hand reaching out to hers, you gave her a fixed look. Her lips were painted a deep black and her cheeks were rosy from the coming cold.

“Sometimes I get worried that you and Jisoo don’t like her is all,” she whispered, looking away from you and down at the eraser shavings against the light brown table.

Hand finally reaching her arm, you clicked your tongue but tried to lower your voice to be soothing. In rubbing small circles into her thinly covered bicep, you hummed, “Jisoo had a girlfriend before and we all liked her. This isn’t a surprise or something to be ashamed of.”

“I know,” she said, but it didn’t hold any emotion or substance. Her bottom lip flipped between her teeth and you didn’t know what to say. Searching, you managed to land on something and hoped it would give her some comfort.

“If it stands for anything, I really like Kyuna. She’s really adorable and nothing like you at first but then you talk and it’s like your minds were split in half to find each other; and I think that’s amazing. That’s what everyone wishes for- I know I do.”

“What does that mean?” she chimed, furrowing her eyebrows and raising her head a bit. Catching what you’d said, you stuttered a bit and tried to cover up the last bit but she’d caught it and was going to bother you about it.

“Nothing,” you muttered, pulling away and straightening in your seat. Looking at you skeptically, Hyorin rising as well, she stuck a finger out at you. Her eyes were narrowed, as were her lips, and she looked less than impressed. Just as she opened her mouth, her phone rang loudly and a few of the quiet workers in the small diner turned to look at her.

Quickly shushing it up, cheeks creeping with blush from the attention, she cursed. Yet, there was her skeptical look again and she huffed, “I would press but we don’t have enough time. I have to pick up my stupid brother.”

“Did he forget his keys again?” you asked, hoping to be amused as she hopped off her high chair and packed her books away.

“Yeah he ‘lost them’.” She used air quotation marks, absolutely resentful and begrudgingly clasping her bag together. As she slipped her laptop into its case she muttered, ‘lost them, my ass’, under her breath and you cracked a smile.

“Pick him up from high school while blasting ridiculous music?” The suggestion was followed with a laugh as she came to give you a hug. While she pulled away, she patted your shoulder and gave you a smug look.

“Please, y/n. I do that already. It’s his punishment for being born in my family.”

“Ah,” you drew out, giving her a small chuckle before waving goodbye. As she ran out the door with a wide smile and big wave, she called out, “text me!”

You didn’t bother responding, knowing she wouldn’t hear it anyways but you nodded nonetheless. Turning back to your books and laptop, you bit on your lip and exhaled slowly. You didn’t even want to continue working, mind preoccupied with the party and what you’d done. You didn’t tell anyone and maybe that was why it ate at you so hard. It hurt to realize how little you thought of Hwi and you knew it was terrible of you but fixing it was hard and you didn’t know what you wanted. Picking at your nails before picking up your phone, you mulled over it.

In a heartbeat though, Hwi was called and you’d scheduled to meet him. He sounded cool over the phone, wanting to talk to you but also wanting to stand his ground. You felt it in his simplistic ‘okay’ and every other word that was cut short. He didn’t try to extend the conversation. He didn’t try to do anything but said he’d be there-

And sure enough, in a few hours after you’d gone home, redressed, and put your makeup on again, you had met for ice cream in the fall theme park your city put up every year. Starting at the entrance, you walked in time with each other and spoke about very small, meaningless events.

“How was work?” you asked, not really looking at him but rather focusing on the melting of your ice cream. It was stuck in a cup and you turned it around and around, lips pouted.

“Tiring. I could use a nap, or the weekend, or a vacation.” He paused between the suggestions, being light in his jokes but his voice was thick. You pushed a smile for him and let the ball fall in his court, not knowing what else to ask about. Hwi decided a less cordial route though.

“What happened at the party?” He too was looking at his melting ice cream, stuck in that cup and swirling around slowly. He looked just like you, lips pushed out and eyebrows arch up, features cold. Not knowing what to say, you bit on your lip and watched his brown leather shoes, pointed at the end with designs down the side, crunch down dead leaves on the ground.

Colours surrounded you, spilling down from trees like waterfalls and lying in peoples hair or coats. There were bright red and pale oranges, yellow drifting and mixing with the fading sunlight. You caught a falling leaf, letting it crumple in your hand and not looking a Hwi, scared of what he’d say.

“I fucked up,” you admitted, quiet and guilty. He simply hummed, asking you how indirectly. This you didn’t answer truthfully, hating the half lie as you said it.

“I met my ex and we talked and I ignored your calls. I haven’t seen you since and that’s my fault. We argued and I didn’t know how to face you.”

“You just… talked?” There was something sharp about it, like he was prodding you for something more. You didn’t dare bring your fingers to your lips where you could feel Wooseok against them like a fire. Nodding, not trusting your voice, you searched for his eyes. He didn’t give you the pleasure.

After a pause, a nod from him coming slow and steady, he tossed his ice cream in the garbage. Grasping yours too, seeing the crumpled leaf in it, he threw it out too and you followed him. The two of you were silent, walking to and fro before resting at a bench that overlooked the saturated setting sun and the small games that were stationed all around the lower part of the city from the theme park. You were seated not far apart though the space between your thighs did not go unnoticed.

Hands clasping his own, he started, very strongly and quietly, “I’m not trying to hold you down.”

“I know,” you whispered, quiet and looking at your feet. Your lip was being ripped apart anxiously, gnawed at by your teeth.

“I do like you. That hasn’t changed and I doubt it will any time soon,” he continued, taking a thin breath and extending his gaze forward to the scene before him, “but we need to be grown ups here. We can’t keep walking around like chickens with no heads.”

“I know,” you repeated. You wrung your hands out, twisting them around each other much too nervously. You had a choice and you weren’t sure if what you were going to say would make the right one. Though, you figured that if it was for him, you’d be able to do it. It would be right.

“What do you want then?” The question was plain and forced your eyes to his. The only thing that had moved was his head, facing you and staring. He was bearing down into your eyes, searching for the answer he wanted. You supposed he knew it wasn’t going to come even before you opened your mouth, looking resigned and disappointed long before you made a move.

Hand slipping into his, you squeezed comfortably, hoping his limp fingers would respond. They gave no sign, the only glimmer of recognition that you even touched him showing when the muscle above his jaw twitched. The hold was less so for him, which he might have known.

“I know you’ll hate me for this, but I just need the time,” you started, so repetitive and annoyingly unimaginative. You saw the sigh forming in his throat and quickly continued, not wanting to let him speak until you’d finished. “However, I don’t want to drag you along. You want commitment now and I can’t give that to you.

“I’ve never been really serious with anyone except for one person and I fucked up when that happened. Really bad. I hurt him and I don’t want to hurt you; but I’m doing it anyways by leading you on like this. There’s no promise of a future with me now and I keep lying like there is. I can’t do that anymore. Not- not to you.”

He paused, hand softening into yours. You felt his knee bump with yours before he pulled it away. Tongue darting out, he licked his slightly parted lips and slowly worked the words, “so then?”

Your voice came as a stutter, mind reeling on your words and trying to make them fit properly together. Hoping to be kind, you came closer and softened your voice. “I think we should end whatever we were doing- whatever mess this was because it’s not healthy for either of us now. Maybe we can come back to each other after time, after we’ve grown, but this isn’t working now. And we have to come to terms with that.”

“And you call me analytical,” Hwi scoffed, trying to make a joke. His cheeks tried to crumple into his usual smile but they were stiff and it looked unnatural. His eyes were downcast, at your hands and he stared there for a while, blinking.

The silence was coupled with rustling leaves and distant chatter. Everything was alive below you and the trees above you wilted. There was no sun that offered any warmth, though its rays were on your back. The only breath of holiness was the grail beside you, which you held gingerly. You felt like an apostle, about to betray someone who had given you so much. There you were, drinking from a chalice that came from someone above you in all respects of morality and love. Yet, he was there, holding you just the same, pressing his knee to yours and raising his eyes. He was a gorgeous man, filled with a light that held nothing but goodness and it radiated through his skin.

“What if we find someone before we come back to each other?” he asked, so considerate and simple. He seemed to be asking more for you than himself, holding onto a string you’d laid out by accident.

Your thumb stroked his skin softly, quietly murmuring, “then we’ve found someone else.”

He accepted this easily, humming lowly before turning forwards again. He tugged you a bit closer and you complied, resting your head on his shoulder. The light faded, touching the last bits of buildings and trees. It set on you like closing curtains but you sat there with him, understanding why he needed this. It was a final moment of peace and you were no one to deny him of it.

Act 3, Scene 4: Afterglow

Feelings can change like seasons and you were subject to that shift all the time. Sometimes, you found yourself hopelessly in love with people, food, or an activity and then a week will pass and your feelings would pass as well. You were as unsettled as a storm, floating and floating on. The only problem would be knowing when you would stir up again in the same place. Storms don’t travel far for long.

“I’m not trying to hold you down.”

Hwitaek’s words rang like chimes in your ears. You would find yourself thinking about how he said it, looking at you from the side of his eyes. He was so careful and calculated, knowing exactly what it was that would make you feel safe and pull you into him. It was like he held a reel and was slowly trying to bring you closer and closer. Though, he wouldn’t hurt you. You’d just be on display, an aquarium fish forced into a small hole for the rest of your life.

Chewing on this thought, you took your time giving him a confirmation. His request was less so an ultimatum and more so an offer. He just wanted commitment and the question was how could you give that to him? Your whole body and life was created off of not knowing how to make decisions or making the wrong ones when you did. You didn’t want to make mistakes. You assumed he knew this when he promised he wouldn’t press anymore. Though, he did say he was there if you wanted him to be. Knowing it wouldn’t be forever, you still pulled your time, hoping to avoid making a decision unless you needed to.

The tension building in your chest was enough to stretch your muscles tightly under taute skin. Your hands felt dry and your tongue stuck to your teeth and cheeks. Sitting in the chair, which glued itself to you and formed tightly around your hips started to make your body ache. The headache at the base of your head was starting to throb and thinking about a sweet man, who’d promised his efforts to you, was making it radiate. Removing your hands from the hot rising cup of coffee in front of you, you groaned and placed your fingers at your temples. Head facing down, you massaged them lightly and hoped to rid yourself of this heavy resting in your bones.

Despite it being midday, the day held no warmth and the sun filtering through the large, clear windows of the shop added no heat. Your only solace in this blue building were the deep brown chairs and tables with white linings and cushions. They were relatively comfy and inviting and kept your nerves at bay despite the cinching of your hips. Shifting around, you reverted your eyes to the yellow grayness outside and looked for a sign of someone you knew.

You wouldn’t say you were excited but you weren’t unhappy. Wanting to see Wooseok wasn’t a sin, you decided, knowing you’d be taking this meeting as a way of throwing yourself one way or the other. In one sense, it would’ve been the worst thing you could’ve ever done. One good day did not constitute to hope. In another, it showed growth and if you could have a comfortable day with him, you could convince yourself to come back to him.

Wooseok’s large figure, tall and thin with shoulders that matched the sea, appeared and created a darkened silhouette on the glass. Hand over his eyes, he spotted you and waved. The littlest smile came on your lips, raising your hand in response and he awkwardly rushed in. Banging his arm on the way in, he inhaled deeply and tried to hold in his curse. Though, your budding chuckle at it was enough to help him put on a brave face and he came over quickly. Long jacket billowing, he starting unbuttoning the middle of it and spoke as he did so. His cheeks were a bright red.

