#to not repeat the mistake in December - when I had just a weekend between my two jobs

[pippapimentina]

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[staticscreenwriting]

The loneliest time of the year || Part two

Part 2 of 4

Summary: With a broken heart and the fear of having failed as a father, Frankie returns to his parents house for Christmas. What is supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year feels quite lonely. Though when an old friend shows up unexpectedly with her young son in tow, Frankie’s Christmas seems to gain a little more happiness. Can they help each other fight the ghosts of their pasts and overcome their fears ?

A/N: This is part of my 12 days of Christmas / Advent special. Likes, reblogs, comments are all much appreciated.

[additional note: I am German. Sometimes I get the tense wrong or make mistakes. I am useless when it comes to punctuation. Go easy on me, please.]

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me: Four messed up pies

By the morning of December 9th a heavy blanket of snow rests upon the world like a tick coat of marshmallow fluff. 

A restlessness surges through Frankie as he turns from his left to his right to his back then repeats the process all over again. He kicks away the blankets then pulls them back. Sleep doesn’t come easy these days. In fact sleep hasn’t come easy in a while. It’s a price you have to pay for leading the life he leads, has led. For doing the job he did. You see things, bad things, and they stay with you. Not always but in the quiet moments they creep back into your mind and all you can do is stare and hope they fade again soon. Fill your brain with other things. Occupy your mind.

It’s moments like these that his fingers are twitching and his body is aching for release. For something to numb his mind. Help him forget. 

There aren’t a lot of things that Frankie is proud of. In fact he can count them on one hand. One of them is his ability to fly. He's a damn good pilot … most of the time. (He is when someone doesn’t force him to navigate an overloaded plane across the Andes). He’s proud of Rosie. Despite his flaws and shortcomings he managed to create something so utterly perfect, that’s something to be proud of. And the. There’s the little coin in the pocket of his jacket. The one he fumbles with whenever he’s anxious or stressed. It’s gold and smooth and it proudly displays a big number 10 in the middle of a triangle on the front of the coin.

10 months. That’s a proud achievement. 

It could be more. It should be more! He really tried but after coming home from Colombia, one man less than they went in, after his girlfriend broke up with him and took Rosie with her. After everything. He needed the psi to stop. Just for one goddamn minute. He felt immediate regret wash over him when he woke up the next morning. Called Pope. Entered a 12 step program.

10 months and he feels better. He likes himself more now. But in those 10 months the voices have gotten louder, the images clearer, his heart feels heavier. 

With sleep being so far out of reach, he kicks off the blanket and drags his body out of bed. The smell of coffee hits his nose as soon as he steps out of his room, it drifts from the kitchen all the way up the stairs. 

His parents are sitting by the kitchen counter, mom holding onto a big steaming mug of coffee while his dad is deeply invested in the morning. Paper, glasses perched low on his nose. This is home, it sends him straight back to his childhood. If only, he thinks, if only he could provide this sense of warmth and domesticity for his own child. 

A knock on the front door shakes him from his thoughts. As he swings it open, a sharp sting of cold winter air whips at him, nips at his nose, his ears and his bare feet.

“Frankie hey, oh sorry did I wake you?”

(Y/N) is once again bundled up in layers of cozy clothes, keeping her warm and sheltered from the harsh weather. She looks cute. Absolutely fucking adorable. But in that moment, he doesn’t really notice that. Doesn’t notice Leo standing behind her either. His entire attention rests on the steaming pie she holds in her hands. 

“You made a pie?”

“She made 4.” Leo speaks up, his voice dripping with irritation and annoyance. 

“Thanks for throwing me under the bus, dude!”

Frankie regards the exchange with a fond smile pulling at the corners of his lips. There’s something so distinctly familiar in the way she interacts with her son, so unapologetically her. The way she’s always been. But now grown up entirely. A mother. 

“Why did you make 4 pies?” He asks, eyebrows raised in amusement.

“Well I didn’t plan on making 4. The first one I mistook salt for sugar so you can imagine how it tasted. The second one I put way too much sugar in, might’ve been trying to compensate for my mistake with the first one but yeah that one did end up in the trash as well. The third … well I got pretty invested in an episode of unsolved mysteries and forgot it was in the oven so it turned out um — “

“Black. It was burned to a crisp.” Leo chimes up again, this time more amused than annoyed by his mother’s baking escapades.

“Yeah. It burned. But number 4 is looking pretty good.”

She looks up at Frankie with a smile so radiant it rivals the sun reflecting on the snowy ground. Pride shines in her eyes as she holds the pie towards him.

“Did you make me a pie?”

“Not exactly. It’s mostly for your folks. They agreed to watch this one while I got shopping for his Christmas presents.” (Y/N) explains, her tumb motioning towards the little boy over her shoulder. “This is a thank you to them for being literal angels. “

“Oh man you wouldn’t be saying that if you had to live with them growing up. I can’t tell you how many times dad unplugged my console while I was in the middle of a game.”

It’s a joke, of course it is. He really lucked out in the parents department and he’s not too proud or too shy to admit it. Maybe, he thinks, the good parent gene might’ve skipped a generation with him. His ex will surely agree with that statement. 

“Hey uh — you mind having some company while shopping ?”

“You wanna go shopping for toys?”

“I need to get some presents for my daughter.”

“Oh that’s right, you have a kid too. “

He doesn’t blame her for not remembering. He doesn’t strike people as the father type. And really, he hasn’t seen his little one in quite some time.doesn’t see her during the entire Christmas time. Is he really much of a father anyway?

“Sure yeah! I’d love some company.”

Maybe, Frankie thinks, this will help him drown out the voice. Those that tell him bad thoughts, whisper mean things. Maybe it will help him filter out the images. The blood. The suffering.

Frankie was never overly fond of the extreme commercialization of what should be a peaceful family holiday. But maybe this year he is,a little bit at least. Because those bright colors, the loud noises, the crowds, the ads assaulting you from every corner, that all will help drown out the dark. At least for a moment. 

“Alright lemme just get changed real quick.”

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me: Five days a week

“What the fuck is this?”

“It’s uh … it’s a … a game?”

“A game where you have to catch a piece of … poop.”

A wave of laughter tumbles from (Y/N)’s lips as Frankie holds up the brightly colored box, proudly displaying a drawing of a smiling turd. 

“It’s so dumb. And that says a lot coming from me, I can appreciate a good fart joke. But this is …. this is just dumb. “

“ It's what the kids these days want. I guess …”

“Would you buy this for Leo?”

“Absolutely not,” (Y/N) replies before taking the box from his hand and placing it back on the shelf between several more games of a similar kind. “But he wouldn’t like it anyway. Leo likes books and animals and fantasy movies. He’s so smart sometimes I wonder where he got it from.”

“You kidding me?” Frankie exclaims, “you’re so smart and if I remember correctly, you always carried around books when you were younger.”

(Y/N) just shrugs at his words though Frankie can’t make out a faint blush of red dusting her cheeks. “Leo is such an easy kid, always has been. Sometimes I wonder if that’s really the way he is or if he just tries to be that way because of me. Because he knows that I have to do all the parenting by myself and he feels he’s responsible for helping me along.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re doing good with him. Least you know what to get him for Christmas, what he cares about, what he’s interested in.”

His heart feels so heavy. His words seem to weigh down on his tongue like a stack of bricks. To admit your own failures to yourself is one thing, to admit them to someone else is quite another story.

“What do you mean ?”

“I — I have no idea what to get for Rosie. I don’t even know when I’ll see her next. She stays with her mom 5 days a week. I only get her on the weekends and even then her mom often finds a reason not to let her stay. Special occasions? I don’t get to spend those with her. Bet she doesn’t even recognize me anymore next time. She’s just a baby …”

This can’t be happening. He’s not going to start crying in the middle of a Toys R Us like a hyperactive toddler on a temper tantrum. Not in front of a beautiful girl who has been nothing but kind to him. This can’t be happening.

(Y/N)’s hand settles on his arm with a gentle touch. Almost as if she’s afraid he’ll break any minute now. And honestly, he might.

“Tell me about Rosie. I know she means the world to you and that’s all that matters Frankie. You’re trying. You’re trying so hard and I’m sure there’s lots about her that you know that no one else does. She’s your baby too. So tell me about her and we’ll figure out what to get her.”

And so they sit down on a swing set, one that’s definitely not meant for adults to sit on and have deep discussions, and Frankie starts talking. Once he starts it’s like a cork has been popped. It pours out of him, all of his pride and admiration and love for Rosie. All that has been brewing for so long now bubbles over. 

“... and she, she loves cuddling onto my chest and just listens to me. She doesn’t understand a word but she looks at me with her big beautiful eyes and it feels like I’m telling her all the biggest secrets of the universe the way she looks at me. Sometimes I sing and she — she falls asleep immediately.”

“That’s adorable.”

“Nah I think it's because my rendition of Eric Clapton is just real bad and boring.”

Their laughter is quiet, almost as if they are afraid of breaking the spell of this moment. Sometimes you find yourself at your most vulnerable during the big moments of your life and sometimes you do in the middle of a Toys R Us, sitting on a swingest that just barely holds your weight while a plastic giraffe looks over your shoulder and Kacey Musgrave’s rendition of “I’ll be home for Christmas” plays over the same overhead speakers that have been installed there in 1983.

“I just don’t want to disappoint her.”

 He’s already disappointing himself and that hurts bad enough.

“Frankie, let me be honest with you. She’s a baby, she’s not gonna care what you get for her. This is more about you than her. Whatever you get she’s gonna like it. Babies are easy to please, gets harder the older they get. We’ll find something cute for her but um … I think you should call her.”

“She’s a baby, she doesn’t have a phone yet.”

“ Really? I had Leo on a newborn data plan the second he popped out.”

Frankie raises his eyebrow in confusion.

“I was joking you dingus. Of course you’re gonna call her mom. There’s this thing, I don’t know if you’ve heard about it, it’s called FaceTime. You can actually see ther person on the other side. “ 

“ Very funny. I know what facetime is … “ 

“ Then call them. You said it yourself, the little one doesn’t understand a word of what you’re saying but that doesn’t matter. You’re there. You’re showing interest and taking initiative. It shows you care. And I think seeing her might be good for you too, even if it’s not in person.” 

“ You know, that sounds like a pretty good plan. “ 

“ Yeah? “ she asks him, a hopeful glimmer in her eyes, in her voice, in her entire being.

“ Yeah. “ 

“ Alright! Now let’s go find some presents for the little princess. May I suggest a cellphone? “ 

This time her laughter isn’t quite. It’s loud and radiant and the way her own joke amuses herself, is so goddamn endearing to Frankie. 

“ Ah shut up. “ he replies though his voice too is dipped in amusement as he throws his arm around her shoulders and they walk down the shiny linoleum floor, past dolls and teddy bears and Star Wars action figures.

And it feels right. Like the fit together perfectly. Like puzzle pieces slotting into place. 

And that feeling is damn scary.

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me: Six-hour flights.

The floor of (Y/N)’s living room is covered in wrapping paper. Reds and greens and silvers and golds hide what once was a nice dark cherry wood floor. There are bows and ribbons and gift tags in all shapes and sizes and colors. 

“ Looks like Santa’s workshop in here, “ Frankie exclaims as he drops down on the floor next to her. All the presents they’ve purchased, neatly lined up in front of them, ready to be wrapped. Though to be fair, Frankie is quite sure he’s not gonna do a lot of wrapping himself. Sometimes you gotta admit defeat. And he ain’t too proud to admit that he is a horrible, horrible wrapper. 

“ Yeah, I know I’m making a big fuss over things like this. Wrapping and the tree and stuff like that. I just — I don’t know it just makes me happy when I see that my actions put a smile on the faces of the people I love. “ 

“ Oh I wasn't judging. It’s sweet. “ 

For a while they stay in comfortable silence. Just them and the radio playing old Christmas songs. (Y/N)’s hands do quick work on the presents, Santa’s elves would be jealous. 

It’s the first time in a long time, that silence doesn’t make him feel uncomfortable. That it doesn’t open up the gates for the voices to grow louder and the bad images to consume his head. No, this silence feels comfortable. It’s soft and warm. It’s tinted in golds and reds. 

Maybe, he thinks, maybe seeking the company of someone who exudes joy and warmth does him good. Someone who knows him but not the bad. Never the bad. The faults, yes, the fears even, but not the blood that stains his hands or the vices he so desperately tries to fight.

“ What was the best Christmas present you ever got? “ (Y/N) speaks up as she glides a pair of scissors along the ribbon turning it into shiny curls. 

“ Millennium Falcon playset.” 

“ You and a million other little boys. “ 

“True. What can I say, I was easily pleased. What was yours ?”

(Y/N) thinks for a moment before a wistful smile settles on her face. 

“My bubblegum pink roller skates.”

“Oh, I remember those!”

And he did. Squeaky pink roller skates with 4 pastel blue wheels and glittery silver laces.

“I remember the following summer all you did was skate up and down the street.  “

“Yeeeah but that wasn’t entirely because of the skates.”

Frankie combs his hair from his face, he really needs to get it cut, and looks at her in confusion. “Huh?”

Another chuckle falls from (Y/N) ‘s lips. “I can’t believe you didn’t notice.”

“ Notice what?”

“That I had the biggest crush on you.”

Frankie is grateful for the fact that he’s not taking a sip of his drink right then, it surely would’ve ended in a spit-take. He was a nerdy kid, a nerdy teenager too. Kinda shy, a little lost. He wasn’t usually the boy that girls fancied.

“Me? You had a crush on me? “

It doesn’t make sense, not really. She was the one that was fascinating and exciting. Though he didn’t think of her that way when they were kids, he knew she was beautiful even back then. He hadn’t been interested in her romantically because she was a few years younger but that didn’t meanie didn’t realize the magic she held.

“Yes, you. You were cool, Frankie. You were older and you knew stuff about cars and planes and you could name every Star Wars spaceship and you had a skateboard. “

“I was a horrible skater.”

“Sure but it wasn’t so much about the skating as it was about the aesthetic. You were cool and you still are cool”

Frankie shrugs his shoulder nonchalantly. She thought he was cool, still does. No one ever thought he was cool. He isn’t a smooth talker like Pope and even he himself can admit that look wise he isn’t even playing in the same league as Will and Benny. But if (Y/N) thinks he’s cool that must mean something. Right ?

“You were the one traveling all over the world with your dad and you thought I was cool?”

She sets down the scissors, let’s her hands rest on her lap. There’s a sense of nervousness exuding from her now. Like the words she wants to speak are resting on the tip of her tongue and yet they are so difficult to speak.

“Maybe that was part of it too. I never had a real home. Nothing stable at least. Except for my grandparents’ house. This was home and you were, you are, forever entwined with my idea of home. Sometimes I missed this place so much that I’d sit in my room and my little brain would think of all the fun adventures we could go on if only I was old enough to hop on a 6 hour flight by myself. I’d ask grandma about you every time I called and she always told me what trouble you got into.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yeah and that only made you more exciting in my eyes. Then she’d offer to let me speak to you but I was too chicken shit to do it. Thought you might look right through my facade and realize how into you I was.”

“I was so oblivious, I can assure you I wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Well … it’s too late now.”

“I guess so. Just — next time you fall in love with me let me know, alright.”

Her laugh rings through the room like bells, like songs, like whispers of a childhood magic long forgotten.

“That only sounds fair. It’s a deal.”

“Good, now …. would you mind wrapping my gifts for Rosie?”

“Nope, but in return would you come see Leo’s play with me next week? My dad can’t come and I think Leo would like to have some more people there that support him. And he seems to think you’re cool so …”

“Huh guess if you both think so it must be true.”

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Of course I’ll come. “

She smiles and it sends a weird flicker through him. Like fire, like electricity. 

“ Now let me teach you how to curl the ribbon properly.”

[wangxiangiftexchange]

Winter Solstice Gift for koikoipond

For @koikoipond <3

Read on AO3

*****

Call it Crazy, Call it Meant to Be

The morning of the second day Wei Ying met his soulmate, he rolled out of bed and made it halfway to the bus stop before realizing he’d pulled on his bunny slippers, a gag gift from Jiejie, and left his slip-ons haphazardly discarded by the couch. He’d still made it to the bus in time, though just barely, and had to call in Mianmian to take over the newbie’s shift. All in all a normal start to any day he had to open up the coffee shop.