“It’s so fucking cold,” he complained, light and comfortable, “I fully walked outside in just a hoodie at first.”

“Where’d it go?” you asked, a thick peppered grey pullover covering his midsection. You didn’t know how but you were already leaning forward, hands cupping your cup protectively but eyes on him. In fact, all eyes were on him, jet black hair long and curled outwards. The underside was shorter but growing out well and a piece of you wanted to grab a lock and run it through your fingers.

Skin clear and stretching over his slightly amused smile, he shrugged. “Didn’t feel like it. I wanted to dress up, I guess.”

“Well, you look good,” you mused, meaning it wholeheartedly. The redness in his cheeks didn’t fade and he looked down at your hands before coming back to your eyes.

“I know.”

In this moment, a woman came to ask if he wanted a drink, to which he said a tea and she retreated. He thanked her so nicely, so kindly looking at her and smiling without a care in the world. However grown up he wanted to seem, however old he thought he’d become, he was still so childish. A small compliment caused his grin to grow so far and blush to creep onto his cheeks like a quiet mist over mountains. It floated across his nose, the bud of his nose bright and you reached out to touch it quickly. Yet, he grasped your finger and you tried again with your free hand. But there he was again, and again, no matter how hard your tried to break free, he held your hands with a loose feel.

A small laugh bubbled up and he tried to protest, saying you always did this whenever he was cold, eyes glowing. He looked so wonderfully at peace, happy and whole, and you couldn’t take your eyes from him. How could you pretend he didn’t hold the key to your heart and that he hadn’t pressed it into your soul to be swallowed until he returned. He was reaching back in, trying to reach around and grasp it. You saw it in how he held you and gazed at you, how reluctant he was to let go of you until you complained about not being able to drink cold coffee.

“Fine,” he grumbled, quiet but watching you. There was a playfulness in his body and you were drawn to it like a moth to light. He held his candle right in front of you, alluring and soft, but you’d been here before. Your wings were singed with ash covering them. You struggled to fly and yet, there you were, coming right back to what hurt you- what you had hurt. Arguably, you shouldn’t have been there, claiming you were scared. It made no sense yet, there you were stupidly falling into your own trap because you couldn’t admit you had to change before anything could happen.

Lips parted, Wooseok spoke. “Why’d you call me here, y/n?”

You gave him a thin look, pressing your lips together and trying to place words in the right order. As you did so, tapping your foot incessantly, you shrugged. It stilled the air, making it uncomfortable and thick. With a quivering start, you managed to ask what you wanted to ask, question slipping out like sludge.

“What are we doing, Wooseok?”

“What do you mean?” He placed his question pointedly, beating around the conversation you were trying to spark up and you didn’t necessarily appreciate it. Saying his name, you tried to reason with him but he kept on like he didn’t know.

Temper running on a fuse, you led with, “you call me often. We talk often. We’ve met up once or twice. We’ve been together. You touch me like we’re still together. What do you want?”

His cheek twitched, mouth pulling in his bottom lip. Your knees touched under the table, his leg shifting forward. It was almost as if he was trying to throw you off, make your heart race to make you forget about this but you couldn’t let it down. Today was a decisive factor for everything- for Wooseok, for yourself. You had to try to get answers, to be heard, to come to conclusions. You didn’t want to be indecisive anymore. You wanted to lead your life with pride but now, you were confused. Swimming in murky waters. You couldn’t have this anymore or you’d both choke and you knew it much too well.

“You know what I want,” he murmured quietly, eyes flipping from yours to his drink. They rested there, uneasy and weakened, fingers fidgeting around the cup.

“Say it so I’m not here, trying to figure out what you want, stupidly coming to conclusions.” It was a demand but necessary and somehow, you found yourself feeling like Hwitaek. Irritated but dedicated, the realization struck you annoyingly. Without knowing it, that might have been how you knew your answer to the question he’d asked.

“I want to be with you. Are you happy? Is that explicit enough for you?”

Why he was being so sharp was above you, his forked tongue a common occurrence. He was moody, flipping between completely fine to upset without a sign. While you didn’t like dealing with it, you exhaled deeply and fixed him with what you hoped resembled a promising look.

“Me too,” you confirmed, though the words you said next were so finite that they seemed written in blood, “but we can’t.”

He blinked, not understanding and lips forming the question. You didn’t know how or why you felt you couldn’t, the idea so beautiful and so terrible. It held your heart in such terror and a slow, deep clank in your mind turned the wheel. The cage came down from above, slowly and sweetly, trying to make music with its discordant creaks. You wanted to give yourself over to him but it was difficult when you felt like hands were coming back around your throat.

It was a lack of freedom that ripped you from all people. From Hyorin, from your parents, from Jisoo, from Hwitaek, and from Wooseok. Especially from Wooseok. There was something about feeling tied down, like you had nowhere to go but him. Overbearing and clingy, his hands always on your body or cupping your heart, you didn’t know how to breathe. There was a heaviness and it felt entrapping, like you had no way out but through. Through hurt though, Stockholm syndrome slipping through your veins and making you love him. No matter how hard you tried to wash it away, hoping time would help, it didn’t. You just obsessed. You loved him more, as did he.

Yet, having him reciprocate it was strangling too. When it was just you, you could press it down. You could ignore your problems. You could pretend to move on. But, there he was in front of you, trying to understand why he couldn’t have all of you and you didn’t know what to say. How could you tell him you hated it when he was near but craved him when he was far?

“I’m scared,” you admitted, omitting the truth that would hurt him. He stared at you, incredulous and hiding.

“Do you think I’m not?”

“I didn’t say that,” you tried to reason, voice soft and kind, trying to console him. He didn’t take the bait, eyebrows furrowing deeply.

“No, why would you care? You’re so self-involved, y/n. I tell you I still love you and you run away from me. I tell you I want to be with you and you say you’re scared. It’s stupid. Why is it always you, you, you? You can never just once think of me, can you?” He looked at you, upset and pouting and very quickly speaking. As he did so, he leaned in and repeated, exaggerated, “can you?”

“I can’t just ignore myself,” you rebutted, face following his formation. On the offence, he scoffed and nodded.

“Right,” he drew out, smiling sarcastically with an unhappy poison off his lips, “and I’m just supposed to come here and let you throw me around like a chew toy?”

“I never do that!” Raising your voice the slightest bit, you protested. The waiter coming to your table did a quiet u-turn, going back to her station and waiting there. Wooseok whispered for you to keep your voice down but being faced with reality was hurtful and made you throw your walls up.

“I don’t care who hears us! You’re wrong! I don’t try to chew you up and spit you out, I’ve never wanted to throw you around!”

“But you do anyways,” he grumbled, unimpressed and drawing away from you. The space between you two was filled with palpable tension and you chewed on your lip. You didn’t know what to say, how to console him. You’d held back, not wanting to hurt him, yet he said one thing and it was enough to rile you up.

“What do you want me to say?” you asked him, bringing your voice down. Hands shaking, you tried much too hard to control yourself and stopped the tapping of your feet. He paused, not doing a thing before his whole body became movement.

“Nothing. I don’t want you to say anything. Just forget it.”

He was gathering his things, hands slipping through his jacket pocket. Ahead of you, he placed money on the table and got up, paying for both of your drinks. You didn’t bother checking the amount, running after him to catch up as he left the shop. People’s eyes were on you, watching what you were going to do next. Woo turned the collar of his jacket up to hide some of his face and he clenched his jaw. He was uncomfortable and it showed in the way he tugged his hand out of yours when you tried to grasp it.

The wind nipped at your skin and you watched it flow through his hair. There was a steady stream of people filing past and between you two on the street, like you were just pillars staring at each other. He didn't break eye contact and didn’t try.

Your lips jutted out and you breathed unsteady. “Why are you running away?”

“You don’t like it, do you?” His question came quick, upset and filled with venom. You came closer, hands against his chest ready to push him but you didn’t- you couldn’t. It would’ve been against every fibre in your heart so you sat there, staring at him like an idiot.

“You drive me crazy,” you muttered, not knowing what else to say. Tears filled the corners of your eyes slowly and he would’ve moved away if it wasn’t for them. He didn’t know what to say and brought his hands to cup yours. The fire you were building died down, smouldering over blackened logs. Smoke seeped into your lungs, hissing over the earth and filling your head. Nothing seemed straight, not even for him. His body held you steady and he looked at you with walls cracked.

“I don’t care what we are,” he started, quiet and compromising, “but I want to be with you. I want to argue with you in the middle of the street. I want to hold your hand. I want to do this.”

His face inched closer with every word, toes lifting you until your lips met. It was soft and heavy, trying to convey idiotic feelings with no order to them. But you felt alive in it, holding onto him like he held everything in his body. He was a universe, and you were just a constellation. But he adorned you with more light than ever before and you glowed in his hands which led you home.

Wooseok stripped your clothes off one by one, peeling layers to get to your core. He laid himself down for you and it was a heavy night, with unspoken words behind every action. You held each other, pulling on hair and tugging on skin to bring you closer and closer. Each breath was shared. Each moment was final. There wasn’t anything more you wanted than him at that moment and there was no question about it. With a whisper, a tear, it all fell together like fate dripped diamonds into your hands. Yet, diamonds are created by pressure and break by it as well.

[sickdaysofficial]

Friends and fears

Sickdays Day 4: Hiding it

A story by @builder051

Fandom:  Builder051’s OCs (Mike & Co)

Warnings: Eating disorders, vague vomit mention, fainting

Notes: Welcome the new OCs Ash and Hannah!  This is a step back in time to Mike’s high school days when she was first getting sick and still had friends.  For more about these characters, check out the bio page here and the master fic list here.

_____

“Hey, Mike.  You there?”  Ash’s palm flashes back and forth in front of Mike’s face a few times, almost close enough to ruffle her eyelashes. 

Mike instinctively jerks back, smacking his hand away.  “Stop it.  What the fuck?”

“You were gone,” Ash laughs.  “I said your name, like, ten times.”

“Huh?”  Mike narrows her eyes, looking from him to Hannah, hoping to force out a joke. 

“No, that’s…” Hannah says uncertainly.  “Well, you’re back now.”

“Did you stay up really late?  Studying for the physics test?”  Ash thumbs through the messy binder laid out on the cafeteria table before him. 

“You know I don’t study.”  Mike digs her fingers into her hairline, hoping to dislodge some of the fog that’s settling into a headache.  It’s not even eight in the morning.  She shouldn’t be this…off.

So what if she hasn’t had breakfast?  A lot of people don’t eat breakfast. 

Those who regularly engage in such a lifestyle probably eat dinner, though.  Or keep it down, at least. 

Mike’s been perfectly empty for nearly 12 hours.  It’s easy.  She’s not hungry in the slightest.  There’s just this damn haze of heaviness and confusion.

“…Some practice problems, if you want to run them…”  Hannah’s talking.  And Mike’s missed it. 

“Naw, I think I’m ok,” Ash says, closing his notebook.  “I mean, multiple choice, how hard can it be?”

Hannah gives him a worried look.  “Did you study at all?”

“A little bit,” Ash says, going red.  “I went over notes.  Kinda.”

Hannah opens her mouth to say something else, but Mike interrupts.  “’S ok.  I didn’t look at anything.” 

“But you’re so smart!” Ash interjects, giving Mike a light slap on the shoulder.  “How ‘bout you keep the smart and you let me borrow the lucky?”

There’s barely force behind Ash’s tap, but it leaves Mike reeling all the same.  Her elbows balanced on the cafeteria table keep her steady, but she feels wobbly on the inside.  She’s not sure how she wants to respond to Ash, but luckily the bell rings and saves her the trouble of coming up with something substantive.. 

“Hm.  Ok.”  Mike scoops her backpack off the floor, trying not to stagger under its weight.  She should put some of her books away in her locker.  But that’ll have to be a project for later.  Despite her track record as an effortlessly good student, she’s not so sure about the exam waiting in first period.

At least her friends are forced to stop talking when they take their seats in the classroom.  It’s freezing in the starkly lit room, and Mike does her best not to touch the frigid black-topped lab bench.  She pulls a pencil from her bag and tries to ignore the growing throb at the top of her head.

The teacher hands out test papers, and Mike takes a deep breath.  For the first time in living memory, she wills herself to concentrate.  Stuff like this normally comes so easily.  But today, as she looks down at the slightly blurry text on the white sheet, she feels like she’ll be lucky to scrawl her name, let alone answer a single question.

The hour elapses slowly.  Mike flips through the exam packet, marking down the easy answers immediately and deciding to go back to the more challenging problems.  Stray thoughts repeatedly break up the lines of formulas and numbers in her head, and Mike winds up guessing on more questions than she’d like. 

She looks across the aisle at Hannah, bent over her test and scribbling intently.  She’s always lacked her friend’s resolved studiousness, but rarely fails to pull a good grade nonetheless.  She doubts it’s the case today, though.  By the end of the class period, Mike’s frustrated and more tired than ever.  When the bell rings, she drops her exam on the teacher’s desk, the paper sticking slightly to her sweaty palm, and makes for her locker without waiting for Ash to join her.

Mike empties her backpack of all but the essentials and pounds down the hallway to History.  It’s one of her least favorite subjects, though she normally at least pretends to follow along in the textbook as the teacher goes over notes.  Even that’s beyond her capabilities and care factor today.

“Yo, wait up,” Ash calls, sprinting down the hall to catch up with Mike.  She pauses outside the classroom door to wait.

“How’d the test go for you?” he asks.

Mike shrugs, not keen to think about it. 

“Probably easy, right?  You’re so good at everything.”  They take their seats side by side.  Ash nods toward the chalkboard, which is already set up with a set of facts about the Civil War.  “Notes will be relaxing, for once, after all those calculations.”

“As if you ever pay attention,” Mike quips.  But she doesn’t intend to pay attention either.

“Hey, I pay attention.  Just…until something else gets more interesting…”

Ash’s voice seems to be growing quieter.  Or maybe the blood rushing in Mike’s ears is just getting louder.  Her vision flickers, and the room sways slightly.  Mike blinks hard; she still feels like she’s in a snow globe.  She slowly bends forward to rest her head on the desk.

Ash pokes her in the shoulder.  “Hey.  What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing,” Mike sighs.  She shoves upright and crosses her arms in front of her chest to hide her trembling hands.

“You got a headache or something?”

She does, on top of lingering dizziness and building nausea.  Not that she wants to talk about it.  “No.  I’m ok.”

Lots of people don’t eat breakfast.  Mike’s fine.  She’s done this countless times already, she should be fine.  So why does she feel like she’s going to throw up and fall asleep and jump out of her skin all at the same time?

“You sure?” Ash asks, looking unconvinced. 

“Shut up,” Mike mutters.  But the final bell rings, and the teacher calls the class to order.

Mike barely stays awake through History, and doesn’t stop herself from drifting off during English.  Teachers should really know better than to show movies in class.  Everyone’s either sleeping or texting.  The bell for lunch jolts Mike back to awareness, and she almost falls over as soon as she stands up. 

“Fuck,” she whispers, trying to get her hammering heart under control.  She shakily grabs her backpack and heads toward the cafeteria to meet Ash and Hannah. 

Mike normally dawdles through the food line to acquire a greasy paper plate or empty chip bag to take back with her, just to make it look like she’s eaten something.  She doesn’t see the point today, though.  And frankly, she’s not sure how long she’ll be able to stay on her feet. 

Her head is spinning and the back of her neck beading with cold sweat when she takes off her backpack and throws one long leg over the bench.  Mike collapses beside Hannah, who’s picking the crust off her sandwich. 

Across the table, Ash is still going on about the physics test.  “What did you put for that one about the skateboard?  And do you think that’s really a thing, a ramp that’s 210 feet tall?”

“It’s just a silly calculation.  I don’t think it really matters,” Hannah answers, all sound logic.  Then she turns to Mike.  “How was English? Another movie day?”

At least, that’s what Mike think she hears.  It would make sense.  And it requires the simplest of replies.  But she can’t form her thoughts into words.  Or remember how to open her mouth and speak.  Her head’s full of buckshot, rattling painfully and tipping the echoing cafeteria back and back and back…

Mike’s ponytail cushions the impact of her head against the linoleum tile, but sharp pain explodes from her back through her ribcage, stealing her shallow breath.

“Oh my god.”

“What the hell?”

“Is she ok?”

Questions seem to be coming from all sides, rapidly rising and lowering in volume.

Someone touches Mike’s shoulder, but she can’t see who it is through the vibrating glitter that’s overtaken her vision.  She can barely breathe through oppressive nausea.

“Mike, can you hear me?”  It’s definitely Hannah.  Her voice is unsteady, like she’s just shy of panic.

“Mm.”  What the fuck just happened?  Why is everybody freaking out?  She was just trying to take her test in peace.  Or…no, she was at lunch, talking about the test…  Thinking through the memories makes her head spin, so Mike drops the mental gymnastics. 

She takes a breath and focuses on her body.  Why does she feel so fucking sick?  Why is she lying on the floor?

Her lower legs are hooked over the cafeteria bench.  Mike twitches one of her feet in an awkward attempt to sit up. 

“No, stay put,” Hannah says, patting Mike’s knee.  “That’s a good recovery position, actually.”

“Huh?”

“Do you know what happened?”

“Mm,” Mike groans.  “I’m ok.”  She tries lifting her head this time.

“Hey, hey, don’t move.  You just passed out.  Are you sick?  I don’t think you have a fever…”  Hannah reaches up to cup Mike’s forehead.

“Ugh.  Stop it.”  Mike swats her hand away. 

“Ash went to get the nurse.  I don’t know if we should call an ambulance…”

“Shut up.  I’m fine.”  Mike braces against the floor and heaves herself up to a seated position.  Vertigo threatens to drop her back down, but she swallows hard and slides her feet down to the floor. 

“Ok.  Put your head between your knees.”  Hannah’s light touch forces Mike’s torso downward.  At least in this position she doesn’t have to see the whole cafeteria staring at her. 

“You’re gonna be ok,” Hannah soothes.  “They’ll figure out what’s wrong.  You’ll feel better real soon.”

Panic and paranoia rise in Mike’s chest with the lingering bubbles of confusion.  She lashes out, catching Hannah across the chest.  “Fuck off, ok?” Mike rasps. 

She knows Hannah’s probably right. 

And that’s what she’s afraid of.

[avengerofyourheart]

The Lucky One Pt 3

Characters: reader, James (Bucky), OC Caleb, OC Marjorie (reader’s mother), mention of OC Kevin Jenkins.

Summary: As a single mom with a jerk of an ex-husband, you’re doing your best to run the family business all on your own when your mother hires a mysterious man with a troubled past to help out. He just might be what you need in your life, but will his secrets bring you together or tear you apart? (Events occur shortly after Captain America: The Winter Soldier)

Warnings: mostly fluff, a lil angst.

Word Count: 2554

Tags at the bottom 

A/N: This fic was originally for Stark’s Tower Movie Challenge ( @hunters-from-stark-tower ). I hoped to have another part or two finished by the deadline, but life happens. :) I’ve based this fic on the movie/book “The Lucky One”. I’m really enjoying fleshing out this story and putting my own spin on it! I hope you agree. Please let me know your thoughts! 

<<<Part Two   Part Three   Part Four>>> 

The Lucky One Masterlist

____________________________________________________________

Previously:

You heard the stable doors sliding shut, breaking you from your reverie. James closed the padlock around the chain and handed the keys to you.

“Thank you,” you responded, throat still a little thick with emotion.

“He’ll be okay,” James assured you. “Caleb. You’re doing right by him, I don’t doubt that.”

“I appreciate that. Have a good night, James,” you said with a sniffle. 

A generous smile touched his lips, this time even reaching his stunning blue eyes.  

“Good night, Y/N,” he echoed before walking away.

_______________

The rest of the week, James continued to be the perfect employee. He came early to start any repair projects he saw, fed the horses, mucked out the stalls, hauled bales of hay, and did all of it without complaint. Most days you had to remind him to take a lunch break and when to stop at the end of the day. You wondered if he actually even had an off switch. Around noon, when reminded, he would disappear for that hour for the first few days, but by the end of the week he was bringing a lunch of his own and would spend time with the horses. You could tell he was more comfortable around them and that fact made you oddly happy.

One evening after work was done for the day and James had gone home, you were sitting on your porch with your mother beside you. Caleb was lying on a blanket with his sketchbook, perfectly content. As the sun set and darkness rose slowly, you saw a figure walk past on the main road. It was James walking back from town with what looked like at least 5 grocery bags in his left hand and 3 or 4 planks of wood over his right shoulder. Quite the load to carry over such a long distance, although come to think of it, you weren’t sure where he was staying since there wasn’t much past your stables for miles.

Curiosity got the better of you so the next day, after discussing the training and feeding schedule, you breeched the subject.

“James,” he turned your way as you began, “if you, um…if you ever want to borrow the truck one night, you’re more than welcome. I saw you walk past last night and that looked like a lot to carry, so…”

“Oh,” he uttered, adjusting the brim of his cap. “That’s kind of you, thank you.”

“Of course. Do you mind if I ask…where are you staying? I mean, for your employee file,” you blabbered on awkwardly.

“Um…sure. At a house about a mile South? I’m not sure of the exact address. There’s a name on a sign beside the door. Blackhurst, I think.”

“Wow. The Blackhurst place? It’s been abandoned for years. Didn’t think it was livable by now.”

He shrugged and offered a small smile, “I got it for cheap, since I was willing to fix it up myself. I don’t mind. Keeps me busy.”

“Well….I’m glad then,” you said, returning a smile and then leaving him to his work. ______

As Sunday morning rolled around, you finally had a moment to relax. It was short-lived, though. Caleb nagged you constantly to look for the box of your Grandfather’s old military stuff you had promised to show him, so you gave in. Heaving yourself out of a comfortable chair reluctantly, you traipsed up to the attic and rummaged around for 15 minutes before you found it. You hauled the dusty box down the stairs and set it down in the living room, carefully pulling out each item as you explained it to your fascinated son.

The contents of the box were only part of what your grandmother had received after her husband had died. Some was donated to museums over the years or given to his old war buddies. She had kept all his personal items: his dress uniform cap, dog tags, medals, and a few photos scattering the bottom of the box. You gathered them and looked at each one, trying to decipher the handwriting on the back and picking out your grandfather’s face in a few.

One photo in particular caught your eye. Flipping it over, the hasty scrawl read “Rescued! 107th regiment, Italy, 1943”. You couldn’t believe it. You’d heard the stories, but this photo actually proved it. Your grandfather was rescued by Captain America himself. Most of his regiment had been captured behind enemy lines and wasn’t expected to survive, but a genetically-enhanced man called Steve Rogers wouldn’t take no for an answer and saved the lives of over four hundred men. The Star-Spangled man was captured on film, front and center of the group, with your grandfather just behind him and to the right.