In short, the universe had not prepared his poor heart for the man who strode into Latte Mugs Cafe at five after six, riding the crest of the crisp December air like some sort of angel in a white wool sweater. The door’s bell rang far too muted than was usual.

Wei Ying stared for what his racing heart later deemed a good five minutes before his gaze, somewhat distorted by the glass of the display he was arranging, rose to meet the man’s golden eyes. Oh, crap.

He shot to his feet, waved nonsensically at the man, shouted some rendition of “We’ll be right with you!”, and bolted through the door to the back room, whisper-yelling for Mianmian.

As soon as the door swung shut behind him, Wei Ying put a hand on his wildly thumping heart and paused to calm his breathing. Why is he here? When Mianmian emerged from the storage shelves (only one unit of which was used to stock non-perishables; the rest were filled to the brim with what the employees could only assume were the owner’s personal items, or else the remains of some poor, traditional tea shop, based on the sheer number of handmade tea sets), he ran up to her, putting on his best pout and swinging an arm around her shoulders. She glared at him and he carefully removed it and took a step back. Right. No touching.

“Mianmian!” he panted, eyes swimming with both remembered beauty and mortification equally, “The man- the bell- his eyes- and he just came in!” His voice was rising dangerously, and Mianmian thankfully stopped him before the taco place next door banged on the wall again, or worse, Lan Zhan, heard him.

“Wei Ying. Bi Disaster. Whichever you prefer,” her flat voice cut through his panic and grounded him, like a mother forcing her child into a life jacket against his will. Mianmian was great. “First off, my name is Grandmaster Luo, as per our agreement if I won the bet. Which I did.”

An exclamation of protest came from Wei Ying. It was ignored which was completely unfair because the bet had been who could last the longest without getting drunk, and sure, technically, Wei Ying got drunk first, but Mianmian had just been sipping the same cocktail the whole night!

“Second, who are you talking about and why does it involve me?” Mianmian had closed last night, too. Usually, she was much more pleasant than Wei Ying was in the morning, but today he’d taken one look at her and offered to work the counter. He’d rather not have to file a witness statement for a murder he’d seen committed at six in the morning, thank you very much. His memory was bad on a good day. He contemplated for a moment if Lan Zhan would be able to handle her and vice versa, but he hadn’t seen so much as a wince from him when the man was literally blackout drunk, so Wei Ying was willing to chance it. Who could get mad at such a perfect face anyway?

“Luo-jie,” he whined, “it’s Lan Zhan.”

“What, another ex?” She looked unimpressed.

“No! I haven’t dated anyone since the guitarist, you know that!” The guitarist—Wei Ying had blocked his name, which he remembered to be just as sexy as the rest of him, out of his mind—had been a mistake to begin with; a summer hope that turned out to be all riffs and no harmony.

She just looked confused, now. Well, guess she wasn’t lying when she’d said she tunes him out.

“No, no! Luo-jie, this is Lan Zhan . From the bar. Last week?” He winced at the memory.

“Oh. Your soulmate,” she said, as if this was common knowledge to the man waiting outside.

“Shh! Not so loud, what if he hears?”

The look she gave him this time was beyond tired, the sort of look his old government teacher used to give him when he derailed the discussion for the third time. Fond memories.

She appears to give up on the conversation entirely, brushing past him and moving toward the door. “Wei Ying, we’re talking about this. Later.” She pauses, and before he can embarrass her for caring about him, she says, “I saw him. A man that beautiful doesn’t deserve to be stuck with a soulmark he can’t remember. Even if it is to you.” Ah, there was that smirk he knew and loved!

Mianmian informed him when Lan Zhan left only a few minutes later. Apparently, he had asked for a lemongrass tea and nothing else. He hadn’t said a word about Wei Ying, or even The Insane Barista. Wei Ying was not upset by this, truly. All it meant was that the call he’d received the morning after their...escapades...had been honestly meant. His mind drifted back to Saturday morning as he mindlessly retook his position at the counter and finished his shift.

Wei Ying bolted up, his cheap twin bed creaking in protest as his phone blared the opening bars of Britney Spears’ Toxic—his ringtone—far too loudly. (If he let it keep ringing, it was just the first, really annoying bars, repeated over and over. He was unbearably smug about it.)

He reached over, trying to ignore his pounding head, and nearly dropped the phone before managing to accept the call. He mumbled out, “Hi this is-” before a deep, slightly groggy voice cuts him off.

“I have called to apologize for last night.” Apologize? Wait, was this- “I do not know what I said or did after drinking the alcohol-” Lan Zhan? “-but my brother informs me that you brought me home.” It must be. Though, technically, Jiang Cheng did the actual driving. He, after all, had not been drunk.

“Well, actually-” he was cut off again. Funny, Wei Ying thought sardonically, he remembered Lan Zhan being more polite than this. Even when they’d vandalized  the dumpster together, he’d insisted they leave room for future law breakers.

“I am grateful for that.” There was a pause, evidently for Lan Zhan to gather his thoughts. Wei Ying decided not to test his luck and gather his own as well. His brain typically didn’t wake up till at least nine on the weekends, but here he was—he checked his phone—at seven AM on a Saturday trying to have a conversation with a guy that refused to listen to a thing he said.

He didn’t remember much about last night, but that was normal for him. If past experiences were to be learned from, most of it would come to him later in flashes and pitfalls of regret. Still, he’d thought… He freed his left hand from where it was tangled in the sheets and—just sat there and blinked at it. Yeah, that was a fully-colored soulmark, to be sure. Which was—something he’d never had before.

Just yesterday, the twisting lines that covered his left palm and creeped though his knuckles were black and lifeless. Now, his hand looked like some sort of moving painting. The dull, monotone patterns had shifted, forming blue and white elegant clouds and delicate red lotus petals that swirled around each other as if moved by wind. He bent his fingers to trace the lines.

He hadn’t dreamed it then! He and Lan Zhan were soulmates and he was talking to his soulmate (or his soulmate was talking to him) and take that Jiang Cheng!

Lan Zhan was speaking, “-we should not contact each other again. Goodbye.”

No. No! Lan Zhan didn’t know! “Wait!” but the call had already ended.

He’d needed the whole weekend on his jiejie’s couch with ice cream and soup to feel better about the whole business. See, the thing was, he wanted to talk to Lan Zhan about it. Mianmian was right; it wasn’t fair that the man now had a soulmark and no clue who he was tied to for life—literally. Once found, soulmates lived and died together, unless a powerful enough rejection broke the bond.

Every time Wei Ying opened the contact he’d created on his phone, he found himself shying away, a knot of anxiety coiling in his stomach and threatening to boil over into panic as it bound his hands and prevented any communication with Lan Zhan. He’d studied soulmates before, had taken two elective classes on them his freshman year of college. He knew the fear of a severed bond was merely psychological, a flight reaction to rejection.

Severed bonds were permanent and caused by verbal or otherwise evident rejection of a relationship between soulmates. Physically, soulmarks kept their color but stopped swirling across the skin, an obvious sign which led to the Unmoving’s ever-shifting status in society. Emotionally, the soulmates often sank into depression. And so it was ingrained into the body that such experiences should be avoided. Wei Ying’s worry, the possibility of never seeing Lan Zhan again, the fear that his soulmate didn’t want him, pushed his body to such reactions. The whole thing made it frustratingly difficult to just talk to him.

Mianmian remembered to catch him just as he was leaving. She’d spotted him while on her way to her old mustang and had flagged him down like he was speeding in a school zone.

In typical Mianmian style, she gave him a once over, noted his stressed and slightly shaky appearance and declared, “You need to call him. I know you have his number.” Maybe she did listen, sometimes.

He sighed, a burst of warm air that puffed out before him and chilled, disappearing as surely as his prospects with Lan Zhan. “It’s not that I don’t want to.” A look. “I’m not being evasive! I really, really do want to tell him. I know he doesn’t-” a pause, and he continued quieter, “doesn’t remember me or our bond but he’s so kind, he might accept it anyway. He did seem enthusiastic when he was drunk. But…”

Mianmian’s eyes softened and her face looked completely different. “I know I don’t tell you because frankly your head is usually too large to make it through the door in the morning, but you’re not bad-looking or mean or stupid. I mean, maybe you are sometimes and you can’t expect to match your Lan Zhan for beauty, but it’s not like you don’t have a chance.” The last time he’d heard this tone from her was when he’d had a breakdown in their walk-in refrigerator. It was strangely calming, bringing to mind his sister and her gentle touches.

He smiled, chuckling softly. “It’s not that. I know I’m a catch! Though maybe a ten where Lan Zhan’s off the scale,” he joked, “But I just physically can’t confess or whatever to him. He- he almost rejected me once, though he didn’t know about the bond. And maybe it’s not fair, but I can only picture a still soulmark whenever I consider calling him.” He hated revealing that about himself, but he knew Mianmian. They went out for drinks most Fridays and she could sniff out a lie from him while drunk and flirting with a different dude. Besides, despite her thorny words and genuine annoyance with him, she did care. She’d even treated him to drinks on his birthday.

Mianmian looked at him consideringly and nodded. She understood. “You’re scheduled for most of the morning shifts now since those two students were hired. I’ll try to join you and work the counter for a while.” She turned decisively and got in her car, accepting his thanks with a nod. ”Don’t be late.”

*~*~*~*~*

During the following week, they established a routine. He and Mianmian would arrive at the coffee shop, baking and preparing together until six when they opened. Wei Ying would disappear into the back room, getting blends together and cleaning until Lan Zhan left at around 6:30. He showed up at 6:05 most days, give or take a few minutes. On one notable occasion, he had walked up (he walked! When it was literally freezing outside!) to the cafe at 5:55 and Mianmian had graciously let him in while Wei Ying made himself scarce.

Strangely, not once had Lan Zhan ordered coffee. In the coffee shop! Instead, he asked for infuriatingly healthy teas and protein bars which unfortunately did not include Wei Ying's prized creation: sweet habanero bars. Wei Ying had started to wonder why he even came. Their tea wasn't even that good! Not that Wei Ying liked tea, particularly, so he had to admit that he was perhaps not the best judge.

Still, he wondered if the punctual ringing of the bell had anything to do with the pull in his own hand, in his own mind, that wanted him to be closer to Lan Zhan. That wanted him to touch him, to talk to him, to accept him. Soulmarks, after all, did not care if one knew their soulmate or not. They were connected anyway.

One day, a week after the near-disastrous second meeting, Mianmian had to take off. She'd been applying for jobs recently, hoping to find a secretarial position with stable enough hours and pay to allow her to continue her schooling in law. A place nearby had allowed an interview and she didn't have time to take the morning shift.

So here Wei Ying was at six in the morning, working the counter as an exhausted student he wasn't letting within ten feet of the espresso machine stumbled around in the back room. He was stressed himself, but for once it seemed to work in his favor, tiring him out so completely that he'd fallen asleep while the clock was still on PM. He figured if he had to see his soulmate today, at least he wouldn't look like the zombie he normally did.

Wei Ying watched as a figure in a blue the color of his soulmark— their soulmark, as he'd learned the patterns and colors of pairs tended to be mirrors of each other—strode, sure and steady, through the door right as the grandfather clock in the corner struck 6:05.

A flicker of something passed through those golden eyes—surprise, maybe?—as he approached the counter. Just like before, Wei Ying's heart began beating wildly, echoing loudly in his ears and nearly deafening him. This time, however, he could also feel a slight tug, like a silk string had wrapped itself around his heart and was now gently pulling him closer to its other end. His soulmate.

A deep, quiet voice cut through his thoughts, and he quickly lowered the hand, his left one, that had been slowly reaching out. As he came back to awareness, he was suddenly beyond grateful for the gloves he'd decided to wear today. His mark would be a dead giveaway. "Good morning. Is there a certain tea blend you would suggest?"

For a moment, Wei Ying was taken aback, distracted by the man's voice and lost in his eyes, not completely comprehending the question. "Wh- What?" he stammered. "Oh, um, I'm more of a coffee guy myself, what do you usually get?" He spoke quickly, the words tumbling out of his mouth. Was he revealing too much? Now Lan Zhan knew that Wei Ying knew he was a regular customer! Should he have just said Citrus! Tried and true ?

Lan Zhan's brow furrowed, a minuscule movement that would have been lost had Wei Ying not spent the last eternity staring at his eyes. He opened his mouth and Wei Ying decided that it was best if he focused on something else, in the interest of his own health. "I will take whichever coffee you prefer."

Wei Ying was speechless, a feat not many had achieved. Over the last week, he had used Mianmian as a spy, asking detailed questions about everything that Lan Zhan did. She was a surprisingly good sport about. The point was, Lan Zhan had always ordered tea, a different blend each day, and never anything else.

Lan Zhan turned around, unbothered by Wei Ying's confused and flustered state, and sat down at a two-person table next to the bookshelf. He pulled out a laptop from his bag and began typing away. Wei Ying squinted at the screen in disbelief, but couldn't make out the words from this angle.

He shook himself and went about preparing the mocha, opting to skip over the spice he liked to add. A memory of a truth-or-dare game in which Lan Zhan admitted disliking spicy foods provided a hazy warning. A shame, if you asked Wei Ying, but he hadn't. Wei Ying had told him anyway.

He paused before bringing the drink over to his soulmate. It just looked so sad, both the drink and Lan Zhan, sitting quietly in an empty coffee shop as the sky only just began to awaken. He still didn't think he could properly talk to the man if his performance earlier was anything to go by, but maybe he could...

He reached into the display case, wrapped his gift in a napkin, and delivered Lan Zhan's drink, a little addition tucked neatly beside it. He turned and just about ran to the counter, pulling out a rag and cleaning non-existent spills until Lan Zhan left.

When he finally heard the door close, Wei Ying straightened up from his bunker and drifted, dazed, over to clean Lan Zhan's table, finding only an empty cup. Wei Ying smiled. His heart-shaped ginger cookie hadn't been abandoned, despite the bold way it was offered. Perhaps he wouldn't be, either.

Emboldened by his success, Wei Ying called Mianmian and resumed his position at the counter, a plan formed and ready to be completed. He wasn't sure if it was caused by the civil and promising conversation yesterday or sheer eagerness, but he thought, just maybe, that he'd be able to get himself to talk to Lan Zhan. Hopefully.

*~*~*~*~*

At 6:05, Wei Ying was doubting his chances. He watched as Lan Zhan walked up to the counter, just as confidently as he had the day before, steadily getting closer. As Wei Ying had found tended to happen when one moved. His breathing quickened, the now expected response to his soulmate's presence, and he responded to the sharp tug in his chest by stepping back, just slightly. He was distinctly reminded of a prey animal trapped by a predator.

Instead of biting his head off, Lan Zhan simply stepped up to the counter and examined the fresh pastries sitting in the display case, for whatever reason ignoring the barista's slightly gaping mouth.

Wei Ying swallowed, stood up straighter than he did when he visited Madam Yu, and summoned up this morning's courage that had so suddenly abandoned his poor self.

"Welcome to Latte Mugs Cafe! What can I get you?" There, his voice barely shook!

Lan Zhan hummed—wow, that was way hotter than it should have been—and tilted his head just the slightest bit to glance at the menu on the wall. "I will have a mocha."

He'd liked it then! Wei Ying hadn't pegged Lan Zhan as a chocolate person, but he supposed he might have a secret sweet tooth. "No problem. It'll only take a few minutes. Would you like to make it a Mexican mocha?" He couldn't help but recommend it, not after he'd worked so hard to get it on the menu. He'd written an essay to the owner. Besides, he'd taken Wei Ying’s mocha suggestion and eaten his cookie. He wondered what Lan Zhan would do with something Wei Ying knew he didn’t like.

His stomach turned a little at the thought that he was getting to know more about Lan Zhan and he wondered idly if he could really blame all of this on their soul bond or if he should take responsibility for his traitorous heart. He dismissed the thought. If anything, Lan Zhan should be the one taking responsibility merely by virtue of existing. That thought twisted his insides even more. Ugh .