Before showing it to Caleb, you saw something. A familiar face, maybe? The photo was old and faded, the sepia tone a bit grainy, but you could’ve sworn that face looked a lot like James. You wish your grandfather had written down names because it might have given a clue as to whether the man you knew was related to the one in the photo. Curiosity piqued, you pushed the thought aside for the moment and told your son all about how his great-grandpa knew Captain America in real life. The boy was ecstatic, positive he would have the coolest item to share at Show & Tell at school the next day.  

You then asked your mother, who was resting on the couch, “Mom, do you remember that picture of Grandad and Captain America?”

She pried open one eye and took a short look, “Oh, sure. My father shared stories in his letters to mother during the war. The grand heroics of Captain America and his best friend from home that he was reunited with. What was his name? It was a strange one…Benji? No, Bucky! Yes. That’s it. Daddy was so proud to be a part of it all…” she trailed off, sad smile upon her face as she closed her eyes again.

You didn’t pursue it further for fear of upsetting her, so you let it go, moving on to more pictures and more stories.

_____________

As another busy week began on Monday, the photo was temporarily forgotten. Business was booming and it all went along so much more smoothly now. You were once again grateful to finally have some help. James continued to be a godsend, never hesitating to lend a hand. You had offered him a day off that second week, but he claimed he didn’t know what to do with himself for a whole day so he worked anyway. As Saturday rolled around, the workload wasn’t as heavy so you told him to take off as early as he wanted. Since you had offered, he borrowed the truck for a little while to run an errand.

You spent the afternoon with your son, making up for the fact that his winner of a father had failed to keep his promise to practice after his karate lessons for the second time. As a means of distracting Caleb that night, you were preparing the boy’s favorite dinner and even letting him help with the cooking a little. You were dancing around the kitchen to the meal-appropriate music, causing Caleb to giggle madly at your antics when you spotted movement in the hallway.

James sheepishly ducked his head in and spoke softly, “Sorry, I tried to knock, but the music….I was just returning the truck keys. I apologize for intruding.” He placed the keys on the entry table and made to leave, when you spoke.

“Wait, James!” He halted and turned your way. “I promise, you’re not intruding. Come in. Please.”

He took a few hesitant steps into the kitchen and looked around, uncertainty upon his face.

You came to stand behind your son, hands on his shoulders. “Caleb, this is James. He’s helping out in the stables. James, this is my son, Caleb.”

Caleb stepped forward without hesitation, sticking his right hand out toward the man. “Hi, James. It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

The brunet’s eyes grew wide. You could have almost sworn it was fear he was experiencing upon being approached by a slight 7-year-old. He blinked repeatedly and then recovered, taking a deep breath as he accepted the small boy’s hand and gave it a gentle shake.

“Nice to meet you, too, Caleb,” he answered with a small smile.

“Do you like enchiladas?” the spunky kid asked point-blank.

“Um…I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever had an enchilada,” James responded quizzically, even struggling with the dish’s pronunciation.

“What?” Caleb seemed appalled at the thought. “You have to stay for dinner and have some! My mom is a great cook. She let me help, too!”

Finding yourself on the spot, you froze, two sets of eyes now upon you.

“That’s okay,” James spoke first. “You have your family dinner, I don’t want to impose.”

“No, no!” you finally responded. “Not at all. You’re more than welcome to stay for dinner. Please do.”

Tugging at the left sleeve of his jacket, glove still upon each hand, he considered the offer before giving you a nod. “Okay. That’s very kind of you.”

Twenty minutes later, you were seated across from James at the table with Caleb to your right and your mother at your left. You served the dinner Family Style, passing each dish around the table so each person could take their own portion. James had removed his jacket but kept on a hooded sweatshirt over a long-sleeved Henley. He took off his baseball cap to be polite, chestnut locks tucked behind his ears. The man was trying not to draw too much attention to the fact that he still had one glove on, keeping his left hand under the table most of the meal.

Your mother was even more taken with James at this point, introducing herself this time as Marjorie, “But you can call me Maggie,” she added with a wink. He flushed at her attention, causing you to swat her arm and give her The Look. The stop-flirting-with-the-employee-half-your-age look. Your mother simply shrugged and carried on. Typical.

Caleb mostly dominated the conversation, chattering on about school and karate with you and your mother interjecting at times. James listened and ate, seemingly enjoying this ‘new’ dish he had oddly never experienced, common as it was. You asked Caleb about the project he was drawing at the moment, the subject bringing James’ gaze up from his plate.

“I’m almost finished drawing the soldiers’ uniforms but I can’t get their hands right. Hands are hard,” he declared with a small pout.

James finally spoke up then, “I hear you’re a great artist. I’d love to see your drawings sometime.” He smiled at the boy with genuine interest as you watched their exchange.

“Really?” Caleb perked up, face beaming up at the man. “Can I show him, mom? I’m finished eating!”

You eyed his almost-but-not-quite-empty plate. “Two more bites of vegetable.”

Your son then shoveled the two bites into his mouth one after the other before darting from the table, to your surprise.

“Hey! Chew with your mouth closed, mister!” you called out after him, then letting out a chuckle. “Sorry. He’s excited. I try to encourage his artistic talent, but I’m just his mom. He doesn’t believe me when I say it’s good. His father on the other hand…” you trailed off with a disapproving look.

Caleb returned then with an armful of notebooks and loose sheets of paper. ‘

“That’s a lot, sweetie. Maybe just pick a few to show James. We don’t want to take up his whole evening…”

“No, I don’t mind,” James responding, then wiping his mouth on a napkin and rising from his chair. “Can I help you with dishes?” he offered.

“Oh, no,” you replied. “You’re our guest. Caleb, why don’t you show James your drawings in the living room. I’ll finish up here.”

James did follow the boy, but only after clearing his place and putting dirty dishes in the sink. He insisted. As you loaded the dishwasher and wiped the table, you could hear the inaudible back and forth of conversation between your son’s high-pitched chatter and the low baritone of a man’s voice. Not something you had heard at home in a long time.

You eavesdropped for a short moment from around the corner, able to hear their conversation.

“Why do you wear a glove all the time, James?” Caleb’s inquisitive voice carrying to the next room.

James cleared his throat and you almost interrupted, thinking the question might be too personal, but he then answered, “Um…I was injured in the war. I don’t want to scare anyone, so I wear my glove.” Simple, yet honest.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not right now, no.”

A beat of silence, then a response. “Okay. I’m sorry you were injured.”

“Thanks, pal,” you heard James say quietly as you stepped away.

After about an hour, you wandered into the living room, declaring that it was bedtime.

“Aww, mom! But I’m not tired!” he resisted, trying in vain to stifle a yawn as he and James stood up from the floor.

“Uh huh. That’s what I thought. Say goodnight to James and thank him for his time.”

Caleb launched himself at the man, wrapping his skinny arms around his waist. James froze for a moment, then patting the boy on the back with his right hand.

“Thanks for telling me stories, James. I’m glad you stayed for dinner.”

“Me, too, buddy. Thanks for showing me your drawings,” he replied with a smile.

“Good night, James,” he said with another yawn as he walked out of the room.

“Brush your teeth, kiddo. I’ll be there in a minute,” you said, then turning to James as he donned his jacket and that he had left on the couch. Noticing a small black notebook he’d left behind, he quickly grabbed it and returned it to a coat pocket.

“Are you an artist as well?” you inquired, nodding toward the notebook.

“I, uh…no. I write things down sometimes. Things I remember,” he vaguely explained, so you left it alone.

Reaching the front door, you opened it for him. He stepped out onto the porch and then turned toward you.

“Thank you for dinner, Y/N. It was delicious,” he complimented.

“You’re welcome. James…” you paused a moment. “Can I ask you something?”

He seemed to stiffen slightly, but then nodded.

“Did you have a family member serve in the second World War? Grandfather maybe?”

He blinked a few times, then stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Um…why do you ask?”

“Oh. Well, we were going through my grandad’s old war photos and I could swear there was a man who looked just like you. It’s not a really clear picture, but…”

James exhaled and shrugged, looking away, “I don’t know. I mean…it’s possible. I don’t know much about my family. They’ve been gone for a while.”

Feeling a tug at your heart, you felt badly for bringing it up. “I’m sorry.”

He put on a brave smile, meeting your eyes. “It happens. Thanks again. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night,” you replied, offering a smile in return. You watched his figure retreat into the dark and then closed the door behind you. It was only after he was gone that you realized tomorrow was Sunday and his day off. Would he actually show up and refuse a day free from work again? You couldn’t allow that. There were labor laws, after all. And yet…part of you hoped to see him sooner than Monday. Knowing him only a few weeks, the man was still a mystery, but each clue given had you aching for more.  

Part 4>>>

_____________________________________________________

Ahhh!! Slow burn!!! I know. I’m loving the details for this fic, though. So much fun. Thing will heat up in the next part, I think!! Can’t say when part 4 will be out, but I will do my best. I don’t have a lot of time for writing these days, unfortunately. Please let me know what you think, though!! I see every single comment, reply, reblog, message, everything. I love you guys. Thank you, thank you, thank you. <3

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[a-monthly-rumbelling]

The Couples' Retreat, Chapter 3: The Truthfulness Exercise

Submitted by @darcyfarrow2005

Archie had a secret. Not a very big one, certainly in comparison to the secrets unacknowledged in this very room, let alone in this town, but just the same, he’d prefer these people didn’t find out. He didn’t want them to lose confidence in him. So he tucked the two legal pads he’d been carrying under his arm, hooked his hands into his jeans pockets to hide the fingernails he’d bitten to the quick just now and plastering on an easy-going smile, he strolled into the game room.

Hook quirked an eyebrow and gave him a bit of a nod, but Emma, scowling at a quintet of playing cards spread out before her, didn’t break her concentration. Archie supposed he couldn’t blame her: judging by the cards facing up, she had a difficult decision to make. He leaned in the entrance, allowing her to make it undisturbed; he hazarded a guess as to what her choice would be. She sucked in a breath and announced her decision: “Hit me.” It was the choice Archie expected: she was an all-in kind of woman.

Hook lay a Jack atop her exposed cards. Groaning, she pushed back from the card table. “That’s three you owe me, love.” Hook winked at her. “I promise not to collect all at once.”

Archie sauntered over to the table and peered down at the game-breaking Jack. “What were the stakes?”

“You don’t want to know.” Emma flicked the air, knocking the topic aside.

Hook shifted a bit in his chair so he could face both his companions at the same time. “Did all go well with my future in-laws, Doctor?”

Emma gave his shoulder a shove. “You know he can’t talk about that. Confidentiality.”

“That’s correct. As agreed, this particular exercise is a private one. And entirely voluntary.” Archie distracted them from his wavering smile by seating himself across from them. He took a moment, seemingly to admire the spacious room with its many entertainment offerings, ranging from the traditional—a chess game set up in the quietest corner, an unfinished jigsaw puzzle taking up a dining table near the entrance, mahjong near the fireplace and pachisi at the windows—to, anachronistically, an X-box at the other end of the room. “It seems Merlin had wide-ranging interests,” he mused, and Hook murmured in the affirmative, but Emma pursed her lips slightly. He’d failed to take her in with his casual act. He supposed there would be no actual harm in revealing to her the reason for his discomfort—as close as mother and daughter had grown, Snow would probably tell Emma all anyway at lunch—but he’d laid down the confidentiality rule at the beginning of this exercise, so he needed to stick to it.