Lan Zhan gave a little noise that Wei Ying chose to interpret as assent before sitting back down. He stared in surprise for a minute at his turned back before carefully preparing the drink. When it was done, he once again paused before rounding the counter. Surely, Lan Zhan needed to eat something with his coffee. Who knew if he'd even eaten breakfast? He bent down, scanning the available treats, and plucked one from the shelf, placing it carefully on a napkin before bouncing over to Lan Zhan's little table by the bookshelf, trademark grin in place. Courage, don't fail me now.

"Hello, Sir! One mexican mocha right here!" All of his best (and worst) decisions had been made by following his instincts. He pulled the chair around from the other side of the table, scraping it loudly across the rough tile, and decidedly sat down, holding out his bright red offering with only a moderate heart attack. "It's a habanero bar! I made the recipe and it pairs perfectly with the Mexican mocha, trust me. Oh, and I'll pay for it, of course." Technically untrue, but he didn't think he could steal something he'd made.

Lan Zhan looked a little surprised if Wei Ying had interpreted the meaning of that blink correctly. Was he regretting his spicy choices? Still, he reached out a hand and took the treat with an appreciative nod. "Thank you, Wei Ying."

What. "Eh? How'd you know my name?" Oh please for the love of all that is beautiful, don't bring up the bar. Lan Zhan had forgotten. He had! But if he hadn't, then...

"Your name tag."

Oh. Maybe the three coffees he'd had this morning in preparation had...altered his cognitive abilities. At least, that was the story he was going with.

"Well! You have me at a disadvantage, then!” Yeah, because he’s hiding a night of crimes and a soul bond from you. “What might the name of this handsome one be?" Should he be flirting? Where was the button to turn it off?? Then again, Lan Zhan was his soulmate . If there was one person in his life he was supposed to flirt with, surely it was him.

"Lan Zhan." Were his ears red? Was he hot? Was he blushing ? The rest of his face maintained its pale composure, but his ears were gently dusted pink. Lan Zhan had been inside too long to attribute it to the biting wind outside. Wei Ying's grin widened. Not even when the man had woken up wasted had he seen him blush!

"Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan," he rolled the well-worn name in his mouth, a teasing lilt to his voice as he tasted how his tongue completed a pleasant circle around the syllables. This time, their flavor was not regretful or drunken or stressed. Simply Lan Zhan.

Wei Ying did not leave. Instead, he just started talking about all sorts of things—his job, his siblings, Mianmian. As he fell into the familiar pattern of rambling for as long as people will listen, he found himself relaxing.

"You'd think we wouldn't be that great of friends. We're coworkers in a coffee shop! But even though she claims I'm an annoying gremlin who wouldn't know his head from a rock in a lineup, she still comes out to get drinks with me—at Marco's, a few minutes away—every Friday. Sometimes, she even brings her new boyfriends! Which is like taking your partner to meet the weird relatives. I think she might use it as some sort of test. I drink them under the table nearly every time, though, so I hope they failed." He realizes, belatedly, that he'd accidentally mentioned the bar. One of literally two subjects to avoid. He discreetly eyed Lan Zhan's face, but there was no reaction, no indication of familiarity, just two golden eyes, gazing at him with interest as his soulmate listened.

Wei Ying’s heart stuttered, dangerously close to giving out altogether.

Eventually, Lan Zhan had to leave, quick movements revealing just how late he was for music lessons—he taught children to play the guqin! For a living!—and Wei Ying smiled brightly as he watched him disappear down the street. See , he thought to himself, there was nothing to be worried about.

The plan had gone off without a hitch. Not only had he managed to talk to Lan Zhan, but he'd also been able to get several responses from him, filling up the part of his memory reserved for the man he wouldn't ever forget.

These new pearls of knowledge he kept close: Lan Zhan was a music teacher and occasional performer with a local traditional music group. He taught and played the guqin most often but had played the violin in his high school orchestra. During his studies for university, he had learned several other string instruments and the french horn. He had an older brother, Lan Huan. He liked rabbits.

During the course of the next week, he learned these things and protected them: Lan Zhan and his brother had been raised by their uncle. They were not religious, but his family was traditional. Lan Zhan had gone to a private school. He hadn't liked it. Lan Zhan's mother was dead. He spoke of his father in the past tense. Both of his parents were Unmoving, their soul bonds broken. Lan Zhan hadn’t known if they were meant for each other or not. He despised lying in all of its forms.

There were also these things which laid soft and fond in Wei Ying's heart: Lan Zhan did not, in fact, like spice. He enjoyed drinking tea and reading a book in the park when it was warm outside. He preferred mysteries. He did not mind Wei Ying's chatter. He adored his students, one of which had little natural talent but had gone to region-wide contests. He was a lover of poetry and a hobbiest composer. He said "Wei Ying" as if the world spun around his name.

Talking with Lan Zhan was an experience greater than words. Many things Lan Zhan meant, he did not say. None of the things he said were to be taken for granted. With him, silence was just as comforting a companion as the loud atmosphere Wei Ying tended to create. It settled peaceful and honest around them. They sat, drank, and ate together as if they were friends of many years and not relative acquaintances. Like there wasn’t a secret resting between them like a viper waiting for its prey.

*~*~*~*~*

A week after their first meeting, it snowed. Flakes drifted down beneath a grey sky, piling up in the cracks on the sidewalks, on the windowsills, dusting the beanie of a certain Lan Zhan that strode in slowly even as he shivered from beneath his coat. Rosy cheeks and ears adorned a normally pale, jade-like face, tousled hair falling down to frame it as he removed the beanie. Wei Ying fell in love a little more at the adorable scene.

Once he’d made Lan Zhan's spiced apple tea, Wei Ying drifted over with his own latte, a chocolate chip cookie in hand.

"Do you own a car, Lan Zhan?" Wei Ying was curious. Surely he could have simply driven here, or even gone straight to work and skipped the weather entirely.

"Mn. I have lessons all over the city and we often perform hours away from here." Then why , Wei Ying thought, would you come here when it’s below freezing outside? He did not voice the question, though, because Lan Zhan's jaw had shifted just slightly, the difference a clear declaration: his mind could not be changed about this. Fine. He’d let Lan Zhan live with his choices.

Wei Ying laughed and changed the subject, reaching out to draw patterns in the cream of Lan Zhan’s coffee with his straw . "When's your next performance?"

Lan Zhan sat for a moment, thinking. "We do not have one lined up. We've been practicing to release an album recently."

"Oh really? Why? Just earlier this week you mentioned that the group didn't have the resources for it." He really hoped they would, though. Maybe with a solo piece from Lan Zhan? He hadn't heard him play yet, a true shame.

"Mn. I found a sound artist." His voice was sure and steady as he stared at Wei Ying, who looked away and chuckled awkwardly.

"You should have told me that was all you needed! I would have done the job for free, as long as you played for me. I have a bachelor's in audio engineering, you know!" To be honest, Wei Ying was a little hurt that he'd not been considered, or else Lan Zhan had tuned him out during one of the times when he had just spewed whatever came to mind.

Before he turned around, he felt a hand on his through his left glove and he flinched at the sensitive contact on his mark. Still, he longed to grasp Lan Zhan’s hand and never let go .  "Wei Ying. It is you," he paused, and slowly removed his hand, the echoes of his fingertips burning trails on Wei Ying's skin even through the fabric. "If you choose to accept." He takes a breath, and says, quieter, "I would like it very much if you did."

Like a lightbulb turned back on, Wei Ying brightened immediately, an obvious flush of embarrassment darkening his cheeks. He leaned forward, throwing his arms around Lan Zhan in a hug both to hide his face and to just get closer. Wei Ying mumbled into his shoulder, "Of course. Of course I accept. Thank you so much!" He leaned back after a too-short moment, looking Lan Zhan in the eyes and smiling. "When do I start?"

They settled all the details. Wei Ying would be attending their 6 PM practice three days a week for a month before recording and editing the final tracks. He would, actually, be paid, though they couldn't afford the usual rates. That was fine with him. Really, he just needed to put something in the ‘Experience’ section of his resume. Well, plus his overwhelming desire to hear Lan Zhan play his guqin.

When Lan Zhan opened the door to leave, Wei Ying called out for him to stop. He stepped forward exactly one step, in a completely normal and not-at-all-nervous way. He opened his mouth, closed it, and blurted out before he could change his mind, "Doyouwannagetdinnerwithme?"

Lan Zhan gave him a flat look, but the mischievous glint in his eyes betrayed his understanding. Wei Ying took a steadying breath, fought the urge to glare, and stated loudly and clearly, "Will you go out with me later tonight?” His face felt like it was on fire. “As thanks for the job?" No one would ever guess the stone-faced man had a sense of humor, but Wei Ying was living evidence of it.

Finally, after a beat of silence during which Wei Ying mourned his stolen heart, Lan Zhan nodded once. "I will pick you up at your house at seven. Where do you live?"

The pure excitement that filled Wei Ying at Lan Zhan’s acceptance prevented any protest about how he was supposed to take Lan Zhan out and gave the man his address. As the ever-present bell marked Lan Zhan's departure, all Wei Ying could think was that he had a date. That he had a chance .

His palm tingled in anticipation as he ran to the back room to tell Mianmian the good news, filled with all the details she couldn’t get while eavesdropping.

*~*~*~*~*

Five minutes after getting in the car, Wei Ying regretted letting Lan Zhan drive. He should have risked his unused license or else simply called a cab because they were nowhere near the restaurant he had suggested, and he didn't know what to tell Lan Zhan if the man picked a nicer place. A barista was only paid so much!

Still, Lan Zhan refused to turn the car around or even explain himself when Wei Ying asked. He simply kept his eyes fixed on the road, staring at it as if it might disappear if refused Lan Zhan’s attention (Wei Ying sympathized). That determined set to his jaw was firmly in place. His eyes narrowed, and Wei Ying had the distinct impression that he was a man on a mission. Wei Ying just wished he'd been given a briefing.

Cars passed in pools of red and white that blended well into the background of a late December metropolis. Only about a week was left until Christmas and the trees were adorned with brightly glowing lights that bathed the streets in a familiar mix of artificial fluorescence and beauty.

He liked this time of year, enjoyed how his apartment complex decorated its buildings, smiled when the granny next door brought him homemade cookies and hot chocolate. He didn't even mind the cold that much, not when branching frost framed the windows and Lan Zhan's cheeks flushed red.

They were stuck in Friday night traffic for longer than he suspected Lan Zhan had planned, based on the finger softly tapping on the wheel, but eventually, Lan Zhan drove into a parking garage a good distance away from any restaurant Wei Ying knew and got out.

They walked a few blocks, glad for the several layers of clothes (Wei Ying actually had a reason to wear gloves, for once), before stopping at the entrance to one of the city's parks. A stone path twisted through the trees, a canopy of a million white stars enclosing the area and welcoming the two of them.

He grinned, turning to Lan Zhan and teasing, "I think we skipped a step. Romantic walks through the woods go after dinner."

A drawn-out, "Mn," the one that meant 'ridiculous', was the only answer he received. Instead, Lan Zhan smiled , which—wow. Illegal.—and offered Wei Ying his arm with far too much confidence. He blushed, hoped it wasn't visible in the lighting, and took it, only feeling slightly like some sort of flustered Victorian maiden.

Did Lan Zhan know what he was doing? Did he take every friend and business associate out to fairy gardens when they asked him to dinner?

Thoroughly confused but aware that Lan Zhan wasn't going to answer any pointed questions, he decided to enjoy the evening and pester him about the food instead.

"Lan Zhaaan," he whined, staring at the way the lights gave Lan Zhan's face an ethereal glow, " “When are you going to feed your poor A-Ying?"

At this, Lan Zhan put his other hand on Wei Ying's where it was nestled in the crook of his elbow in a comforting gesture and reassured, his voice calm, "We are almost there."

Wei Ying spent the rest of the walk as he was accustomed to doing around Lan Zhan—talking his ear off. He admired the lights, expressed his appreciation for Lan Zhan's outfi—a dark blue coat over Wei Ying's favorite knitted white sweater—and asked about the songs his group had chosen for their concert.

He couldn't wait to hear Lan Zhan play. He suspected music was the quieter man's true outlet for expressing his feelings, a language without the burden of words.

Lan Zhan spoke too, not as often or as loud, but he answered and asked questions of his own. Did Wei Ying play an instrument too? He had—flute in high school, though he preferred the piccolo, all the better to annoy people with. Portable, too! Why did he like alcohol? It was the experience, more than the taste, especially at a cheap place like Marco's. Was he planning on getting his Master's? He wasn't sure. He wanted to pay off some of his student loans before getting deeper in debt.

The easy conversation made Wei Ying relax, happy as always to be around Lan Zhan. It was strange to think that a week ago, he’d never met the man. He didn’t think he could live without him now.

Finally, they took a smaller, branching path, and Wei Ying gasped at its end; a white gazebo bathed in soft purple lights sat like a fairy house among gleaming trees.

He released Lan Zhan's elbow and took a step forward before looking back at his companion with an open mouth.

"You...you arranged all of this?" he asked, wonder coloring his voice.

Another "Mn," accompanied by a self-satisfied tightening of the mouth.

Wei Ying had long since given up trying to understand any of Lan Zhan's actions, but he was hopelessly endeared all the same. He grabbed his arm again, this time pulling him up the wooden steps and squealing in glee.

To one side there was a table laden with all sorts of foods, including, he was overjoyed to note, many dyed deliciously red. On the other side of the gazebo, a long, low table sat, a intricately carved, dark guqin resting atop it. A cushion, metal heater, and blanket were laid before the instrument, ready for use.

Impressed, Wei Ying went to inspect the dishes closer, his growling stomach refusing to wait any longer. He wondered at what time today Lan Zhan had time to set all of this up. Had he canceled some of his lessons?

Sitting down, he voiced his question, mouth watering at the appetizing smells.

Lan Zhan filled both of their plates, picking out for him nearly exactly what Wei Ying would have chosen, and answered, "I reserved the gazebo, but my brother set this up less than an hour ago." Wei Ying was incredibly grateful for Lan Huan. His food was still hot!

The meal passed mostly in silence. Though Lan Zhan had no problem talking over tea, he did not like to have a conversation around bites of food. For once, Wei Ying was happy not to say anything, simply appreciating the companionship and good meal.

He tried not to think too much about why Lan Zhan was doing all of this. He wasn't stupid, was in fact painfully and adoringly aware of the romantic setting, but that fear he had thought long since gone crept around his heart, daring him to hope and be crushed in its vindication. So he swallowed his words and ate his food in borrowed peace.

By the time they finished, Wei Ying's stomach was pleasantly full and he beamed at Lan Zhan, thanking him for the meal. Lan Zhan nodded and stood up, helping Wei Ying to his feet and leading him to the waiting cushion and—Wei Ying hoped—the performance.

"You really prepared!" He teased, pulling the blanket over himself.

Lan Zhan turned on the heater—the quiet, expensive kind—and hummed.

Then, he lowered himself onto his own cushion (sans blanket) and reached out to his guqin, warming up for a moment before glancing at Wei Ying, a suddenly hesitant edge to his eyes. "Are you ready?"

Wei Ying's smile softened and he nodded, fondness for the talented man before him almost unbearable. Lan Zhan returned his focus to the instrument and began to play.

It felt like the constant tug around his heart, like the many words that lay behind them and the greater part left unspoken, like 6:05 in the morning and laughter that tastes like coffee beans.

He closed his eyes and let the music fill him, heart thrumming in time with the music and creating  streams of pure feeling that branched out through his body until it reached his left palm. Wei Ying curled his hand in on itself. He wanted to memorize the sensation, its slight pain magnified and singular, but still a pull, a tug on his very soul. The feeling that encouraged him, warned him around Lan Zhan, his longing.

Wei Ying opened his eyes, simply gazing at where Lan Zhan kneeled behind his guqin, the gazebo’s lights framing his form as his graceful hands plucked at the strings, playing a song straight from his soul. He breathed in the cold air, letting it calm him and douse the burning in his veins.

As he played, Wei Ying felt his fear melt in the face of the pure emotion Lan Zhan channeled through the strings, felt his guilt harden into resolve because Lan Zhan didn’t know.