Besides, he expected to have to use it pretty quick.

Hook threw a glance over his shoulder at a miniature grandfather clock on the mantle. “This exercise must be a short one,” he estimated. “You were with David and Snow less than an hour.”

Truthfully, he’d been with David and Snow less than a half-hour, but after that, he’d retired to his bedroom to think—and chew his nails. Not that the exercise had gone badly—quite the opposite. It had turned out far better, he supposed, than he had prepared for. He’d kind of counted on his time with the Nolans as a chance for trial-and-error, to expose in a smaller and less dangerous way whatever bugs there were in the process, so he could fix them before he proceeded to the other two couples. The Nolans’ exercise had taught him something, true, but most likely not something he could apply here.

“Well, then, shall we proceed?” He emboldened his smile.

“We’re not going to get anything out of you about what David and Snow did, are we?” Hook surmised.

“Be glad of it,” Emma tossed at her fiance. “He’ll keep our secrets too.”

Hook shrugged. “I was hoping to have some basis of comparison.”

“So you could figure out how to win this round.”

“It’s not a contest,” Archie reminded them as he pressed a key on his phone. “None of these exercises are. There’s no right answer, no points to be assessed. That said, let’s review the rules. Rule one–”

Emma counted it off on her forefinger. “Everything that happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

Hook supplied the next. “Tell the truth or keep your mouth shut. No pressure to participate.”

“We gotcha, Arch. Let’s hear the details.”

A clattering in the hallway drew their attention. Using this distraction, Archie set the legal pads and a clutch of pencils in front of his clients, then hid his chewed fingernails under the poker table. “Just in time,” Archie stood as Ruby rolled in a chalkboard. “Thank you, Ruby.”

The waitress reached into her apron pocket for a box of chalk. “Here you go, Archie.” The box was unopened; he hadn’t had call to use the chalk during his time with the Nolans. “Lunch is in the oven. Ring me about twenty minutes before you want it served.”

“Sounds good.”

She paused on her way out to inform Emma, “Grilled cheese and tomato soup.”

“Thanks, Rubes.”

After she’d gone, Archie moved over to the chalkboard. “Shall we proceed? Remember, after you hear what this exercise is about, you can say no. I have to admit, it could be risky. And this is only my second go-round with it.”

“Ah ha,” Hook snapped his fingers. “That means the Nolans blew it.”

“Not at all,” Archie snapped. Then he straightened his shoulders and selected a stick of chalk from the box. “The exercise works like this. I’ll be posing a question. Well, an incomplete scenario, really. You’ll fill in the missing dialog. And then we’ll discuss ways that each couple can release those negative feelings and prevent them from returning.”

“An all-day exercise, huh?” Hook wondered. “For most couples.”

“It can certainly feel like it,” Archie admitted. “You’ll be emotionally drained and physically worn out by the end, but I think you’ll sleep very well tonight, with your consciences clear. And we’ll be taking a big step forward for the future.”

Emma smiled at him encouragingly. “It sounds worth a risk.”

“I’m putting up a sentence… a prompt… .I want you to read it, then think about it as it applies to your relationship. Take your time; think it through. In every relationship, no matter how close, no matter how loving, there are situations that never get dealt with. Perceived slights, unintentional insults, ill-phrased remarks that lead to hurt, and if the hurt isn’t dealt with, it can grow into resentment. Bitter feelings that are never brought out to the light and discussed in a calm, healing way can become time bombs that explode when neither of you is equipped to cope.”

Emma nodded, looking down at the pencils. “Sometimes when there’s no chance to say you’re sorry or that you forgive the other person.” Archie suspected she was thinking of Neal.

“That’s what I hope to accomplish here. If there are such time bombs in your relationship, to deal with one of them now, while we can focus on it and not muddle it up with other issues. I hope to teach you tools that you can use when you’re out there, on your own.”

“In the real world,” Emma muttered. “With the Tamaras and the Gregs and the Zelenas that steal people away from you.”

“So: read the sentence, think about it. Take all the time you need. Then on those pads, I want you to write out how you could finish the sentence.” He raised his hands in a halt gesture. There was no hiding his broken nails now, but perhaps they wouldn’t notice once he began to write on the chalkboard. “Again, if you find this becomes too uncomfortable, even painful, you can end the exercise at any time.”

“And then what, Doc?” Hook wondered.

“We’ll talk about something else. Something relevant but less dangerous.” He turned his back to them and began to write. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d start this and see if you can continue.”

The couple read the sentence aloud together: “’You have a lot of nerve saying “Hello” like nothing happened.’”

“Okay, so we’re going to use that as a conversation starter,” Hook affirmed, but his mouth fell open as his fiancee grabbed a pencil, hunched her shoulders and immediately began to write on her yellow pad. “Or, more like an argument starter.”

“Don’t think of it that way.” Archie couldn’t help himself: his thumb flew into his mouth and he began gnawing on the remainder of a fingernail as he too watched Emma scrawl sentence after sentence. “Think of it as a chance to fix things before they get irretrievably broken.”

Hook tore his eyes away from Emma’s flying pencil back to the chalkboard and he silently mouthed the prompt.

A crinkling of paper as Emma flipped to a second page.

With a long sigh, Hook picked up a pencil. He stared at his empty pad. He stared at the board. He stared at Emma again, trying to peer over her shoulder, until Archie cleared his throat in warning and Hook returned his attention to the chalkboard. Eventually he wrote a single word. He stared at it.

“There’s no rush,” Archie whispered to him. “It’s more important that you put a lot of thought in this.”

Hook’s forehead wrinkled as Emma turned another page. “Uh, you did say, just one scenario, right?”

“Just one.”

“I write big,” Emma sniffed.

Hook stared at his single word again. He bit the eraser. His frown smoothed out and his eyes glazed over as he submerged himself in memories. Slowly, a second word appeared on his page, then a third, then a full sentence. His head bowed as he centered himself on the words.

Quietly, Archie wandered away from the chalkboard to look out a window. His heart was pounding in his chest with both hope and dread. Behind him he heard pages crinkling and chairs scraping. At least, this time the exercise was producing some results.

Well, perhaps, the experiment with the Nolans had, too. He’d settled them in the never-used nursery (“Why do you suppose Merlin would want a nursery? He never had any children, did he?” Snow had wondered.), where he thought they’d feel most at home, and with a chalkboard behind them and yellow pads before them to remind Snow of school, he’d explained the project. After fifteen minutes of blank stares, Snow had tossed her pencil aside and David had shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, Arch, I’ve got nothin’.”

“Nothing?” Archie had echoed. He’d imagined all sorts of outcomes, but not this one.

“For me either,” Snow had admitted.

“Something he did that upset you. Something that took a lot of nerve–Something he should have known better—something that he did know better, but he did it anyway,” Archie had urged. “Every couple has them. Violations that, left unspoken, can build into resentments.”

“That’s just it, Arch,” David had volunteered. “Yeah, we have ‘em; of course we do. Small crap like leaving the cap off the toothpaste–”

“Dirty dishes in the sink–”

“Dirty diapers in the kitchen garbage pail–”

“And bigger stuff. Yeah, we’ve been through a hell of a lot of stuff that could’ve broke us up. Sleeping curses. Curses on the town line. Memory loss.”

“Our grandson being kidnapped. Finding out we have a grandson, at age thirty,” Snow had blinked. “Finding out we have a daughter as old as we are.”

“Finding out we belong in another realm. In another life.”

“That we’re the rulers of a kingdom of two thousand people who are waiting for us to figure out what to do. And that we have magical enemies crawling out of the woodwork. Dragons and giants and abominable snowmen.”

“There have no doubt been moments when each of you did something that the other resented–”

“Sure,” David stared at his hands in guilt. “I was a coward with Katherine. I knew what was the right thing to do and I didn’t do it. And I made it a hundred times worse when I didn’t stand up for Mary Margaret against that fake murder charge.” He grasped Snow’s hands. “I was a jerk and a coward and I’m sorry.”

“We talked it out, though. And I know that coward wasn’t really you. And when I went against what we’d decided together about Cora, and I cursed her and killed her, I was wrong and I paid the price for it. I should have listened to you. I’ll never again chase after revenge.”

“Me neither,” David confessed. “I went against your advice and chased after my father’s killer, and look how that turned out. But that was the last time, I promise.”

“It was, Archie,” Snow explained. “We learned our lesson. We’re so much better as a team than we are apart. We make each other better. Keep each other from falling off the edge into the dark. We know that now. We respect what we have together.”

“And we take care of our marriage. We talk things out. We apologize.”

“We forgive and move on. We don’t let resentments grow.” Snow had pushed her legal pad away. “So no, Archie, there’s nothing for me to write.”

David had done the same. “Me neither.”

After a long silence, Archie had gathered up the empty legal pads. “Snow, David, I’m happy to say, you have no need for this exercise. Perhaps all you really need today is just some peace and quiet together.”

Snow had linked her arm through her husband’s. “Do you know what I really want right now? Beyond the garden there, I saw the North Woods. I’d like to go for a long walk.”

“Just us,” David had agreed. They had stood up together. “If you’re through with us, Archie?”

“I think a walk in the woods is exactly the right prescription.”

“We’ll come back when we get hungry.”

“I think we’re finished,” Emma brought Archie back to the present.

He turned to find that while Hook had completed half a page in his small, sharp handwriting, Emma had worn down three pencils and filled her notebook with her large loops.

“Very good.” Archie came away from the window and seated himself at the poker table. “Captain, suppose we start with you.”

Plucking at his beard nervously, Hook read from his notes: “Okay. Now don’t be pissy, Emma, right? We’re uncovering the jetsam. So… . ’You have a lot of nerve saying “Hello” like nothing happened.’ Like you didn’t make me a Dark One and try to hide it from me by taking away my memories–”

Oh yes. Archie folded his hands as he listened, not only to each word, but to each word choice. Yes, there was work to do here.

And that was another of his secrets: Archie needed to be needed.

—————————————————————-

Lunch was three hours late. By the time Archie came round to the library to fetch them, Belle and Gold were both deep into books, hers Undaunted Courage and his Team of Rivals. They were sharing a couch, her bare feet propped in his lap, his hand resting idly on her ankle. When Archie interrupted them, Belle was about to sit up and point out to Gold a quotation in her book. They both looked a bit annoyed initially at the interruption, but their expressions soon softened. With his damp hair clinging to his forehead and the creases lining his eyes, Archie suspected he looked tired. Well, he should: he’d earned it. But he was also holding his chin up in pride (and relief) that his experiment had proven successful: downstairs, in the chandeliered dining room, at the twelve-seat mahogany table, Emma and Hook sat side by side, just as drained as Archie, but still talking to each other. Fortunately, as he led the Golds into the dining room, Hook and Emma weren’t talking about anything intimate or consequential.

Ruby was placing the last of the platters onto the dining table. By her suggestion, they would be eating family style, passing dishes back and forth and serving themselves. This egalitarian approach, along with the hearty American fare, would somewhat counteract the formality of the furniture. “Snow and Charming won’t be joining you,” Ruby said. “They packed a picnic.”

With the Golds on one side of the table and the Swan-Joneses on the other side, Archie felt a bit squeezed in the middle of this huge table, but after some fortification from soup and salad, he felt sufficiently revived to attempt to create a conversation between the opposing forces. “So, Belle, what plans do you have for the library? I heard something about new computers?”