He kept silent for the moment, though. He needed to let Lan Zhan finish the piece, not only because silencing those strings now when all of Lan Zhan’s soul shaped the notes seemed cruel, but also because Wei Ying was greedy, and selfish. He wanted to keep this last, perfect memory, wanted to lock it in his heart like a golden thorn, a stolen parting gift if his words were not welcomed.

And so Lan Zhan played.

Wei Ying could not say how long it was before the song ended, could only center his mind around the swirling clouds that he knew curled across his palm, hidden like a shame when they were anything but. Finally, the last notes faded like acceptance into the cold night, and Wei Ying breathed in, and out, and longed.

“Lan Zhan.” It came out as a whisper, a ghost of a declaration. He needed a barrier between the song and his precipice of honesty. “What-” he stalled, biting back the hope, the despair. “What did you name it?”

Lan Zhan raised his gaze from where it had been fixed on the instrument, seeking out Wei Ying. He stood up in one smooth motion and crossed to where Wei Ying sat, pinned beneath golden eyes filled with something . An emotion he hadn’t seen, hadn’t categorized.

Carefully, Lan Zhan lowered himself to sit on the large cushion. He slid his gaze to Wei Ying’s left hand clenched on his knee, lifting his own and gently taking it, seeming to gauge Wei Ying’s reaction, but he only tilted his head in confusion. Why..?

Lan Zhan began pulling off his glove.

Wei Ying yanked his hand back. He couldn’t- why would he? He was going to tell him about the mark, but why did he want to know? Did he suspect he was Unmoving? Would he hate him if he knew the truth? That Wei Ying had played him for a fool, too cowardly to tell him about their bond?

At the stressed, almost wounded look in Lan Zhan’s eyes, Wei Ying made an aborted movement, reaching to comfort him. “Oh, Lan Zhan…” he breathed. He didn’t touch him, but after a moment of hesitation, offered his hand to his soulmate, palm up. Lan Zhan had merely been braver than he had, after all. The result would be the same.

Lan Zhan’s eyes softened and he carefully tugged off the glove, revealing the incriminating, promising, honest pattern. Twisting designs of blue clouds and red lotuses covered both their palms, side by side, blurred together as his throat closed and breath hitched. He made to move away, to leave Lan Zhan with the knowledge of his lie, but his wrist was gently but firmly held in place.

He sighed. Lan Zhan wanted him to say it, to confess, and suddenly the courage of a few minutes ago seemed out of his reach.

“Lan Zhan, you’re so good. Too good. Too good for me.” His breath caught. “I- I’ve known. This whole time.” He looked Lan Zhan in his clear, gentle eyes. “Lan Zhan. We’re soulmates. We have been since you got drunk at the bar.” He let out a shaky laugh, the first tear making its way down his cheek. “Well, I suppose we’ve been soulmates forever, but I found you then, and fell in love a little. You don’t remember, but you said you were happy. You went around showing random people your mark.” He was rambling again, but he couldn’t stop and nor could he leave.

He released it all, all of the caged words he should have laid at Lan Zhan’s feet a week ago. “I was so excited when you called me that morning. I thought you wanted to talk, to form a real relationship, but then you- you wouldn’t listen and it wasn’t your fault , you’d been drunk for the first time in your life, had a killer hangover I’m sure. But I- I thought if I called you, you’d just do the same thing again and leave me but then we became friends and I didn't want you to leave so I didn’t tell you and-”

“I am not.” Lan Zhan cut him off, voice quiet and pained, but firm.

“What?” he sniffled.

“I have not left you. I am not abandoning you, Wei Ying.” His eyes were pleading, filled with sincerity. He looked—so earnest and Wei Ying froze, uncertain.

“But—you hate lying.”

“I do not like hypocrites either. Wei Ying-” He looked away for the first time and Wei Ying panicked for a brief moment, what did I do wrong , before Lan Zhan spoke again, ears a deeper shade of red. “I knew too. This whole time.”

“What.” What?? Whatever Wei Ying had been expecting, it hadn’t been this.

“My brother was there at the bar. He...told me the next morning, but I did not handle the news well. I am sorry. I was simply surprised, and nervous. I did not remember you.”

Wei Ying was reeling. Lan Zhan knew and didn’t tell him but that was unfair because Wei Ying hadn’t told him either, so they’d both known, separately, and here they were, taking each other on a date and Wei Ying laughed, crazed at first, and desperate, but then an exclamation of pure joy. The atmosphere was romantic, after all.

He laughed and laughed and like a guqin string worn from loving use, the tension broke. He threw himself at his soulmate, at Lan Zhan, and hugged him until Lan Zhan hugged him back, until their eyes stung from tears and their voices grew hoarse from repeating the other’s name.

Wei Ying pulled back, cheeks flushed in the cold and eyes shining as he looked up at a soft smile. He reached out, cupping Lan Zhan’s cheek and resting their foreheads together, the contact burning, melting the longing that had become a permanent fixture  inside of him. Breaths mingled, puffing out in this warm space between them for a timeless moment.

With confidence born not from instinct or daring, but rather a heart securely held, he closed the distance between them, brushing winter-chapped lips against Lan Zhan’s soft ones, his last confession a raw whisper, returned with the same gravity it was given.

From then on, he held this warm truth in his heart: Lan Zhan loved Wei Ying, his soulmate.

Breathless and overwhelmed, he entwined their hands, bared patterns moving against each other, together. Nothing lay between them now, no confessions and no secrets. Only these: a prayer, a completed promise, and a bright future.

Extra:

“So, how did you know?” Wei Ying asked, exploring Lan Zhan’s purse.

He hummed, amused. “You told me yourself.”

“I did not! I’m pretty sure that was, like, goal number one. ‘Don’t tell Lan Zhan!’” he recited, voice playfully serious.

Lan Zhan brushed the hair out of Wei Ying’s eyes and took his left hand, fingers tracing the evidence of their bond.

“You waved.”

“But I had on gloves- oh.” He hadn’t, not yet. He only started wearing them after Lan Zhan had walked in the first day. “So you walked into some random shop and saw your soulmate who immediately disappeared.”

“Mn.” Lips brushed the top of his head.

Wei Ying laughed at himself as he went back to the purse. You could learn a lot from what a person kept in theirs! He pulled out a piece of paper, a half-composed score, handing it to Lan Zhan and looking deeper. Some chapstick (no wonder his lips were so soft!), several pens, a book on music theory, and—what was this? He grabbed it and brought it to the light. One of the cafe’s napkins, something wrapped inside. What? He peeled away the months-old paper, a breath caught in his lungs as the object was revealed.

It was the cookie, the heart-shaped ginger crisp he’d given Lan Zhan the first time he’d taken his order.

“You! What am I going to do with you!” he laughed, the sound bright and joyful as he tackled his soulmate in a hug.

“Marry me.”

“WHAT?!!”

[ft-dads-au]

The Sweetest  Birthday

Gratsu Weekend 2020 Prompt: Sweet Pairing(s): Gray x Natsu, Sting x Rogue A Collaboration by @mdelpin​ and @oryu404​

AO3 |  FF.Net |Takes place after Taken By Storm

December 27, 2020

It was almost three in the morning when Natsu arrived home from his shift at Fairy Tail. He was exhausted, but also looking forward to being able to get up late for once. He checked all the downstairs doors and windows to make sure they were locked before making his way upstairs to his bedroom as quietly as possible.

He planned on taking a quick shower to get the stench of cigarettes out of his hair before crawling into bed. It was only after he’d peeled his clothes off that he looked to his bed, seeing two small bodies already asleep on it.

He sighed tiredly, all thoughts of a peaceful slumber eradicated by the restless way his children were moving in their sleep. Once in the shower, he thought about how hard Christmas had been for all of them. It was the first one since Lisanna’s death, and they had all taken it hard, her absence once again opening wounds that had only recently begun to heal.

Natsu had tried to keep her alive for the kids, encouraging them to make her a present while he had bought her a bouquet of her favorite flowers. They had placed their gifts at the small shrine they had created for her in their home. Looking back maybe that had been a mistake, but he couldn’t bear the thought of his children forgetting their mother like he had forgotten his.

He dried himself off and put on some pajama pants over his boxers before climbing into bed, both children automatically reaching for him in their sleep. He could hear Hana’s whimpers and gently threaded his fingers through her hair to soothe her even as he wrapped his other arm around her, pulling her closer to him until she settled down.

He soon fell into a dreamless sleep, which was interrupted by the distinct feeling that he was being watched. Natsu blinked his eyes open, already regretting it as he realized it was still dark outside.

“Please not yet guys, Daddy is tired,” he whined, and to their credit, both Hana and Atlas tried to be still, but they were Dragneels, and that just wasn’t working in his favor.

“Alright, alright,” he mumbled ten minutes later, getting up from his bed and moving downstairs. He turned on the television, flipping channels until he found cartoons, then stretching out on the couch in the hopes that he would be allowed to snooze, but Atlas climbed on top of him, giving him a sloppy kiss on the cheek before snuggling into his chest.

He had almost fallen asleep again when Hana called out to him. “Daddy, do you think we can open the oven today?”

Natsu held Atlas against him as he sat up, making room for Hana next to him. “Yeah, are you sure you want to do it with me and not Aunty Erza or Mira?”

She nodded shyly, “You make the best cakes.”

Natsu chuckled, “Alright, give me a few minutes to wake up, and we’ll get it set up.”

Hana got up and ran towards the kitchen excitedly, “I’ll make you some coffee!”

“Well, there goes my sleep,” he muttered under his breath. He wasn’t too concerned though, he knew he’d get through the day somehow. He always did.

He could hear the coffee machine going and wondered what had possessed his sister to teach Hana how to use it, then again, Erza had always marched to the beat of her own drum.

Natsu got up and entered the kitchen, opening up the pantry and grabbing some cereal. He put some in a snack cup and added milk in a sippy cup, taking them both out to his son, who was now completely immersed in his show.

By the time he’d returned to the kitchen, Hana had already prepared his coffee just the way he liked it, and he had to smile. She was such a sweet girl, which was why he’d felt terrible when his Christmas present had backfired.

He’d remembered that Lisanna had promised her an Easy Bake Oven when she was old enough, but he hadn’t factored in that part of the promise had been that she would teach her how to use it. Rather than the excitement he’d anticipated at the present, Hana had broken down into inconsolable tears for the first time in months, and he hadn’t known what to do. So Erza had moved the present out of sight, and they hadn’t discussed it since.

But now she had moved it to the kitchen counter, and Natsu set about helping her open the box. He had gotten her the deluxe one, so it came with an apron and baking tools.

He helped her put on the apron as they looked through all the mixes together, picking a chocolate one to get started. He helped her follow the instructions, both grimacing when they tasted the results.

“That’s nothing like your cakes,” Hana complained, looking outraged.

Natsu laughed, “Mine aren’t all that great kiddo, I think you’re a bit biased.”

Hana’s eyes widened in puzzlement.

“Biased, it means you think good things about me cause you like me.” Natsu explained, “Still, I do think we can do better than that.”

“I want to make a cake for Uncle Sting,” Hana confided, “one that’s as good as yours.”

“What about for Uncle Rogue?” Natsu teased as he went back into the pantry and began taking out the ingredients they would need.

“I guess he could have some too, but only if Uncle Sting says it’s okay. They’re not very big,” Hana pointed out.

“True enough!” Natsu knew it had more to do with his daughter’s childish crush on his friend, but he also knew better than to bring attention to it. “I think I was just about your age when my mom taught me how to make cakes,” Natsu chatted as he opened drawers looking for the bowls, measuring cups and spoons they would need.

Once he had everything assembled, he went into the broom closet and got out a step stool so that Hana could help. “She always made us cakes for our birthdays, said nothing tasted sweeter than a treat made with love in your heart, or something like that.”

Telling Hana about that reminded Natsu of something Gildarts had mentioned in passing the night before. Today was Gray’s birthday. It had surprised him at first that he hadn’t known considering how much time they’d been spending together for the last few months, but then again, Gray was very tight-lipped about himself. Natsu knew his friend was going through a hard time, although he didn’t know many of the details outside of the fact that he was in the middle of getting a divorce.

Even though he had a feeling that Gray would rather let the day go unnoticed, Natsu felt an urge to do something for the man. Gray had humored him on Lisanna’s birthday, dancing with him when anyone else would have laughed off the request or even punched him for daring to ask. Natsu had to imagine the shots he’d drunk before all the well-meaning questions had become overwhelming were to blame for the impulsive request, although he had an inkling it had also had something to do with the pain he had sensed within Gray.

A pain that had become even more evident to him as they’d danced. Lost as he’d been in his thoughts of Lisanna, he’d still managed to recognize how vulnerable Gray had felt and looked in his arms, and he’d decided then to put aside all their petty differences. They each had enough on their plates without having to contend with a stupid rivalry.

And now that Gray had decided to help him get his GED, spending all that time and energy on him, Natsu wanted to do something in return. He just didn’t know what. He didn’t really have much extra money, and what he had he’d spent on Christmas presents for his family.

He thought about his mother’s words, the ones he’d just repeated to Hana, and even though he’d always made it a rule to only do this for his immediate family, and of course Lisanna, Natsu decided just this once he would make an exception. After all, wasn’t family the people who helped take care of you when you needed it and pushed you to be better even when you were scared? And hadn’t Gray been doing precisely that?

Natsu looked down at Hana and gave her a quick hug before announcing, “First, we’re going to need to crack some eggs.”

0-0

Natsu examined the end results of his hard work with a frown before shrugging away his doubt. Decorating had never been his strong suit, but he knew from experience the cake would taste fine, and he was reasonably sure his friend was partial to the color blue. It still threw him a little that he’d decided to go this route. But after all the time and energy Gray had been putting in to help him prepare for the first test, he felt like they had grown closer.

Still, even after spending so much time together these past few months, Natsu didn’t feel like he knew much about the guy. It didn’t really concern him though, he’d always believed that everyone was entitled to their secrets, and it wasn’t like he talked about his own past all that much either.

After finding one of the cake boxes Erza seemed to always have on hand and placing the cake inside, he went on a search for his phone, ultimately finding it in between the sofa cushions. He searched for Gray’s name in his contact list, picking up toys from the floor and putting them in baskets as he waited for him to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Natsu greeted, “I wanted to call and wish you a Happy Birthday! Are you busy?”

“Me?” Gray scoffed, “Hardly, I’m just hanging out at the Bean for a bit.”

“Want some company? That way, I can drop off your present,” Natsu suggested, still doing a cleaning sweep of the living room.

“Yeah, sure, but you didn’t have to get me anything,” Gray protested even though Natsu could hear a change in his voice, and he grinned. It seemed even Gray got excited about presents.

“Trust me,” Natsu laughed, thinking of the misshapen mess he’d just boxed, “It’s not much.”

“I’ll be here.”

“Alright, I’ll see you in a few,” Natsu said before hanging up.

He called out to his sister, who was in the playroom with the kids. He’d been hoping she’d come out by herself, but instead, both kids followed her.

“What is it?”

“Is it okay if I take the car for a little while? I want to go to Magnolia Bean to meet up with Gray and give him his present.”

“That’s fine, I have no plans to go anywhere,” Erza was giving him that look again, one he recognized from years of experience. There was something she wanted to say to him, but she was afraid it would upset him, which meant whatever it was probably would.

He was about to call her on it when two eager little voices begged to be brought along. They pouted and cried and tried every trick they could think of, but he remained firm.

“Not this time, guys, I won’t even be gone that long,” he promised.

Atlas looked up at him with teary eyes, “Cookie?”

Natsu had to roll his eyes at the blatant manipulation, but he hugged them both to his chest and agreed. “If you behave while I’m gone I’ll get you each a treat from Magnolia Bean, alright? But only if Auntie Erza says you were good.”

Both children nodded eagerly before running off to play with the hoard of Christmas presents they had received.

“Be back in a bit, and I’ll get you something too,” he assured Erza with a grin before grabbing the cake box and the keys and heading outside.

Ten minutes later, he entered the busy coffee shop, looking for his friend, and finding him seated in one of the comfy armchairs.

“You must have been here a while to be able to score one of these,” Natsu plopped in the chair across from him, carefully placing the cakebox on the small table between them.

“Hey,” Gray smiled briefly, grabbing a large coffee cup from another table and handing it to him.