Emma’s ears perked up at this news. “Good idea. Those PCs you have now are no better than Apple II-E’s.”

“I’m planning a fundraiser for the computers. I hope to buy ten for the public, plus one for a catalog and one for the circ desk,” Belle was squirting ketchup onto her sandwich. “So after those arrive, we’ll be starting some basic computer classes for adults, taught by Henry and some kids from the high school. As for the collection, I plan to develop a college and career prep center.”

“With the curse lifted from the town line, our graduates will be wanting to move on to more opportunities in the big city,” Archie remarked. “I’ll be offering career counseling services.”

Emma shot a quick glance at Hook. “Henry. He’ll be graduating in two years.”

Around a mouthful of pickle, Hook suggested, “I’m sure the lad will find all sorts of new adventures out there in big wide world, as I did when I was young.”

Emma fiddled with her spoon. “I’m not sure I want him out there in big world.”

“As nature intended, love. Mothers wish to hold on, but sons must make their mark upon the world.”

Gold objected, “They don’t always have to leave town to do that.” Emma threw him a small smile. “I’m sure we could find plenty of opportunity for him here. But if he chooses to leave, he’ll have all the support he needs. Financial and otherwise.”

“Thank you, Gold.”

Gold looked down into his soup bowl. “It’s what I owe Bae.”

Hesitating slightly, Archie decided that, after his earlier success, he could venture back into risky territory. If a bridge of common interests could be built between Emma and Gold, perhaps the animosity between Gold and Hook could be diminished. “I never really got to know Neal. Mr. Gold, I’m sure you have some stories about his growing up.”

“Oh, yes, he has a thousand of them,” Belle giggled. “Tell them about the time Bae roped the neighbor’s bellwether.” She reached out to touch Emma’s hand. “It’s hilarious. The roots of Bae’s joy riding career.”

Emma’s eyes brightened and fixed on Gold. “I’d like to hear that. If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” he answered softly. “I’d rather like to tell it. Perhaps, afterward, you could share some of your memories?”

“Yeah, I could.”

“Well, then.” Gold scooted back from the table and settled more comfortably in his chair. “In our village there was a farmer who owned a very large, very ill-tempered ewe… .”

———————————————————

Lunch had ended on laughter. Encouraged, Archie sent Hook and Emma out for an afternoon of recreation, but summoned the Golds back to the library, where he thought they’d be most comfortable. “Saved the best for last, Archie?” Belle teased, but her voice was a little shaky.

Pushing the chalkboard ahead of him, Archie ducked the question, which he recognized as halfway serious. What she needed to hear from him was that in his professional assessment, her relationship with Gold was salvageable. After positioning the board, Archie stood back and brushed his chalk-dusted hands against his trousers. He happened to feel Gold’s eyes upon him, and it made him nervous—Gold’s cold stare always did, even though Archie had come to learn that the coldness was a facade. But to retain their confidence, he had to exude confidence of his own. Quite possibly, he was their last hope. So he steeled his spine and turned his head to look Gold in the eyes, and what he read there—in the eyes, not in the straight line of the mouth or the set of the jaw, but in the creases around the eyes, the slight elevation of the brows, and a certain shine in the pupils that could be burgeoning tears—gave Archie all the confidence he needed.

“We can do this,” he assured them. “We will do this, one step at a time.” He motioned to the couch upon which he’d found them resting earlier; they accepted the implied invitation and sat down, somewhat primly (their posture, he noted, mirrored each other’s). He’d learned from their first session that tea was important to them, a held over social convention from their Enchanted Forest days, a relaxant and a subconscious communication prompt, so he’d had Ruby bring in a fully loaded, formal tray, which was waiting on the coffee table. He scooted a comfortable chair up to the table and leaned forward, his hand on the teapot. “Shall I pour?” He didn’t really need to ask; he always poured. It was part of the routine from their therapy.

“Thank you, Archie,” they both said, accepting the tea he’d prepared precisely how they liked it. He allowed them a few moments to sip, and when they sat back in the cushions, he knew they were ready to begin.

“Resentment is the emotional bacteria that, if not expelled, will infect a relationship, possibly kill it,” Archie began. “I believe that each of you harbors some powerful resentments. The two of you have hurt each other often enough.”

To their credit, neither offered a denial. Belle took the brave first step. “Do you think we’re strong enough to deal with this now? Our relationship, I mean; is it strong enough? Won’t digging up the hurts of the past just drive us apart?”

Surprisingly, it was Gold who answered. “Ignoring the shadows of the past will only make them loom larger in the future.” He stared into his teacup. “A lesson I learned from Milah, but all these years I’ve pretended didn’t apply to me.” So low Archie could barely hear him, he murmured, “Fear of what I might lose caused me to ignore the fact that I was losing everyone I loved.”

“Yes.” Archie leaned back in his chair. “You’re strong enough.” He stood up. “Although, yesterday’s rules still apply: you can refuse to participate, but if you do participate, you’ll tell the whole truth.”

“No twisted words,” Gold promised–in Archie’s mind, unnecessarily. The sorcerer knew what was at stake this time: Gideon’s kidnapping had been the flame that had burned down Gold’s house of fantasy. Archie believed Belle realized that too; it was why she’d picked up the pieces of their marriage.

He distributed the pencils and legal pads, then crossed over to the chalkboard. “You’ll be writing a continuation to a prompt.” Belle’s eyes brightened; they were in her wheelhouse now. “I’ll write a starter sentence on the board; you’ll finish it. The ‘you’ refers to your spouse.” He turned his back long enough to put up the assignment, then he stood aside, giving them time to read it.

“’You have a lot of nerve saying “Hello” like nothing happened.’” Belle cast a hasty glance at her husband, who nodded.

“A greeting I’ve deserved, too many times.” He handed her a pencil. “Go on, Belle.”

“’You have a lot of nerve… .’” Belle stared at the blank page.

“Please,” Gold urged.

Belle pressed the pencil to the paper.

As he had done for the other couples, Archie walked away to give them space. He strolled along the ceiling-high shelves, casually perusing the book titles, until he found one that caught his attention and he brought it down. He read the first paragraph; it kept his interest and he read a second. He’d just settled down in an armchair to begin the second chapter of The Personal Dreams of Carl Jung when Belle called him over. “I’m finished, Archie.”

He set the open book aside with the intention of returning to it at bedtime. A glance at her face prompted him to reach into his vest pocket for the package of Kleenex he always carried, but Gold had already beaten him to it, offering her his handkerchief. Her body language revealed her to be caught between anger and guilt; she needed to cry, but she drew upon her childhood lessons and held herself firm. Without urging, she picked up her notepad and read, “You have a lot of nerve saying ‘Hello’ like nothing happened. I know you love me. I don’t doubt that. I love you too. And I wanted so much to help you, after everything Zelena put you through, and after Bae—after she murdered Bae. When you proposed to me, I thought, this is the beginning of the healing. You’ll realize how much I love you and I’ll never leave you, and you’ll trust me, confide in me, and I can take care of you. But from the beginning the marriage was a lie. You swore your love for me on a fake dagger, so that you could go behind my back and kill Zelena. Did you really think I would never find out? Was the proposal even real? Did you really want to marry me, or was that a manipulation too? And while I was sleeping in ignorant bliss, you got up out of our honeymoon bed to plot how you could get more power. You made a deal, Rumple, a deal that would leave this entire town shattered by madness. You were going to snatch Henry away from his mothers and cart us off to New York, never to return. You would have even lied to us about how they all died, wouldn’t you? You imprisoned the fairies. You made a slave out of Hook. You would’ve stolen Emma’s magic if she’d let you. And all this time you left me sleeping, when all I ever wanted to do was to love you. I could’ve helped you, Rumple, but you wouldn’t let me. You hid yourself from me. None of the torment we’ve been through would’ve happened if your proposal had been real.”

She let the notepad drop to the coffee table.

Archie held his breath. She’d thrown down the gauntlet; they waited for Gold to respond. Gold had three choices: he could deny Belle’s interpretation of events. He could make excuses—lord knows, after all he’d been through, he had a warehouse of valid excuses. But neither of those two choices would be the one to move the couple a step towards closure. Gold had a history of wrong choices, a genealogy of wrong choices; he needed to fight the impulse to try to take the easy way out. If only he could realize that in the long run, the difficult way could prove to be the easy way.

Gold was staring at his hands as if they were foreign objects. Was he thinking about the magic they contained? The magic that had fed him, protected him, kept him alive all these years? Or was he thinking about the Dark voices behind the magic, Nimue’s and Zozo’s and the others, and the black voice of the bullied and twice-abandoned little boy who wanted to lash out in broken-hearted anger?

“I did.” They could barely hear him. He let his hands fall to his knees and looked up at Belle. “I did all those things,” he said more clearly. “I hurt you, I hurt Henry, I hurt Gideon and I dishonored Baelfire’s memory. I was wrong and I regret all the pain I caused you. And I know my promises are meaningless now, but I will fight with my last breath to be truthful with you.”

Archie released his breath. Whatever happened next, whatever choice Belle made, Gold would be better now. Not healed, not good, but better. And with each step his way would be easier.

“I think you have been. I forgive you.” Belle squeezed his hand, then looked to Archie. “It still hurts like hell.”

“It will, for a long time,” Archie said. “But it will get better.”

“I do mean it: I forgive you. But it’s kind of hard to feel it under all the anger and injured pride.”

“This is something we’ll work on,” Archie assured her. To give them a moment to decompress, he refilled their teacups, then he sat back and pointedly looked at Gold’s notepad. “Mr. Gold. You’ve written nothing.”

“I had thought I have nothing to resent.”

“Not even when I exiled you?” Belle pressed.

“It was a just punishment. And you made the town safe from a monster who had grown out of control. But I see now, this isn’t the whole truth.” He raised the legal pad. “It’s true that I was hurt by some of the things you did, but I never blamed you, sweetheart. I thought I deserved it all, and worse. Until… .” The first page of his legal pad suddenly filled with writing in a language neither Belle nor Archie could recognize. Gold lay the notebook onto the coffee table beside hers and took her hands in his. “In the Underworld, when I learned that we were going to be parents, I sincerely tried to change, to be truthful with you. Circumstances conspired against me; my past caught up with me and again I failed repeatedly to make the right decisions, but I was honest with you. As much as I could be, after three hundred years of deception. You wouldn’t listen. I understand why, but when you shut me down, I felt that I was alone again, that saving Gideon was all on my shoulders, and I fell back on lies and deals. It worked, Belle, didn’t it? I freed us from Hades. I couldn’t see why you wouldn’t listen to me, when it seemed my solutions were working. I could have freed Gideon from his fate too. I still think, if I’d used the Shears—but we didn’t discuss it or anything else. You ran away from me when we should have been working together to save our son. And in the end, rather than let me anywhere near him, you sent him away. You sent our son away.”

Archie held his breath again. This was Belle’s test; whether the relationship would take another step forward was up to her now. She was twisting the handkerchief instead of using it to cope with her tears. “I should have known you would never hurt him. I did know; after all you went through to rescue Bae, twice sacrificing yourself to keep him alive. You would have done no less for Gideon.

But I was hurt and angry and full of fear, and I listened to the darkness in me instead of looking into your heart. Please, Rumple, say it. For yourself, as well as our marriage, you need to say it.”

To Archie’s surprise, Gold blurted, “Yes, I’m angry. I’m angry at you, Belle, for sending our son away, and with her. Knowing how I feel about fairies, and why, yet you gave our son to her, to the Ruel Ghorm, and look what happened. We almost lost him forever. And we may never know the full extent of the lasting harm that his time with my mother did to him.” Archie had seen him angry, had seen him confused, had seen him aching, but he’d never seen Gold express such naked pain. “He’s my son too. He needs me too. You can’t shut me out of his life.”

“You’re right. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“That’s right, you weren’t. You could have easily protected him from everything–the Shears, from my mother, from me–just by driving out of Storybrooke, away from the magic, safe from all this crap. I’m angry, Belle, that you would have taken my son away from me.”

Bravely, she accepted his criticism and Archie could breathe again.“You have a right to be angry. I was wrong. And I will never again forget that Gideon needs you in his life just as much as he needs me.”

It was disconcerting, Archie thought, to see raw hope in the Dark One’s eyes. Few people even recognized the sorcerer as a man, with a heart as vulnerable as their own.“We’ll talk things out, from now on. I’ll let you in and you won’t shut me out. Can we do that, Belle? And if we can’t mend our marriage, at least we can give Gideon his best chance.”

“We have to try.” Belle offered a watery smile. “I want us to give us our best chance too.”

—————————————————

He had no idea where Gold had acquired a cell phone, but in the morning, as he joined the couples for a farewell breakfast, Archie spotted the pawnbroker out in the garden, flagrantly violating the no-phone rule. Ah well. The weekend was over, anyway. Archie walked into the kitchen, paused to sniff at Ruby’s special blend of coffee percolating on the stove, then reached into a cupboard for the box of confiscated electronics. He carried it on his hip back into the dining room.

“Ah, back to modern civilization, I see.” Hook fished his phone out first. “I’ve missed you, Angry Birds.”

Emma distributed the rest and she and David immediately checked their text messages. “Hey, the town survived without us.” She turned her phone around to show her father there were no messages. Then she frowned. “Nothing from Henry. Do you think he–”

“I think he’s been studying for his semester finals, like he was supposed to,” David assured her.

Snow had a finger poised to dial. “Archie, is it okay–”

“It’s okay. Tell them you’ll be home right after breakfast.”

Ruby backed into the dining room, her arms burdened with a fully loaded serving tray. “Doctor, there’s a helicopter coming.”

“A helicopter?” Archie scrambled over to a window to examine the skies. “Nope, I don’t see–”

Ruby set the tray down and tugged at her earlobe. “Yeah, but I hear. The wolf thing, you know. It’s about five miles off.”

The garden door swung open and Gold sauntered in. “That would be Mr. Dove with Gideon.”

David grunted. “You’re taking a helicopter back to Storybrooke? Gold, it’s only five miles.”

Snow finished her phone call. “A little over-anxious to see the baby, are you?”

Belle, with a suitcase in each hand, appeared in the dining room just in time to explain, “We’re not going home yet. We thought we’d extend our holiday and see Boston.” She set the suitcases down and came to her husband’s side, accepting his arm around her waist. “We have some catching up to do.”

Gold informed Archie, “We’ll be back on Thursday in time for our appointment.”

“You’ve got time for breakfast with us, don’t you?” Snow urged. “After Ruby went to all this effort.”

“Of course,” Belle said.

Emma reached across the table to snatch a strip of bacon from the platter. “Sounds like another winner, Doc. Three for three. We’ll have to do this retreat thing again sometime.”

“Maybe when the babies are a little older,” Snow suggested. “Hook, would you pass the toast?”

Archie leaned back as the bowls and plates started making their way around. He gave himself a mental pat on the back as the Golds sat down, side by side, and the sorcerer picked up the platter of pastries. “Bear claw, Ms. Swan?” After Emma had speared one, Gold offered the platter to Hook. “Captain?”

After a moment to recover from his shock, Hook helped himself to a Danish. “Thank you, C—Gold. Some toast?”

“Three for three,” Archie mused. “I do believe so.” The entire group laughed—even Gold chuckled—at a joke David shared, and Archie nodded to himself. “It’s a start. A very good start.”

[patrickube-blog]

(h x r)

[i honestly feel really strongly for this piece of writing i did about two years ago, it never fails to make me emotional. a lot of the stuff i wrote in the past has identifiable influences – like a movie i’d just watched, a book i loved, a game i just played, or some real life personal thing that happened to me. this story bemuses me because i don’t remember how i even came up with the entire idea, or the weird structure of it. but i think it’s quite lovely and skeletal, so, i hope this gets you feeling something as well,  my nonexistent followers!]

–

The Beginning

We had English after lunch. All of us were caught in a mad, exuberant flurry of motion, scuttling around like schools of fish to finish our essays on Romeo and Juliet.

The sun was smoldering, the clouds whisked briskly into hiding, the breeze faint and whispery. We sat in our customary, rickety red bench, the table-top scrawled with adolescent blather. There were lyrics to hit songs; prancing stick figures; crude swear words; male genitalia of different sizes; names etched inside swollen, crooked hearts, then scratched out and blotted with angry ink.

There was five of us then. We grew together, then grew apart. I remember Travis, always joking, always coy. I remember Lila, sharp as a tack, harsh, slim from weekly track meets. I remember Henry, foppish and vibrant, good-hearted. As for Rose, was the smartest in our group. Naturally we sought her assistance that day. She glowed under the attention. She set about patiently correcting grammatical errors, pointing out muddled sentences, indicating softly which areas needed elaboration.

I noticed Henry was sitting alone during this time, scratching his head, furrowing his brow, staring at his essay in concentration. Travis was teasing him.

And then, like a guardian angel come from the golden gates of heaven, Rose left her gaggle of students and sat beside him. Henry smiled. Nervous, tentative sweat slicked his forehead.

We laughed about it then, me and Travis and Lila, but deep down we were jealous that the inevitable shifting of our group’s dynamic had taken place, and none of us were a part of the equation.

The Middle of the Beginning

“I think I like her,” Henry said frequently afterwards when it was just me and Travis with him. “I think I do. A lot.”

We sniggered collectively, played along. It became a game. “What do you like most about her? Are you gonna marry her?” we would ask with false sincerity.

“Everything about her, I like,” he’d reply importantly, “And, yeah. Maybe I will marry her.” We all laughed. There was no doubt in our minds then that poor, hapless Henry was dreaming up this big romance, borne from Rose’s simple kindness.

“I’m going to ask her to dance,” Henry said one day, out of the blue. “Tomorrow, I’ll ask her.” We grinned. Travis nudged his shoulder boyishly. Someone else who happened to be sitting with us that day made up a bet on whether or not Henry would pull through. I just smiled. Poor, hapless Henry mistook our amused, youthful mockery for pride.

The following week, the dance took place. We gathered in our little group excitedly, flashing smiles, pretending that we couldn’t care less. The gym was bedecked in fluorescent neon lights, strips of flashy, glittery gold paper wrung from the ceiling, music pumping from the domed roof. Lila bragged about how much of it was all thanks to her creative ambition, since she was a part of the dance committee. The girls were resplendent in their skimpy dresses. We wore our flashiest, priciest clothes.

Henry showed up late with Rose in tow, causing quite the fuss. His brown eyes were bright. Rose’s smile was small and shy, her honeydew hair glimmering amidst the neon lights. We stared, pointed, bobbed grins and cheeky laughter across the hall. Travis spat out his drink. Lila arced an eyebrow. We were collectively in awe. Hapless Henry had turned a new leaf.

The girls fawned all over them; we resorted to a thumbs-up.

The Ending of the Beginning

Henry went to a different high school than the rest of us. He moved house early in the year we all started a new chapter in our lives. I wasn’t to see him for years. I was too caught up in the difference of high school to contact him.

In my second year, I dated Lila. She was vivacious, a fresh breath of air from the old days. We laughed about our middle school-selves. I asked her constantly if she knew anything about Henry and Rose, whose quiet popularity in middle school devolved into anonymity. She frequented the library and acquired a new circle of friends, long-legged girls with swathes of hair. I only had to glance to know they took her for granted, accepted her only for the gleam of her blond hair rather than the understated perception of her mind. Lila told me that the last she’d heard, she and Henry had split. I felt duly crushed. Those two were akin to glowing, golden idols from a better, simpler age. Like the rest of us, they’d succumbed to change and rust.

Three shitty parties, one pregnancy test, and two ‘break ups’ later, Lila and I split. “All you ever talk about now is ‘those old days’ as if they were years ago, as if they were amazing all the time. They weren’t. God, get a grip on yourself, you’re pathetic,” she’d said at the argument that ended it. After that, brilliantly angry and youthfully, foolishly bitter, she spread the rumor that I carried STDs. I remember Travis laughing in my face the day after. He made a quip about girls being bitches, about how he was taking Maria Henderson to a party that weekend, about how I should come and use the STD-thing as a sob story to get laid.

I skipped school for a week, pleaded sick to my blank-faced parents. Days were spent staring up at the billowing, far-away clouds from my bedroom window, lost in thought. Escapism. All I wanted was to envelop myself again in the golden warmth of the before, not the now, with stressful deadlines and assessments and new social pressures and angry ex-girlfriends.

The Beginning of the End

-During my final year of university, an unregistered number called my phone while I was walking to a class.

It was Henry, though I still didn’t make the connection when the voice said, “it’s Henry, hey, it’s me.” He had to awkwardly introduce himself twice more. He sounded tired. He asked how I was doing, what I was up to, what university I attended, inquired about assignments, deadlines, and my parents. He confessed, with sheepish laughter, that he’d gotten my number off of Lila, who Rose still saw every now and then. He added in serious undertone, that he never for a second believed those old, filthy rumors.

I had a multitude of questions clamoring in my head. For one thing, I did not appreciate him bringing up the STD-drama. Also, what was he calling me for? After years of silence, hearing him speak while I weaved through other students staring into their phones was a surreal experience.

There was a new, tense quality to Henry’s voice that I’d never heard before. He suddenly apologized, for falling off the radar, for being too busy to keep in touch. Things with Rose were rocky, he admitted quietly, in a resigned sort of way. Before I could ask when they’d gotten back together, he quickly slipped in that he loved her. A lot. They’d gone on-and-off a number of times.

“Look, I know this is…weird, since we haven’t spoken in years,” Henry said shakily. “But you were always the most considerate of the guys. I know that you’ll help me.” There was a long pause. I waited. “Rose is pregnant. We didn’t plan it. She’s totally against, ah, abortion. And, I mean, so am I! She says we have get married…quickly. Fast. She doesn’t want the kid to be labeled a bastard, and I guess she just…” Henry trailed off. “I think she just doesn’t want to be alone.”

He sighed, sounding older than he really was. I didn’t know what to say, or what exactly he was calling me for. “Please,” he went on. “I need your help. Her parents hate her for all this business, and my dad…you know how he is, ever since we were kids, always just…sorry. Ah, when are you free next?”

The Middle of the End

I helped arrange mostly everything. I found a reception hall in town. It was a small, humble, exquisite building that didn’t make a big deal of itself. Henry, Rose and I went down there a few days after he called. I skipped my afternoon lecture.

I did most of the talking. Henry was taller, a bit leaner, though jittery, his smile nervous. There was a new tentative energy in him, the sadness in his eyes never quite going away. Rose, though, was very lovely. Refined, cool and calm. The gaggle of loud, unappreciative girls that used to surround her in a stifling circle were nowhere to be seen. I wondered where they’d gone. Her belly swelled under the blue blouse she wore.