“Thanks!” He went to take a sip to warm up from the freezing weather when he noticed a phone number scribbled on his cup.

“Um, this for you?”

“Huh?” Gray peered at him in confusion.

“There’s a phone number on my cup along with a name and a little heart, I can only imagine it was meant for you,” Natsu teased, “Is that why you come here so often?”

Gray blinked at the cup, “Huh, didn’t even notice.”

“That sort of thing happen to you a lot?”

Gray shrugged, “I used to be a fashion model, so I guess. I actually started coming here because Sting told me you liked it, I figured if I brought you stuff for our study sessions, it might help motivate you.”

Natsu opened his mouth to tease him further but decided against it. That was the first time Gray had opened up to him about anything from his past, and he was afraid if he pointed it out, his friend would just clam up again. He opted for something safer, “So, uhm, how old are you anyway?”

Gray took a sip from his drink before replying, “I turned thirty today.”

“Thirty?! I thought you were younger,” Natsu replied without thinking.

“Why?” Gray leaned forward resting his hands on the table and peering at him curiously. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Really? I thought you were older,” Gray smirked, “Your kids are older than mine.”

“Hana was kind of an accident,” Natsu admitted, although he was quick to add, “A good one, though.”

“So that’s why you didn’t finish high school?”

“Not exactly,” he thought about telling Gray more, but he didn’t want to bring the conversation down. He sipped his drink, deciding to ask the one question he was curious about, “How come you’re sitting here all alone on your birthday? I would’ve thought you had plans.”

“Nah, my birthday’s always been a bit of an afterthought, too soon after Christmas. I did go to lunch with Lyon earlier, though. That was nice.”

“Then how come you look so glum?”

“Just coming to terms with being thirty, I’m not anywhere near where I thought I would be.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just stuck,” Gray grunted, “I can’t move forward until my divorce finalizes, and despite Lyon’s best efforts it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen anytime soon. It just feels like even though I left him months ago, he’s still controlling my life, and I hate it.”

“You, uhm, never talk about him,” Natsu pointed out, although a bit uncomfortably. Now that he and Gray had been spending more time together, he’d begun to feel oddly protective of him. The thought that someone was making him so unhappy filled him with rage. He might not be the easiest person in the world to get along with, but Gray Fullbuster was a good man.

“There’s not really much to say, he’s a self-centered asshole,” Gray snapped, his face contorting into a glower. He hid his head in his hands for a moment, and Natsu could see that he was trying to do some sort of odd breathing.

“What are you doing?” he asked curiously.

A few moments later, Gray lifted his head, looking remarkably calmer. “It’s just something I learned in martial arts training, it helps me to relax.”

“I didn’t know you did martial arts!” Natsu practically jumped out of his seat, “I always wanted to learn!”

“I can teach you some time if you want. It’d be good practice for me as long as you don’t mind me kicking your ass regularly,” with a teasing grin, Gray added, “and you’d have to call me Master.”

“As if,” Natsu scoffed, “I’m no lightweight.”

“That’s got nothing to do with it, dumbass,” Gray explained, “I’d show you, but we’d probably get kicked out. Tell you what, pass your first test, and we’ll start lessons.”

“Is that what you wanted to do, be a teacher?” Natsu asked with more intuition than he was usually capable of.

“It was one of the things I was considering, I was actually studying Business Administration before I dropped out. I haven’t seen a martial arts school in town, though. I think I’d like to open one.”

“When you open it, I’ll be the first to sign up, the kids too, if they’re old enough.” Natsu promised and then just for fun appended, “Master Gray,” playing with the inflection of his voice as he said it.

Gray’s entire face burned bright, and Natsu began to laugh at the flustered expression on his face even though he didn’t quite understand it.

He grabbed his present from the table and handed it to Gray, wanting him to focus on something else. “Like I said on the phone, it’s not much, but I made it myself. Oh, and don’t shake it!” Natsu advised.

He watched as Gray opened the box, curious to see what he thought of it. Gray shut his eyes instantly, almost as if he didn’t want Natsu to see his reaction.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, it’s just been a long time since anyone baked me a cake for my birthday,” Gray smiled softly.

“Well, don’t get used to it,” Natsu retorted, unsure as to why that smile made him feel so good inside, almost like a hard-earned victory.

“I’m sure it’ll taste like ass,” Gray taunted, but when Natsu moved to take it away, he cradled the box in his arms and pouted. “Mine.”

Natsu could only laugh, “You are such a child. Well, I better get in line, I had to promise a lot of treats to be able to come alone. Speaking of which, where’s Aki?”

“At Rogue’s with the twins, he watched him so I could go out with Lyon. I wasn’t ready to go back yet, so I had him drop me off here. Do you really have to go already?”

Natsu had been about to get up, but his resolve weakened when he heard the plea hidden in the question. It was very unlike Gray’s usual behavior and like a lot of things that had happened since he arrived at the coffee shop, he didn’t quite know what to make of it.

He looked down at his watch, worrying at his bottom lip and wondering how upset Erza would be if he stayed out a little longer. He knew what it was like to dislike your own birthday. Natsu had hated his ever since Igneel had abandoned him and Erza on his ninth birthday, and nothing Erza, or Lisanna had ever tried to do to change that over the years, had made a lick of difference.

“Uhm, no, I suppose not, I can stay for a bit,” he offered, reminding himself to buy two slices of cake for his sister.

“This is kind of nice,” he blurted out as the thought crossed his mind.

“What is?” Gray looked around the coffee shop in puzzled wonder.

“Just hanging out like this. Usually, we’re working on something like a practice test or homework or whatever. We don’t really get to talk a lot.”

Gray snorted, “That’s because it usually leads to bickering.”

“I guess,” Natsu acknowledged as he tried to think of something to talk about, “So if you’re thirty, that means your close to my sister’s age. Did you guys know each other in school?”

“No, I’m pretty sure I would remember her,” Gray remarked with a grin that Natsu didn’t like. He was used to guys thinking his sister was hot, and it usually didn’t bother him all that much, but this time it made his stomach clench uncomfortably, until Gray added, “She’s very intimidating, so is Mira.”

Natsu relaxed at those words and chuckled in agreement, “Try growing up with her.”

Gray shuddered, “Rogue wasn’t so bad, just a little moody sometimes, but Cana was a whole different story.”

At the mention of Gildarts, daughter Natsu couldn’t help but confess, “I have to admit I’m really confused about what’s going on with Gildarts and your dad.”

“You’re not the only one,” Gray declared, “How is it you know Gildarts anyway? I get the feeling it has nothing to do with the Club,” Gray sipped his coffee as he peered at Natsu curiously.

“Umh, well, he was our social worker,” Natsu answered, looking out the window to avoid seeing Gray’s expression.

“Oh, right, I keep forgetting he wasn’t always going around destabilizing countries,” Gray joked, but soon apologized as Natsu remained silent. “I’m sorry you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Natsu looked back, noticing Gray was looking at him just the same as always, giving him the confidence to add a bit more. “I mean, he’s always been great to us. If it hadn’t been for him, Erza and I would have probably been split up and put into the system.”

“But you don’t like to talk about it,” Gray guessed, and Natsu nodded his head in agreement.

“Then you don’t have to,” Gray assured him, “The thing with Gildarts and my dad is something I’d always suspected but didn’t know for sure until recently. Apparently, they were a thing in college until my mom came into the picture.”

“So they’re both bi?” Natsu eyed Gray, somewhat confusedly.

“My father is, yes. He was always open about it, which was kind of reassuring for me growing up, I have to say I’m not entirely sure what Gildarts identifies as.”

“So, you’re also —,” Natsu asked before realizing it, not even sure why he wanted to know.

Gray’s phone rang before he had a chance to respond, and Natsu watched his expression change to one of resignation as he answered, “Hey Rogue.”

Natsu got up from their little nook, deciding to go buy his treats so that Gray could have some privacy and to remove himself from the conversation he had accidentally started. By the time he returned, he had found Gray doing the strange breathing thing again.

“Everything okay?”

Gray looked up, his blue eyes closed off once again, and Natsu instantly felt the loss.

“I have to get home,” Gray replied in a monotone voice.

Natsu found himself offering him a ride, using the cake as an excuse when, in reality, he just didn’t want to leave his friend just yet.

0-0

They arrived at Sting and Rogue’s house, and Gray could already tell from the cars that were parked on the driveway that more visitors had come. He recognized the car sitting behind Rogue’s as the one Cana drove, so she and most likely her daughter as well had to be there. Chances were that Gildarts was with them too, but Gray wasn’t sure of that, knowing that his parents would be coming over later.

As much as Gray liked the idea of spending his birthday with her and Rogue, just like they had when they were younger but with the addition of new family members, he’d been having a great time with Natsu at the Bean as well. Frankly, he was hoping that Natsu would stay a little longer, but he wasn’t going to say it in those words.

“Thanks for the ride, do you wanna maybe come inside for a drink?” he asked instead, playing it off as simple common decency.

“I wish I could, but I really need to get going,” Natsu apologized, “Sunday is the only day I have to spend with the kids, and Erza needs some time for herself as well.”

“Yeah, of course.” Gray unbuckled his seat belt, carefully lifting the box with the cake in it to get it out of the way. “So...I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Definitely!”

Natsu’s big grin distracted Gray for a moment, causing him to almost lose his grip on the cake box despite his efforts to keep it safe before.

“Alright! Have a nice Sunday then!” He rushed out, getting out of the car before he could do or say anything stupid. But before he slammed the door shut, he gave Natsu a half-hearted smile, “Oh and thanks-” he nodded at the cake box, “for this.”

“You’re welcome, let me know if it tastes like ass.”

Gray scoffed, remembering he actually said that, “Sure, will do.”

“Well, I know you didn’t feel like celebrating all that much, but I still hope you’ll have a nice birthday.”

Natsu gave him another smile and waved as Gray closed the car door. Gray watched him drive off until his car was out of sight, savoring his last few seconds of peace and quiet before going inside the house.

The moment he walked through the door, Aki came running towards him, waving around a piece of paper and beaming with pride. “Dada!” he cheered, happy to see him again, “Made you dwawing!”

Whatever it was his two-year-old son drew, Gray couldn’t distinguish. It just looked like a mess of colored crayon, but as most parents would agree, if their kid made it for them, it was perfect.

“That looks great, Aki!” Gray praised, “Why don’t you keep it safe for me so I can put it on my bedroom wall as soon as we get back to uncle Lyon’s place.”

Aki nodded and ran over to the coffee table, where he put down the drawing right next to his beloved teddy bear. There was no sign of Gildarts or Rogue, but Cana was chatting on the couch with Sting as Temperance tried to build block structures with the twins on the floor.

“Happy Birthday, Gray!” Cana greeted him, getting up to give him a loose hug. Gray didn’t hug her back, refusing to put down the cake box. In the few months he’d gotten to know Sting, he’d quickly learned that nothing sweet would last long around him.

“Thanks,” Gray managed a smile at her anyway, following the direction she was pointing at to the dining table, where more gifts were waiting for him.

“Don’t drink it all at once,” Cana winked. Of course, she’d gotten him strong liquor, that was a given, but around the bottle’s neck was a black bead bracelet. “That’s onyx,” Cana explained, “it protects your personal energy, absorbs the negative energy around you, and helps to ease your stress.”

Gray finally put the cake box down on the table so he could put on the bracelet. He could admittedly use some stress relief, even in a comfortable environment like his old house, where he was surrounded by family. And aside from the spiritual meaning behind the bracelet, Gray thought it looked pretty good as well.

“Can I get like a ten-pound version of this stone to bash that... insufferable cretin’s head in with?” he joked, substituting the foul language he’d wanted to use to describe how he felt about Siegrain with something more child-friendly, “that would definitely ease my stress.”

“The bottle should do. Just make sure it’s empty first.”

“Naturally,” Gray promised. “Hey, I could have sworn I had a brother who was nagging at me to get here. Where is he anyway?”

“Cana was sharing stories of all the stuff you three got up to when you were younger,” Sting mentioned with obvious amusement, “I think he had enough of that conversation, he went to the basement.” He came up to Gray’s side and looked at the cake box curiously, “What’s that? Did you get more presents?”

“Look what I found!” Rogue came walking up the basement stairs, struggling to open the safety gate with one hand while carrying some boxes in the other. Gray recognized them as their favorite childhood games, Leap Frogs and Don’t Break The Ice, and on top of the bigger boxes, there was also a deck of regular playing cards.

“I knew we still had these lying around somewhere, thought Aki might like to play them,” Rogue said as he closed the gate behind him. “What’s that?” His gaze had landed on the cake box.

“It’s a cake,” Gray shrugged, opening the box to show them the cake, “Natsu made it for me.”

Sting was looking at him as if pigs had suddenly begun to fly, Cana came walking over to examine the cake. “Wow. That looks horrendous,” she stated blatantly, to which Gray quickly closed the box again and shot her a mildly offended look.

“Natsu baked you a cake?” Rogue asked perplexed. “When did you even see Natsu, I thought you said you were going to have lunch with Lyon?”

“I did. I met Natsu after that, he dropped me off here.”

“Was that why I had to call you to get you to come home?”

Gray quickly grabbed the games out of Rogue’s hands and dropped them on the dining room table, sitting in one of the chairs and keeping his cake box close to him. He really didn’t like the way Sting was looking at it now that he knew what was in it.

“Let’s just play the damn games, alright?” Gray grumbled. As far as he was concerned, the conversation was over.

0-0

Gray had been sitting quietly with Aki on his lap, holding the plastic hammer for the Don’t Break the Ice game they were attempting to play in his hands. They were currently playing against Sting, who was still eyeing the cake box with puppy eyes.

“Will you stop that?” Gray demanded.

“I just want a little piece,” Sting pleaded.

“And I said no,” Gray replied, enjoying torturing his brother-in-law, especially since Rogue had been giving him a look since the moment he’d realized Natsu had given him a ride home.

“But everyone goes on about how good it is, and I never got to try it, Rogue ate the piece he was supposed to save for me from Hana's birthday,” Sting whined giving his husband an accusing look, which he ignored in favor of examining his brother.

“So how did you meet up with Natsu again?” Rogue questioned.

“He called me up while I was at the Bean, wanted to give me a present,” Gray shrugged, making sure to sound completely uninterested. He knew better than to show any weakness in this group.

“Come on, Gray, just a little piece, you have a whole cake,” Sting coaxed, “Don’t be so stingy!”

“Oh my God, Sting!” Gray snapped, finally having enough, “If you want some so badly, why don’t you just ask him to make you one?”

“He did, practically begged actually,” Rogue commented, “Natsu said he only makes them for family members. Which is why we’re rather curious as to why he made one for you. Is there something you’re not telling us?”

“Yeah,” Sting added, “are you Gray Dragneel now?”

Gray couldn’t entirely hide the blush that rose to his cheeks, although he tried. “I’m not entirely sure what you’re implying, but Natsu and I are just friends.”

Cana and Rogue immediately began to tease him, and he wanted to smack both their heads together so badly as they chorused, “Gray and Natsu sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g, first comes—”

“Alright, you’re both hilarious, now knock it off,” Gray wasn’t amused, especially as he could see Aki had raised his head, watching his aunt and uncles with interest, the simple cadence of the children’s rhyme appealing to him.

“You are seriously no fun,” Cana muttered from behind her drink.

He was saved from having to answer by a knock on the door. Thinking it was Gildarts or his parents, he got up to answer, bringing the cake box along with him. He was surprised to find Natsu on the other side.

“Hey, change your mind?” Gray asked, confused as to why he had returned, although no less pleased.

“Uhm not exactly, Hana—,” Natsu stopped his explanation in favor of raising an eyebrow at Gray, “Why are you still holding your cake?”

“Sting keeps threatening to eat it,” Gray explained.

“Oh,” Natsu nodded as if that made perfect sense, followed immediately by his eyes widening as he said, “Oh!” more forcefully.

Natsu chuckled, but Gray thought he sounded a bit nervous and wondered what that was about. “Uhm, well, he’ll be happy to know Hana made him one. She begged me to bring her so she could drop it off. Sorry, hers looks prettier than mine, Erza helped.”

Sting came to the door and nudged Gray out of the way, “Excuse his manners, please come in. Did I hear you say something about cake?”

Hana’s hands were shaking so much as she handed Sting the cake she had made him that Gray was afraid she was going to drop it. It was made up of three Easy Bake Oven cakes covered in white frosting and decorated with rainbow-colored cake glitter.

“F-for you,” Hana stammered, her cheeks coloring prettily. Natsu nudged her gently, and Hana added, although somewhat reluctantly, “Uncle Rogue can have some too.”

“That’s beautiful, Hana, thank you!” Sting admired the cake before giving the girl a hug, He glanced over at Rogue with a smirk, “He wishes. I think I will eat it all by myself if you don’t mind.”

“Stingy Sting,” Rogue teased his husband, though it seemed like he did it more for the sake of teasing than actually being bothered by the fact that he wouldn’t be getting any cake.

Hana shook her head and looked down at the floor shyly. Gray’s heart went out to her, having the impression that they were having some of the same feelings.

“I have something for you too, actually!” Sting disappeared into the kitchen, reappearing with a fork, and a plastic container filled with a type of cookies Gray had never seen before. “My mom made them, but she made so many, and I already had...well...a lot of them. I’d meant to give you and your brother some. Thought you’d like them.”

Hana’s face was the same color of bright pink as her hair, but she nodded anyway and accepted the container with a big smile, clutching it to her chest and waiting for Sting to taste the cake.

Gray looked unimpressed when Sting took his first bite and turned to Rogue, rubbing it in his face that he was eating cake and Rogue wasn’t, by making exaggerated moaning sounds. At least, Gray hoped that that was the idea behind it.

“Oh wow, this is seriously amazing, Hana!” Sting complimented her sincerely, “Did you make this all by yourself?”

Hana shook her head even as her cheeks once again flushed at the compliment, “I helped Daddy when he was baking Uncle Gray’s cake. He let me have some of the batter we made.”

Sting gave Gray a triumphant look before turning around and going at Natsu, “Speaking of which, what the hell Dragneel?”

Natsu played dumb, grabbing Hana by the hand and waving, “It was great to see everyone, but we need to get home, enjoy your party.”

Hana said her goodbyes as well, and they left quickly. They had been there for less than ten minutes, but it had been long enough for Gray to see that the others had been telling the truth.

For some reason, Natsu had decided to make an exception for him, and Gray didn’t know whether it had anything to do with the bracelet Cana had gifted him, but he suddenly felt like he was soaring, and it was something he’d not felt in a long time.

He went into the kitchen to grab a cake knife, wanting to taste his present right away after seeing how much Sting had enjoyed his. Cutting a generous slice and placing it on a plate, he took a bite, reveling in the sweetness of the cake and the man who had gifted it to him.

It was already the best birthday he could remember.

[plumblossomkun]

discard[ed]: the origin of MGH.

Word Count: 1.3k

setting: student!Mark & art commissioner!Female Reader 

a/n: (inspired by the beautiful vulnerability of my darling friend @starxblossom​ with her Cherry Wine.) this is, almost word for word, one of the things that happened between me and the boy i thought i loved in my senior year of high school. the fic inspired by this relationship, Mugunghwa, is meant to be realistic, but it is still a romanticization. it’s a result of me seeing said boy after years of not speaking, and i thought to myself, what if? with that being said, please read the warnings. this is not a love story. this is the truth. 

warning[s]: alludes to the act of self-harm. descriptions of anxiety and feelings of despair and unrequited love. 

Skype Call Transcript, some time in December 2015

B: i was talking to Mark, and uh... he-- he said...

B: jeez, i don’t really wanna say it. *chair creaks in the background*

you: *huffs softly* just tell me. i can handle it. 

B: ...fine. *clears throat*

B: he said he didn’t want to be with someone that was emotionally unstable.

you: *very, very softly* oh. 

B: yeah....

you: i see. he really said that? *deep inhale*

B: yeah. uh-- are you... mad?

you: no... not mad. *slow exhale*... thanks for telling me.

When Mark walks into Room 13A that Thursday afternoon, you don’t look up from your phone. The hallways are still bustling with students, buzzed for the upcoming weekend, and Winter Ball is tomorrow, so the rest of the committees are trickling in and out, getting their assigned work completed.

You are busy telling your own committee to get their shit together, since none of them are in the room to help you finish making banners advertising the last minute ticket sales.

I should have never volunteered as captain.

For all of these perfectly logical reasons, when Mark leans down and knocks on your desk in greeting, you’re expecting someone else.

Anyone else.

You clear your throat, putting your phone face down on the desk. “Hi.”

He taps the toe of his shoe against the floor, eyes not quite meeting yours, gaze shooting to the desk behind you. You note that his backpack is cinched too tight, and his dark circles are more prominent, like he hasn’t slept well since the last time you’d talked to him-- what had it been, New Year’s Eve? “Hana said you needed help, the other day, doing work.”

“Yes,” you draw out the syllable, watching his fists clench and unclench at his side. Your heartbeat, already beginning to race against your intake of breath, drums a reminder into your chest, of the times his very presence had felt like summer come two seasons too early.

Now, his unsure smile sends ice splintering into your veins. He doesn’t seem to know what words to offer you, to try and mend the strange rift between the two of you, and neither do you.

You pretend the thought hasn’t left you hemorrhaging on the inside, dropping your eyes back to your phone. “You can help color the tearaway for tomorrow’s football game,” you manage to say, pointing him out to the hallway, which is now mostly clear. Your fellow art commissioners are already unfolding their works in progress, refilling the markers with ink, looking for the right music to play.

He nods, and starts to leave-- but pauses at the doorway, looking back at you as he fiddles with the thin silver chain around his neck, holding himself back-- from you.

When was the last time he’d held you?

He greets your fellow art commissioners outside with an enthusiasm he hadn’t reserved for you, and they respond in kind, welcoming him into their fold with laughter.

Sighing, you dig your fingernails into your palms, leaving crescent moon imprints so deep that they bruise. They are not enough for you to forget the breathlessness squeezing your lungs. You shake your head. No, don’t think about him.

Two of your commissioners come back in one last time to return the bottles of ink, waving at you on their way out, and for a long spell, there is silence in 13A, broken only by the mirth outside.

It is the last thing you need, when all you have is the too-loud hum of your heartbeat pulsing through your body, reminding you that it is still beating.

Still feeling.

The door to 13B swings shut behind you, letting in only a sliver of light from the other room. Seeking refuge amongst the mountains of paper and camera equipment in the storage room, you sink onto the ratty old mattress in the corner, and cling to yourself as the world grows small and tight and cold around you.

“I’m strong enough,” you exhale, shuddering, slowly collapsing into yourself until your knees are tucked beneath your chest, trying to fill your head with lies to drown out the siren songs filling your ears. “We can just be friends.”

This doesn’t hurt. This doesn’t hurt. This doesn’t hurt.

You take another breath. This one is a mistake.

Winter rips into you. It starts at your fingertips, then spreads to your hands, leaving you shaking, gasping for air. And though it is like ice has filled your body, stabbing, biting cold, it burns. It scalds your tongue and steals your voice, incinerating your last shred of resistance.

I can’t do this.

I can’t.

You slip a hand into your pocket, running your fingers over the waxen paper hiding there, lying in wait there since that morning, when you’d felt a whisper of frost run down your spine, and took it with you, instead of leaving it at home tucked away in a drawer.

Its paper thin, fragile body betrays the power it holds. And if you didn’t know better, you’d think it was a discarded receipt, a gum wrapper, a piece of scrap. Unfolding the paper, you stare down at the silver lying pristine and keen in the dim light. And when it kisses your skin, the world stills.

One.

Scarlet has never been your favorite color, but how jewel-like the liquid beads and pools.

Two.

The winter spreads from your hands down to your elbows, and you revel in how it finally mutes the ache, puts the pain aside, lifts the weight from your chest.

Three.

In this moment, you can finally breathe.

You go to the bathroom to clean up, so that the white long sleeve you’re wearing doesn’t get stained. On your way out, Mark’s eyes, previously focused on the poster he’d been coloring, close in defeat when he sees you press the paper towel to your wrist, telling him everything he needs to know, and your friends whisper to each other with furrowed brows, not understanding.  

You don’t care.

In 13B, you sit back on the mattress and close your eyes.

The door opens with a creak, and shuts even more quietly.

You know exactly who’s come to see you, but you don’t open your eyes until he touches your cheek, his fingers lighter than a butterfly’s kiss.

“Why?” Mark whispers, sinking to his knees in front of you. He picks up your hands in his, and his voice cracks when he repeats the question.

You resent the way his fingers curl and tangle with yours. It makes your heart thrum again, just when you’d gotten it to be quiet and settle down. Why does he make you weak like this?

He places his hand over the already-scabbing lines, and his warmth seeps into them, melting the frost just beneath the skin. You recoil.

The line of his mouth hardens, and suddenly you are in his arms, surrounded by his sweet cologne, so that when he asks you again, “Why?”, and you feel him shaking against you, you can’t deny him.

“I’m fine,” you whisper, unable to stop yourself from clinging to him, despite knowing all too well that the feel of his heartbeat against yours is the curse you’ve been trying to break all this time. “…it’s just the usual problems, at home, you know.”

You hope he never knows he’s the one hurting you.

He pulls back and searches your expression. When you don’t look away fast enough, he sees that you aren’t telling him everything.

And yet he doesn’t press you. Instead, he crushes you to him, and his body shivers against yours. It takes you a moment to realize that he’s crying, warm tears dripping onto your collarbones.

“No, don’t cry--” you sigh, lifting your hands to cup his cheeks. When he leans into your touch, you think that your heart just might shatter into pieces.

I love you.

“Please, don’t do this again,” Mark whispers. To your ears, it sounds like an apology. An apology, for your unspoken confession. “Please.”

So you promise him. You promise him, and not yourself, because you can only spare his heart, not yours. “I won’t.”

He sinks into your embrace, silent tears wetting your shoulder. You close your eyes and swallow the words you can’t say aloud before they choke you.

“I won’t.”

I love you.

[btshogwartsfics]

Fortune’s Fool

Summary: In a surprising turn of events, Min Yoongi requests your help in his hunt for the perfect Christmas gift. *Continuation of Series of Fortunate Events 

Pairing: Yoongi x Ravenclaw!Reader

Word Count: 4.8k 

A/N: Hey, guys! Look I know this is very late, but I just wrote this up today because I didn’t want to leave you guys without anything for Christmas! (So please excuse any errors or mistakes as I’m sure there are plenty. I will edit it tomorrow but I can’t do it right this minute! I’m sorry!) This is a spur of the moment continuation of Series of Fortunate Events, taking place in the same universe. It’s honestly a Christmas miracle I got this done before today was done, so I hope you guys enjoy and let me know what you think! I know I promised a Jimin fic, but that’s still in the making, so I hope you guys understand! I hope everyone had a lovely Christmas and will have a happy holidays!

Side note, this was actually supposed to be a much shorter drabble for the prompt “Are you sure it’s illegal to kill carolers?” <333

It’s with light steps that you carry yourself to the library today. Heading straight to your usual spot, you pull your scarf up further to cover your neck. Being that you’re about halfway into December by now, the castle has gotten much colder. Still, you trudge back to your small corner, rubbing your hands together for extra warmth.

The library is fairly empty today, more so than what’s normal at the least. This is more than likely due to all the students running amok trying to find some last minute Christmas presents before the train to King’s Cross that will take the majority of them home arrives this weekend. You, having bought your small share of gifts in October, thankfully don’t share the same problem.

You count off the last bookshelf before your cozy corner comes into view.

Some might say it looks lonely back here and maybe they’re right, but it doesn’t bother you as much as it probably should. You don’t have anyone to fill the void in the first place, so you tend not to imagine how much better it would be if you did. It won’t do you any good, anyway.

As you set all your study materials out and spread your homework across the tiny desk by the window, you can’t stop your eyes from drifting behind you.

It hasn’t been much longer than two weeks since you caught Yoongi and his two friends -you’ve come to learn their names are Hoseok and Namjoon- planning out the details of a surprise party for a fourth person there in that exact spot. That was also the first time you had ever spoken to him, if you can even call what you did speaking. It more like the first time Yoongi had ever spoken to you while you just gaped at him like a fish out of water.

You cringe inwardly upon remembering how you had just stared at him like he were some sort of madman. Definitely not your finest moment. Still, you haven’t spoken to him since the day he cornered you at Seokjin’s party. The only time he’s even so much as acknowledged your presence was in the halls in between classes. If you’re telling the truth, you had actually hoped to at least perhaps see him in the library, but he hasn’t been back here since then, either. You’d thought that after the party you two could maybe start a friendship of a sort, but it seems he had other ideas.

Shaking the dull thoughts from your head, you turn back to your unfinished work and set about completing it. Luckily for you, you had read up on the new defensive spells for Defense earlier this year and it didn’t take long before you were packing your things back up. Glancing around you, you debated if checking out your favorite book for the seventh time would be too excessive. However, you weren’t given long to think it over before an unfamiliar bag was thrown carelessly onto the desk you were sitting at.

Glancing up at the sudden intrusion, you came face-to-face with the last person you expected to see here.

“I need your help,” Yoongi announces without hesitation, his black bangs falling flat against his forehead and into his eyes.

Your eyebrow arches in instinct, curiosity already prickling at your mind. “W-with what?” You stutter, deciding against beating around the bush. You hate small talk, anyway.

“I-” He starts, but his words seem to get caught in his throat and he can’t finish. He takes a moment to calm himself and stares back at you with those eyes that remind you strangely of chocolate for how detached they normally seem. “I need help Chris… sh… ping…”

You frown, trying to decipher his words which were said under a quiet breath. “S-sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

Yoongi sighs and takes a deep breath. “I need your help Christmas shopping.” He says with difficulty, eyes no longer coming up to meet yours. Instead, they’re latched onto his bag, refusing to catch your stare.

You open your mouth to ask another question but close it before you can voice it. Casting a quick glance over Yoongi, you easily deduce that more questions would probably only make him more uncomfortable than he already is. It’s clear from everything to his expression to his posture that even asking for your help was possibly a challenge for him. The last thing you want to do is scare him off now, so you nod silently to yourself, not bothering to seek his eyes.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.” You repeat, watching as his face slowly tilts up to look at you. Forcing down a smile at how suspiciously he regards you, you shove your hands into your pockets. “I’ll help you Christmas shop.”

He blinks. Once, twice. “You will? Just like that? No questions, no conditions?”

You shake your head with a shrug. “Not really. I mean, I don’t know when we’ll go considering the train comes this weekend, but… no, not really.”

Yoongi looks you up and down for a few more moments, but eventually, he nods in confirmation. “Well the train for Hogsmeade is open all week for Christmas shopping, so we can go there whenever you’re free.”

“I’m always free.” You blurt without thinking. You cringe at your bluntness, but Yoongi doesn’t seem to mind.

“When do you have your free period?” He asks without missing a beat.

“Uh, my last period is my free period.” You reply, your mind whirling from the way your conversation seems to come naturally, jumping from topic to topic.

“Great, then I’ll skip last period and we can go then.”

“What! You can’t just skip a whole period to go Christmas shopping!”

“Why not?” His eyebrows furrow and his lip juts out into a small pout which, much to your dismay, makes him look absolutely adorable. “I have Potions and Slughorn loves me. He won’t miss me for one class.”

You eye him cautiously, weighing your options. On one hand, it’d be great to spend that time with him so that you can finally work on making a friend. On the other hand, if someone catches Yoongi sneaking onto the train, that could mean detention or worse for both of you.

Yoongi heaves another sigh and reaches for his bag. “Look, if you don’t wanna go, that’s fine. I can do it myself.”

“No, wait!” You cry, reaching out to stop him from leaving. His eyes fall to where your hand is clamped around his wrist and you drop it quickly, tucking a piece of stray hair behind your ear. “Uh, I’ll go, but if you get caught, I’m not getting detention for that.”

The Slytherin in front of you barks out a small laugh as if you’d said something funny. “Okay, deal.”

“Deal.”

Silence stretches out between you for a series of seconds and you contemplate if reaching out for a handshake would be overstepping your boundaries. In the midst of your doubts, a throat clears and you look up to see Yoongi has beat you to the punch, his hand outstretched for you to shake.