They chose a day, a time, talked over some meaningless technicalities. We had coffee afterwards. It seemed like the decent thing to do, though I could tell both of them just wanted to go home, retreat back into whatever form of shelter they had built for themselves upstate. I felt out of place meeting these two old friends I didn’t actually know anymore. My brain was momentarily confused, attempting to re-arrange itself; I remembered Henry as a flushed, messy-haired youth with gangly arms and a hapless grin. On the last day of school, he’d hugged me tightly and rather desperately, only letting go when Travis shoved a pencil up his ass. The day before he moved, we hung out in the arcade and then the beach. After everyone had gone and the sun began to vanish in the horizon, my mother had dropped off Rose first, then Henry. The three of us sat in the backseat, making small talk, and as we neared Rose’s house, Henry had grabbed both our hands without preamble. Even after Rose left his hand kept clutching mine.

Now he was suddenly taller than me, dressed in a modest suit-and-tie. He had never been solid and leery like Travis, always floppy, but sitting in that café, there was a solidity about him.

The youthful vivacity that was in Rose once was gone; it was replaced by a wide void, reduced as she was to a politely-smiling, well-mannered, chagrin adult. She used to get all the boys’ attention, even in high school. Mature and level-headed, Rose hardly ever went to parties, but when she did, she always vanished upstairs, swallowed up by the inky darkness of the stairwell. I always assumed she and Henry’s split was official. Their hastened marriage date said otherwise.

The café was small, but busy, bustling. Its homey interior and cream walls watched as we slowly took a sigh of collective relief, our stress and tension melting away gradually, mingling with the steam of mochas and lattes.

Henry sincerely apologized for all the sudden fuss, asked again what I was majoring in and when I’d graduate. He asked after my parents and what they were getting up to. He shared some funny stories, but Rose never laughed, she only maintained her frozen little smile. She herself congratulated me for my academic successes, sympathizing with me on how Lila acted all those years ago, affirming she was different now and still asked about me, sometimes. I told them how well they looked, how happy I was for them, what name they were considering for the baby, and did they know yet if it was a boy, or a girl? I didn’t get to pose the questions I really wanted to ask, since I could tell they were both terribly tired of things. Whether it was from work, or each other, or the baby bombshell, or all of the above, or some hidden factor they kept to themselves, I still do not know.

What I knew: they were only alive by the love they shared, weakly binding them together. It was quietly, tragically beautiful.

The End

-Their wedding day fell on a midsummer, lukewarm Friday afternoon.

Henry and Rose invited only a few people, less than a handful: Geraldine was the bride’s sister. Carlton was her boyfriend. As for Lila and I, one could say we were close in school, but Travis wasn’t invited. Was Lila merely a sop for me? Was it a feeble, girlish, chick-flick attempt to get us back together? Was Henry and Rose’s social circle just that closed-off? Were they afraid and ashamed of others knowing about their marriage and Rose’s pregnancy? Had they alienated themselves that much? Like many things about them, I don’t know.

Geraldine picked up the girls, while Carlton and I were put in charge of Henry. It was quite a beautiful day. Sunlight dappled the trees lining the sidewalk, while buildings reached up into the unfathomable sky. There was not a cloud in sight.

We got to the reception hall first. Henry, in a sharp blue suit, paced back and forth erratically in one of the rooms the kindly receptionist directed us to. I had helped him get ready in my flat. Carlton could tell we had history and he was destined to be a mere footnote, so he politely complimented Henry, made some light jokes which we responded to politely, and then he left before we did, saying he’d meet us at the hall. His car was parked in the lot, four spaces from mine. He was browsing through his phone when we pulled up. I thought it prudent to wait for Geraldine to arrive before calling out to him.

While Henry paced, I mused aloud how the girls were faring. Perhaps Rose had cried a little, then switched to happy laughter while her hair was done up artfully.

He was implacable, in that small window of time when it was just us two. I attempted small talk: why his father or her parents weren’t invited (the look he shot in my direction was, I guess, the only answer I needed.) Did they not want anyone else to come, any other friends? That didn’t provoke a response, but I filled the silence with noise anyway. I spoke wistfully of the increasing difficulty of my university assignments, about Travis, about the beauty of the afternoon. Henry was unresponsive, curt. It took me awhile to accept that I simply did not understand the entire situation, and I left him alone with his own thoughts for a bit. Happy nervousness leaked from his every pore as he walked back and forth, back and forth.

He wouldn’t stop pacing. Without a word, I placed a hand comfortingly on his shoulder. The effect was electric. Henry spun around, looked at me with wide, trembling, damp eyes and kissed me. I only began to respond when he drew back again, as fast as he’d leant forward. He was flushed. “I doubt the baby’s mine,” he said abruptly, absurdly. Then, “I love you. Thank you for being here. I mean it. I love you.”

There was a knock on the door, and Geraldine asked how things were coming along. I could have addressed what Henry had just blurted out and the way he’d kissed me, but I didn’t. His eyes met mine, and without flinching, I told Geraldine we’d be right out and that Carlton was in his car. Her heels faded away into the warm afternoon. Before we left the room, Henry kissed me again. I let him, not reciprocating this time.

Rose was a vision of loveliness, a divine apparition. Her back was facing us as we walked up. Daisies were wrung prettily in her hair. When she turned, her face wore an expression that I couldn’t read. The corners of her mouth were upturned, but I wouldn’t say she was smiling. I saw her rounded belly, remembered Henry’s suspicions, his desperate kisses. But I could not harden my heart against her. How could I, with her standing there, her white dress whispering as it danced across the floor in time with the wind?

Geraldine walked in with Carlton and Lila in tow.  “Shall we?” Lila announced with theatrical grandeur. She shot me a glance. The lot of us had dinner a few nights beforehand, a perverted version of the five our original group had, plus Carlton, very handsome, very respectful, shaking my hand firmly over glasses of wine. Geraldine, I knew slightly growing up, a stately, assertive girl who had none of Rose’s subtlety. As for Lila…she was much the same. Harsh green eyes, a smirk instead of a smile. The only thing of note was a tattoo of a pale lily on her thigh. I told her that it was really clever and witty, when we had sex in my flat that same night. She said that I’d gotten myself a nice pad, and allowed that she missed our middle school days sometimes, especially the science lessons where we were partners, fucking up all of our tests. I took that as her apology for the STD rumors. We didn’t mention it.

The sunlight spilled in from the doorway and doused Henry in soft brightness as he stepped forward and took Rose in his arms. She was crying. Her small shoulders trembled demurely. He whispered words to her that the rest of us didn’t hear. Geraldine patted her back. Carlton shifted in place. Lila linked her arm with mine.

There was a small wait inside a depressingly-clean room where no-one really said anything. Shortly, a middle-aged man donned in priestly garb approached us, calling for “Mr. Henry and Ms. Rose.”

It happened so fast. The designated room was jarringly empty. Geraldine, Carlton, Lila and I crowded the front seats, the chairs behind us devoid of any life. The girls had, in an attempt to spruce the state of things, blown up a few listless balloons and scattered a handful of daffodils on the aisle. It was beautiful in its own doomed, sad way. I imagined the lily on Lila’s thigh blooming open for me. Sunlight alighted on each flimsy white petal of the flowers in Rose’s hair.

When Henry and Rose kissed as man and wife, melting into one, trembling, Geraldine let out a sob. Carlton clapped earnestly, then hugged his girlfriend with one arm. Lila touched my shoulder. Her eyes leaked mascara-stained tears. My throat became constricted with emotion.

“I never saw this coming. Never. I mean…not like this. Did you?” she asked me, her green eyes softening, causing me to almost fall in love with her all over again.

The makeshift priest watched as the six of us left, Henry and Rose leading the way with damp cheeks. His sad eyes were full of hopeless love, and he’d given me a look pregnant with apology and confusion as he walked past; he reached out as if to touch my cheek, but instead clasped my arm. The bride’s honeydew hair was aglow, blinding us all.

In the parking lot, Henry and Rose leaned into each other and so did Geraldine and Carlton, shadowing them. Lila kissed my cheek, and I remembered Henry pressing his lips into mine, not once but twice, his suit clinging to his slim frame, his shoulders set. It seemed to have happened a million years ago. I like to think that we were all, in that moment, happy. The waning afternoon sun embraced us and congratulated our exit.

But I suppose that deep down I knew it was temporary.

X

-Lila called me well over a year later.

We’d kept in touch after the wedding, making half-hearted attempts to reconnect, to start over. We had sex two more times afterward, but the second time, I made the mistake of asking her why she did it, all those years ago in our second year of high school. When she feigned sleep, I touched her lily tattoo and waited until she was actually slumbering. We were in her flat, so I left. Taken away from the pale, sentimental magic of that reception hall, I noticed that her green eyes had hardened again. I realized: I did not love her anymore, if I ever really did. I didn’t bother maintaining contact, and neither did she.

We were there, however, for the sake of appearances, when Henry and Rose left on their honeymoon to Florida. I remember Rose waving a lavender handkerchief at us as Henry drove them away. Carlton took me home, doing the same for a friend of Rose’s who’d been invited, some girl co-worker. He asked how things were going with Lila. I said that things were definitely going. He shook my hand when we reached my flat, and I wondered what he would do if I kissed him in the semi-darkness of his car. Later that night I hit up the girl co-worker whose number I’d procured at some point, and drove to her place and had sex on a pull-out bed. She was ensconced at a friend’s for the moment because of personal issues I did not care to divulge in because I had enough of my own, enough of Henry’s, enough of Rose’s, so I fucked her again before she could open up.

I wasn’t present when Rose gave birth five months after, but I was at their infant girl Victoria’s one-month celebration. She was an exhilarating, lovely thing, but she had brilliant blue eyes. Neither Henry nor Rose had blue eyes.

Lila was there, too, but she didn’t look at me once. The girl co-worker arrived late with a guy who I thought at first was Travis, and I was so shocked I dropped the small sandwich I was eating into Victoria’s crib. Carlton told the guests about the promotion he’d received, and Geraldine gushed over her niece, imploring to her in sickly-sweet coos that the girl would have a cousin in due time. Henry never left Rose’s side once, and when I said goodbye, his hand was sweaty. He lingered a second too long, just like at our last day of school, his scrawny arms nearly suffocating me.

When Lila called almost two years after, she did so with a dead voice. Henry had shot himself in the mouth, in the upstairs bathroom of the Victorian-style house he and Rose had bought a year prior.

Lila told me Rose had come home to hear Victoria’s wail of irritation and hunger from bedroom on the second floor. She’d rushed up the stairs, and saw the bathroom door closed. Blood leaked from the space underneath, staining the fresh carpets. And, somehow, Rose had known. I asked what Lila meant by that, but she stuck by what she said. Somehow, Rose had known.

So, she went back down and sat in the living room, called her sister to come over as soon as she could, and remained in the couch for almost an hour, listening to her child’s pitiful, escalating wail, letting her dead husband drown in his blood in the upstairs bathroom.

When Geraldine arrived, everything came undone.

I hung up after telling Lila I’d make it to the wake.

I remembered his warm and perpetually melancholic brown eyes, the lovely honeydew of her hair, the way he kissed me twice in that warm, fuzzy, almost pastoral waiting room with dust dancing in the space between us. I remembered how their initials were etched onto the red bench outside our old classroom. “HxR.” There, forever. ♦