Your eyes fly between his hand and his face for a moment, and Yoongi rolls his eyes. “It’s a handshake, not a death sentence.”

With a start, you take his hand and shake it firmly. Retracting it, you adjust your bag on your shoulder and the air around you seems to thicken. “So, uh, tomorrow, then?”

Yoongi clicks his tongue in response. “Tomorrow.” He confirms with a nod. “Be on the train at around five-ten. It leaves when the last classes start so we’ll have about five minutes to find a compartment.”

“Got it.”

Again you fall quiet and Yoongi takes this as his cue to leave. “Right, uh, see you then.”

“Yep.”

The boy leaves without any more input, not bothering to wave goodbye before he’s off. You wait about two minutes after he’s gone to finally let out the breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

The next day you’re stumbling as you race to the train to Hogsmeade. It’s currently five-thirteen and you’re wondering if maybe you and Yoongi had overestimated exactly how fast you’d be able to get there. Shuffling your way to the train and weighed down by all the layers you’d worn, you probably look more like an overgrown penguin than a human at this point.

You’re heaving when you finally board and you immediately see Yoongi at the end of the hall, looking around for his late companion. The train is practically empty save for the few students who managed to get enough free time to go at this hour. Well at least finding an empty compartment won’t be too much of a problem.

“Yoongi!” You call, waving your hand in a wild gesture.

He notices you instantly and his eyes rake all the way down your body, an eyebrow raised. “Why do you look you’re wearing an oversized Santa costume?”

You huff in exasperation as you walk past him and into an empty compartment. “It’s freezing outside and I get cold easily.” You explain with a tiny pout.

Yoongi scoffs, but you swear there’s a hint of a smile there somewhere. “Jesus, how many layers are you wearing?”

You ponder this for a moment, mentally counting how many layers you have under your winter coat. “Hm, four I think.”

“That’s insane.”

You roll your eyes, but turn to him to see what he’d worn for your… outing? You’re surprised to find that he’d only worn a thin t-shirt underneath his coat and a beanie. He hadn’t even brought gloves or boots. Instead, he adorns a set of beat up black converse. You begin to wonder if he planned on getting hypothermia.

“What?” He demanded after catching you staring, but for once you can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed.

“You’re gonna freeze out there.” You stated simply, leveling him with one of your most serious stares.

He shrugs, unbothered. “I don’t get cold easily, so I’m fine.”

You narrow your eyes, trying your best to look unthreatening and just concerned, but you’re not sure how well that works out as Yoongi clicks his tongue and turns to stare out the window. You follow his lead and do the same from your side of the compartment. You lean your head against the cold surface and allow your eyes to fall closed. The consistent rhythm of the train lulls your brain to a soft sleep.

“Hey, hey Y/N! Wake up, we’re here.” You hear a familiar voice say, muffled slightly by your post-nap haze.

There’s a slight pressure on your shoulder, shaking you awake. You whine a bit before you pick your head up from its position against the cold window. You rub at it irritably and Yoongi bristles lightheartedly.

“You shouldn’t have fallen asleep like that. Now you’re going to have a crick in your neck all day.”  Yoongi complains from his place beside you and you stretch out your arms above your head.

“Noted.” You yawn, blinking away the sleep. When he makes no move to get up, you gesture uncertainly to the door. “Well, uh… let's go.”

“Right, uh… right.”

Making your way off the train, the two of you walk along the streets, eyes scanning the windows of the various shops. Yoongi stays a good few inches away from you at all times, but you continue to walk somewhat side by side. Clouds of condensation follow you both as you walk around, no particular destination in mind. You’re about to stop at one of the stores, but then something dawns on you.

“Who exactly are you shopping for?” You question when he dismisses yet another shop.

He spares a glance at you but then goes back to examining the line up of stores. “My parents, my brother, and my friend, Taehyung.”

You immediately recognize the name and match it to a face you remember seeing a few weeks ago. The blonde Ravenclaw boy with that boxy smile. He’s a bit younger than you two, if you had to guess you would say maybe a fifth year. You don’t know much about him, but you suppose that’s what Yoongi’s for. You’re just the idea bank.

You process the rest of what he said, letting all the information sink in. You hadn’t known he had a brother. Then again, why would you? The hard truth is that you really don’t know him that well. Maybe a bit more than most, but that’s not saying much. You don’t even know his favorite color…

“What’s your favorite color?”

“What?” He frowns, taken aback by your sudden random question. “That’s a bit out of the blue.”

“Yeah, right. Sorry. I was, uh- just wondering.” You stammer, shaking your head. You facepalm internally, chastising yourself for asking such an irrelevant question. It’s really no wonder he hadn’t talked to you sooner. You look away from Yoongi and go back to scanning the shops nearby.

It’s not until moments later that Yoongi says anything, but when he does, it elicits a small smile from you.

“...I like black.”

Almost an hour later and you and Yoongi are still walking around Hogsmeade empty-handed.

“Yoongi, I don’t even know I’m supposed to be looking for.” You bug, pointing out for the second time a key problem to this… outing. “I don’t know these people. I don’t what they are like. How am I supposed to know what to buy them?”

Yoongi drags a tired hand across his face and rubs at his eyes in frustration.

You sigh looking at him, and decide that you need a break. Garnering your courage, you reach for his wrist and drag him along with you towards The Three Broomsticks.

“What are you doing?” He mewls, sounding rather like a petulant child who hadn’t gotten what he wanted for Christmas. It’s a stark contrast from his tired appearance which compares more to a retired old man than a child.

You clear your throat before speaking, telling yourself that taking a minute to sit down will be beneficial for both of you. “Come on, you need a break. Let’s get a butterbeer or something. It won’t do any good if you just brood the whole time.”

From your peripheral vision, you can see Yoongi eyeing you curiously, probably wondering where your sudden burst of bravery came from. Truth be told, you’d like to know the same thing. But alas, some questions are just destined to remain unanswered.

“Fine.” He mumbles under his breath and you force down a grin at the cuteness of it that probably wasn’t intended.

The bell chimes above you as you enter, greedily taking in the warmth from the nearby fireplace. One of the few waiters dashes over to seat the two of you, leading you to a rather isolated table near the back.

As you sit, you begin to warm up and shed your coat and scarf. After a while, even your gloves are discarded onto the table. You both order your respective butterbeers and silence envelopes your hidden corner. The confidence from earlier seems to disappear and you’re left avoiding eye contact like you’re a first year with a crush. 

“So…” Yoongi starts after an extended awkward silence. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Hm?” You turn to face him, your eyes wide and expectant.

Yoongi shifts uncomfortably in his seat, not liking to repeat himself. “Well since you asked me, I just thought I’d ask, but it doesn’t matter. Don’t worry about it.”

“Blue.” You answer, gesturing to your Ravenclaw scarf. “I like blue.”

He nods, offering you a hesitant lift of his lips. You try to return it in kind, but it just comes across awkward. You huff and decide that this isn’t working.

“Do you wanna play a game?”

“A game?”

“Yeah, why not?” You question, hoping that being direct will work a bit better than staring out the window as if you were here by yourself. “It can help us pass the time.”

“What kind of game?”

“Uh, maybe like, a question game?”

“A question game?” He mocks, his soft features turning to a look that seems very unimpressed.

“Yeah, sure.” Suddenly you’re not so sure anymore and you really wish the floor would swallow you whole. “I mean, I don’t really know you that well and yet here I am helping you Christmas shop for people that I know even less.”

For a moment he doesn’t say anything and you think he might not even answer at all. But he just nods to himself, leaning against the table. “Okay, fair point, but I go first.”

You open your mouth to object, admittedly wanting to be the one to start off the game, but he arches an eyebrow at you and you clamp your mouth shut. Nodding mutely, he grins in satisfaction.

As he stares at you, he begins to frown. His look turns thoughtful and determined as if simply looking at you will give him all the answers.

His face scrunches up in a pout and he sighs. “This is harder than I thought.” He whines.

A laugh falls from your lips and you tuck your hair back from falling in your face. “You could ask what my favorite class is.” You supply, also at a bit of a loss.

Yoongi blanches, dumbfounded and shocked. “Really?” He presses, but the makings of a smirk play on his mouth. “Of all the questions you could’ve asked you choose that one?”

“Hey!” You protested defensively, crossing your arms over your chest. “If I had gone first I would’ve asked something different, but you had to go first so I just said the first thing that came to mind.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He chuckled lightly and glanced at the fire before looking back at you. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“What’s your favorite class?”

You hum in concentration, purposefully prolonging your response. “Well, I quite like Arithmancy.”

Yoongi gapes at you incredulously. “Said absolutely no one ever.”

You scoff and shake your head. “Okay then, what’s your favorite class?”

He leans back in his chair with a smirk on his lips from teasing you. “Definitely Potions.”

“Alright, fair enough.” You concede, your first question already forming in your mind. You open your mouth to ask it, but you’re interrupted by the arrival of your drinks. Each thanking the waiter, you both take a large sip before continuing.

Wiping butterbeer off your lip, you look back to him. “So question: how come you didn’t ask one of your other friends to help you today?”

Taking a big gulp of his drink, he shrugged nonchalantly. “Are you familiar with the concept ‘Secret Santa’?”

“I’m acquainted with it, yes.”

“Well, my friends and I do this every year, but the problem is some of them can’t keep their mouth shut.” He explains, rubbing his chilled hands together. You give him an ‘I-told-you-so’ look, but he just rolls his eyes. “So in order to keep all the gifts and ‘Santas’ an actual secret, we decided not to tell each other anything at all.”

Understanding dawns and you snap your fingers. “Meaning you can’t shop together if you don’t want your gift spoiled.”

“Precisely.”

“Well, do you have any idea what Taehyung would want for Christmas?”

“Not really.” His smile fell slightly and you missed it instantly, craving back the warmth it brought that seemed to work better than both the fireplace and the butterbeer combined. “My first thought was to go to Zonko’s, but he practically owns two of everything from that store. There’s nothing in there that he doesn’t already have.”

You hummed in reply, racking your mind for anything that could help you place him. “So you’re saying he’s a bit…” You searched your mind for the right word. “...troublesome.”

“A bit?” Yoongi laughed, somehow adding in a hint of spite partnered with a sort of fondness you didn’t know was capable at the same time. “Last month he let three nifflers loose in the castle and got himself detention for three weeks.”

You gasped, a laugh on the tip of your tongue. “So he’s the one who did that!” You allowed yourself a chuckle, finding you feeling rather relaxed in the presence of another person for once. “There was a whole debate in the common room last month. To be honest, most of us thought it was a Gryffindor.”

“At times I swear he might as well be.” Yoongi jokes, but he can’t hide the smile that paints his face. It solicits one from you as well because you swear his smile is more contagious than any sickness you’ve ever had.

“I don’t know.” You declare, matter-of-factly. “I’m sure there’s a reason the sorting hat put him in Ravenclaw.” You jest, surprising even yourself at how easy it is to talk to him. Conversation just seems to roll off your tongue, something that’s never happened before in all your seven years at Hogwarts. “You never know, maybe he’s a true genius.”

Yoongi laughs, his eyes not leaving yours. You find it hard to look away, but eventually, embarrassment gets to you and you blush, diverting your eyes back to your drink. “...maybe.”

You tug gently at the sleeve of your sweater, your mind racing to find something helpful to say. After all, you still had four people to shop for and the day is already dwindling. There’s a thought at the back of your mind, struggling to be heard and you fight to remember it.

Concentrating on the thought you refuse to let escape you, you gasp as it suddenly comes to you. You snap your head up to tell Yoongi but stop short at the sight that greets you.

Min Yoongi, notorious for his cold stares and hard attitude, who most people claim is off-putting at best, stares at you curiously with a mustache on his upper lip, made entirely of foam.

Your hand flies to cover your mouth, struggling to hold back your laughter. It looks so out of place on his usually stoic face that it almost causes you to slip. However, your facade finally cracks when he pouts, clearly in utter confusion as to why you’re acting the way you are.

Yoongi just waits for you to calm down, still having not noticed it yet. As you gasp for breath, you try hard to point to your lip. “Your-your face…”

His eyebrows furrow and a single finger goes cautiously to his lips. His eyes widen in realization as his finger meets the offending foam and his wipes at it furiously with his coat that he never removed.

“What-What were you gonna say?” He mumbles as your breathing settles down finally.

“Well, I think I know what you should get Taehyung for Christmas.” You smile, truthfully quite proud of your idea.

“What?”

“So there’s this book I saw at the bookstore a few weekends ago-“

“Taehyung doesn’t read much.” Yoongi interrupts, causing you to pout.

“Just let me finish.” You shoot back, and he sighs, gesturing for you to continue.

“I saw this book and I think, based off what I’ve heard, that he’d really appreciate its context.”

“What is it called?”

You smirk to yourself, hoping you’re not wrong. “101 Best Wizarding Pranks for Dummies.”

It’s quiet for only a second before Yoongi erupts into a fit of laughter. It’s loud and choppy, but you think that given the chance, you could listen to it all day. You smile to yourself, for the umpteenth time that days, something very uncommon for you. But you find you don’t really mind. It’s a nice change.

“That’s perfect!” Yoongi snickers, holding onto his side in an effort to ease the pain there. “You have to tell me where you found it! He has to have that.”

And you do exactly that. After finishing your drinks and splitting the bill, you walk Yoongi to the bookstore where you saw the item in question. After a bit more wandering around, Yoongi insists you two go back to the castle and you spend the rest of the train ride back finishing your game.

It’s Friday and you’re running around Hogsmeade in a worried frenzy.

The train is leaving tomorrow and you’ll be home for the holidays, but you refuse to leave until you’ve gotten the last gift you need. Counting the shops as you pass, you finally find the one you’re looking for, going in without any pretense.

“Hello, ma’am!” The shopkeepers carols merrily. “Is there anything specific you’re looking for?”

“Do you happen to keep a set of black winter accessories?” You ask, only partly out of breath from dashing across the ice before the store closes. “Namely, boots, gloves and scarves?”

The keeper looks slightly taken aback by your abruptness. “Yes, we have one each of them in our winter department.”

You smile, thankful you’d gotten there just in time. “Great! I’ll take them.”

The smell of oil pricks at our nose, causing you to wrinkle it from the strength of the fume. A chill curls up your spine and you burrow further into your coat.

You’re sitting in an overcrowded compartment with several students you don’t recognize on your way to King’s Cross. The train is filled with chatter as people wait for the doors to open so they can go home to their families.

Holding our breath, you send up a prayer that you’ll be able to catch him before he’s gone.

Exiting your compartment, you immediately look around for Yoongi, clutching the wrapped present in the gift bag you have at your side. You hope he likes them, seeing as you hadn’t had much time to think up a more suitable gift.

Thinking back to your outing -was it really an outing?- with Yoongi, he’d come to regret not bringing any gloves or more layers to bundle in. The snow was layering more thickly now than it had been a few days ago and you think that if anything, he could at least put them to use. 

You shiver again as the wind whistles in your ears, the sound mixing with that of the group of carolers that stand nearby. They sing in tune and to each, creating a beautiful harmony to the soft Silent Night. You’re head snaps back and forth as you continue to look for a certain Slytherin when suddenly a more sickly thought comes to mind. 

What if he doesn’t want it? What if he just plain refuses it before you can give it to him? What if he rejects your friendship before it even truly begins?

As you begin to lose yourself in worry, a voice you’ve come to recognize in any crowd calls out for you. Turning to face who had called your name, you’re shocked to see Yoongi himself attempting to squeeze his way through the band of students hurrying to meet their loved ones.

Surprise stuns you into silence, but Yoongi doesn’t seem to notice as he closes the big space between you. “Uh, hey, Y/N.”

“Yoongi,” you stutter, at a complete loss for words, your large vocabulary seeming to fail you. “Hi.”

No words are exchanged between the two of you as you regard each other quietly. The air that was just sharp and cool, seems to turn heavy the longer you remain silent but words cannot find you. The only sound to enter your ears is that of the carolers singing their songs. 

Yoongi suddenly sighs, a drawn out, tired sigh that one would associate with carrying a heavy burden on their shoulders. “You think it’s illegal to kill carolers?”

His attempt to lighten the mood works and a light laugh falls from your lips. “I think it’s safe to say it is.” You quip and Yoongi shakes his head as if he’d just been given some news he hadn’t wanted. You smile at him shyly, wondering why he’ d come to talk to you. “What are you doing here?”

Instead of replying, the raven-haired boy merely shrugs, raising his left hand to reveal an ornately wrapped box, topped nicely with an intricate bow. Your mouth falls open and your eyes lift up to meet his. You blink, trying hard not to stare.

It’s not until you spot the remnant of a blush dusting his pale cheeks do you mirror his actions to do the same, not quite trusting your words to do you justice at the moment. Yoongi’s eyes widen as he regards your large gift bag, chocolate orbs meeting yours in the middle. You can see yourself them, nervous and uncertain, and you swear you’ve never been happier in your life.

“Uh,” You murmur bashfully, struggling not to choke on your words. “Merry Christmas, Yoongi.”

You extend the bag out towards him and his takes it with a soft touch; light and careful. He looks it over for a few moments before handing his box over to you. You take it in much the same manner, being cautious so as not to jostle it around too much.

Yoongi offers you a smile and it’s warm and soft, just like his eyes. “Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

You depart that day with lighter steps and happier sighs. Your mother comments on ‘the boy you were talking to’ when you get home, your dad grumbling about how glossy your eyes look today. You just shake your head at them, tucking Yoongi’s present under your Christmas tree, keeping your eye on it every day until the twenty-fifth.

It’s a blue sweater. Expensive and warm and cozy and exactly what you’d wanted for Christmas. There was a single note attached to it, the lone ‘thank you’ written in perfect calligraphy, his signature at the bottom.

You made a mental note to thank him the next time you see him, seeing as you didn’t have his address to send an owl or his number to make a call.

You wore that exact sweater the day you boarded the train to go back to Hogwarts. You caught sight of him as you found a mostly empty compartment. He was surrounded with his ragtag group of friends so you didn’t bother to address him, but you couldn’t help the beaming smile on your face when you saw him dressed to the nines in all the new things you’d given him for Christmas.

As always, he seemed to sense your stare, because his eyes catch yours and he gifts you a smile that put all the Christmas lights and tree toppers you’ve seen this season to shame.

[im-fairly-whitty]

The Way You Keep Me Guessing: Coco Teacher!AU

[Part 1: Unexpected Responsibility] [Part 2: La Directora] [Part 3: Skipping Class] [Part 4: An Unannounced Visitor] [Part 5: The Roommate] [Part 6: Día de Muertos (Pt. 1)] [Part 7: Dia de Los Muertos (Pt.2)]

Dating Flashback: Part 1--First Date

“Ernesto please, I’m begging you hermano, you can’t betray me like this!” Héctor said desperately.

“If you can’t learn to tie your own tie then you don’t deserve to wear one.” Ernesto said, tapping shaving cream off his razor against the side of the bathroom sink, unaffected by Héctor’s pleading. “You’re twenty-six Héctor, it’s time you acted like it.”

“Please? It’ll only take you a second, you’re the one that’s always bugging me to buy a new one.” Héctor looked at the brand-new blue and purple strip of cloth in his hands, the stupid thing had been defeating his efforts for nearly half an hour. “Imelda’s going to be at the Christmas party and I want to make a good impression.”

“The ice queen next door?” Ernesto raised his eyebrow, continuing to scrape away at his five o’clock shadow. “I thought I told you to leave that one alone Teto, you’re only going to get frostbite if you go after her.”

“No, no, no, she’s not ice,” Héctor said, leaning against the bathroom wall at the very thought of La Directora. “she’s fire. Looking at her is like being in the glory of the sun.”

“Well, I guess that explains why you’ve gone blind then.” Ernesto scoffed, rinsing his razor in the sink, then wiping his face off with a towel. He sighed as he dried his hands. “Give me the tie.”

“Muchas gracias!” Héctor said, eagerly handing it over.

Héctor stood still, bending a little so Ernesto could loop the tie over his head. In a moment, the piece of fabric had been charmed into place and Ernesto slid the knot up into place.

“Next time you tie it yourself.” Ernesto said, poking Héctor in the chest, “It’s an important part of being a man, and you’ll have to be a man if you’re going to get yourself a woman, claro?”

“Sí, sí, claro.” Héctor said, leaning over Ernesto’s shoulder to look in the small bathroom mirror. “Should I put something in my hair do you think?”

“Who are you and where is Héctor?” Ernesto said, jaw slack in mock surprise, “What has the ice queen done to you? Should I be launching an intervention?”

“She’s so amazing Ernesto,” Héctor said, “she’s just, just, she’s like that feeling when you’re staring up at the night sky, and you suddenly realize how small you are.” Héctor sighed, unconsciously pulling on his tie. “But somehow you’ve still got this thrill going through you at just with how beautiful it all is and you get to be part of it, even if the universe hasn’t noticed yet.”

“You’d better cool it with the astronomy metaphors.” Ernesto chuckled, slapping Héctor’s hand away from the tie, then reaching for his aftershave. “Isn’t that how you lost Isabella?”

“Who? Oh, Isabella? No, no, this is completely different.”

“Yeah, sure. That’s what you always say.” Ernesto rolled his eyes as he rubbed some aftershave across his face. “You sure you don’t want to just come clubbing with me tonight? You’ll have a much better chance of getting some action than at your staff Christmas party.”

“It’ll be fun, it’s at that trendy new karaoke bar that just opened a few blocks away. I’m already planning on showing up late anyway, I’ve got papers to grade. Don’t you have work tonight?”

“Eh, I’m going to call in sick.” Ernesto said, closing the medicine cabinet. “It’s not like the record store really needs me when I only come in once a week anyways.”

“Why do you even work there if you don’t actually work there?” Héctor asked, reaching around Ernesto and grabbing his toothbrush.

“Networking amigo,” Ernesto said grandly, shouldering him aside to get a closer look at his mustache in the mirror. “All the weird indie hipsters need their vinyl, our gig next weekend is from a regular.”

“I’m still not sure how I feel about that.”

“Well you sure weren’t complaining the last time we had groceries.” Ernesto said, “Maybe you can ask your ice queen for a raise when you sweep her off her feet tonight.”

“Hmmmmm, maybe.” Héctor said through a mouthful of toothpaste foam. He could just imagine sweeping Imelda off her feet, her arms around his neck, her beautiful rare smile on her face, her-

“Héctor.” Ernesto said, snapping his fingers in Héctor’s face.

“What?” Héctor said, startled out of his thoughts.

“Just don’t get fired tonight alright?” Ernesto scoffed, a perfectly manicured eyebrow raised as he walked past Héctor and out of the small bathroom, “You getting some action with your boss isn’t going to be worth it if I have to pick up extra shifts because you lost your paycheck.”

“Don’t worry about it, tonight’s just going to be some friendly conversation over some drinks,” Héctor said, waving off Ernesto. “It’s all a part of my long-term plan to woo her. She’s a goddess Ernesto, you can’t win a diosa in an evening.”

“Whatever.” Ernesto called from the kitchen. “Just don’t have too much fun making small talk and singing off-key pop songs with your coworkers.”

But Héctor didn’t pay him any attention, once again becoming lost in thought as he resumed brushing his teeth. He knew it was his wildest of wild dreams, but what if something did happen between him and Imelda tonight? You just never knew with great romances, and he’d already decided that he and Imelda were going to be one of the greatest.

Now if only he could get her to think so too.

***

And you had BETTER have fun tonight, hermana.

Imelda sighed, looking up from Ceci’s text as she pulled the keys out of her car’s ignition.

I’m still their boss Ceci, she typed back, and you know I hate these party things.

Imelda leaned back in her seat, sighing. The dark December evening outside made the gaudy blue neon lights of the karaoke bar seem extra bright. She’d known assigning the staff Christmas party to Señora Rodriguez had been a mistake, By the time Imelda had found out this year’s party wasn’t going to be the usual subdued get-together at someone’s house, it had been too late for her to do anything about it.

Imelda squinted at the bar’s sign: Poco Loco.

Well. At least the place looked clean.

Imelda’s phone buzzed.

WHICH IS WHY YOU NEED TO LOOSEN UP. Ceci text-yelled.

NO, it’s why I should go home right now. Imelda texted back. Of course she would never actually skip an official work event, but it felt good to let out at least some of her anxiety on Ceci. What am I supposed to do, socialize?

This is a direct order to have at least three drinks tonight. Ceci buzzed back. No arguments. Relax and have some fun tonight Imelda, you need this.

Imelda groaned and leaned her head back against the seat, a small whine of despair escaping her in the strict privacy of her car. She knew Ceci was right, she was always right about social things, but it didn't make the fact that parties were completely structureless and unpredictable any easier to bear.

FINE. She texted back, But if anything terrible happens I’m blaming you.

I will gladly accept that responsibility. Now get in there and party, amiga. <3

Imelda grabbed her purse from the passenger’s seat and dropped her phone into it. If this were a board meeting she’d be nothing but confidence. If this were an interview she’d know exactly what to say. So why not a party? She was a grown woman, she could handle this.

She closed the car door behind her a little harder than necessary, but the power of the movement felt good. Imelda held her head high as she approached the bar’s entrance, but paused for just a moment before going in, scanning the parking lot.  

There were three motorcycles parked in the corner of the lot, but none of them looked familiar.

Well, in that case, she was going to knock back the very first shot of alcohol she saw. He hadn’t come last year either, and as long as Imelda didn’t have to be on her guard around him, then she could stand to have the edge taken off her nerves as soon as possible.

***

Héctor huffed as he popped out the kickstand on his motorcycle, tilting it to the side in its parking spot in front of the karaoke bar. Why was he always late to everything? He only lived a couple blocks away, but by the time he’d finished grading his papers and gotten away from Ernesto’s repeated offer to change his plans, the evening was already nearly over.

He pulled off his motorcycle helmet and locked it to his bike, shaking his bangs out of his eyes. Well, being late was fashionable right? He just had to hope Imelda thought the same.

Which he already knew she didn’t, she was always exactly on time to everything. But who knew, maybe she was different about parties?

Héctor popped a mint into his mouth and smiling at his own reflection in the glass entrance doors before swinging them open. Parties like this were his comfort zone, he wouldn’t have to think too hard, just flow with the energy of the group as things wound down and have a good time while doing his best to catch Imelda’s attention. Easy.

He only made it a few steps into the noisy bar before someone slung an arm around his neck.

“Ay, Héctor!” Jose, the seventh-grade biology teacher, said. “Thought you weren’t coming amigo, we’re all getting ready to head out!”

“Jose, what’d I miss?” Héctor smiled, cocking finger guns at him. “Glad to see the party started even without me.”

“Héctor, you have no idea,” Jose grinned, pulling out his phone and swiping through his pictures, “you know how you missed last year’s party when La Directora nearly got tipsy?”

“Sí, how could I not, it’s all you guys talked about for a month.” Héctor scoffed, forcing a smile.

He’d missed his first staff Christmas party for a gig with Ernesto, but had come back to a slew of jokes made about at Imelda’s expense. Mostly good-natured of course, La Directora was still La Directora after all, but somehow Héctor had never quite found them funny. At all.

“Right!” Jose chuckled, holding up a picture on his phone for Héctor to see, “well this year we’ve all gone in on getting her plastered, you know, buying her drinks for being such a great boss, and it’s totally working.”

Héctor reached to take the phone, but before he could take a closer look, someone grabbed his other hand. He looked up, dropping Jose’s phone when he saw who it was.

Hair down, cheeks flushed, and eyes bright, was Imelda. Holding his hand and smiling.

“You weren’t coming!” She exclaimed brightly.

“I, uh.” Héctor said, staring down at her.

Her hand was soft and warm in his, and everything inside him jolted when, with absolutely no warning, Imelda put her other hand on his chest.  

“Your tie,” she said, pulling at the strip of cloth to look at it very closely. “It’s soooo pretty...”

Héctor stiffened in visceral shock as she leaned against him, feeling at least five years instantly shave off his lifespan. She was still staring at his tie like it was the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen.

“See?” Jose said, sounding like he was close to tears with restrained laughter as he picked up his phone off the floor, “Isn’t this the greatest thing you’ve ever seen?”

“How many drinks has she had?” Héctor said, forcing words through a windpipe that felt like it had entirely closed up.

“At least three for sure, but probably around five.” Jose gasped out, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “This is priceless.”

Héctor had practiced over and over again the smooth conversation he’d start with Imelda, probably at the bar counter, probably as she tried to ignore him. He’d even equipped himself with several suitably cheesy pickup lines in case things went even better than he’d expected.

He had not prepared himself for what to do if Imelda snuggled up to him within two minutes of his arrival. He was sure his brain had been in his head when he’d walked through the door, but now there was only flustered panic between his ears.

“Señor Rivera,” Imelda said seriously, looking up at him, her face dizzyingly close to his. “This is a karreeeeokee bar and you sing right? Sing, okay?”

Héctor gingerly put his hands on her shoulders as he took a step back, praying she wouldn’t fall over. Her words sounded odd, slurring just a bit.

“How about we get you some water, eh Directora?” He said, looking around the bar helplessly, “Some food? That’ll help get the alcohol out of your system.”

“We’ve already tried, she’s wasted Héctor,” Jose said, shaking his head and pulling a jacket off the coat rack near the door. “We didn’t think she’d get this plastered so fast.”

“Ayyyyye, you’re not leaving already?” Héctor said, feeling the rising panic in his chest solidify as he saw several of his coworkers waving and laughing as they made their way out the door.

“Lo siento Héctor, that’s what happens when you come late. My kids have futbol practice in the morning.” Jose shrugged, then glanced at Imelda.

“You’re sooo taaaall.” Imelda crooned, reaching up for Héctor’s hair, but he caught her wrist just in time.

This was it. This was what was going to kill him. He was going to die in a trendy karaoke bar after being abandoned by his co-workers.

“Hey Héctor, you two live nearby right? You mind getting her home safe?” Jose said, his amusement sobering long enough to show his concern.

“Sure, I’ve got it.” Héctor said automatically, kicking himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth. If there was ever a time to say no, this should have been it.

“Muchas gracias.” Jose said, looking relieved as his amusement came back and he ducked out the door. “See you two on Monday!”

A small whine of fear escaped Héctor as he watched the last of his co-workers disappear out the door. The bar was still fairly busy, but Héctor felt as abandoned as if it were empty.

He jolted when he felt fingers sliding up his chest and automatically caught Imelda’s other wrist.

“Ah, Imelda...” Héctor looked down at her, her big brown eyes were so close to his that he found himself desperately wishing he had his glasses on for the first time in months. “Let’s get you home, alright? You look like you could use some sleep. And a lot of Tylenol in the morning.”

“I’mnotired.” She slurred, squinting at her surroundings. “But, okaaaay.”

Héctor released her wrists, but cringed as she fished a set of keys out of her purse, weaving slightly, like she might still fall over.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Héctor gingerly but quickly eased the car keys from her grasp. There was no way he was letting her near a steering wheel in this condition.

“Hey,” Imelda tried and failed to jerk the keys back from him, “don’t! I can fire you you know, I’m your boss.”

“Sí, sí,” Héctor said, stuffing the keys into his back pocket for safekeeping and then holding up his empty hands, “but you’re way too drunk to drive Imelda, why don’t I walk you home instead? Our complex isn’t far, and it’s a lovely night.”

He had no idea what he would do if she refused, in this state he wouldn’t even trust her on the back of his motorcycle.

Imelda considered him for a long moment. Her annoyed stare would have made Héctor think she was sober again if she weren’t also leaning heavily against the back of a nearby chair.

“No.” She declared with finality, giving her head an exaggerated shake. “you’re going to walk me home. I think I....might be a little drunk.”

“That sounds like a great plan,” Héctor sighed in relief. He ever-so-gently put a hand on her shoulder, steering her towards the doors. “I’d be happy to walk you home.”

“I’m just, I just hate parties you know?” Imelda said as they walked out into the cool night air.

“Oh, they aren’t always so bad.” Héctor said.

He let the bar door swing shut behind him, cutting off the rowdy chatter inside. There was a whole universe of a starry sky above them, and the endless night horizon in every direction.

“Yeah they are,” Imelda said, laughing a little as she tried for the third time to get her purse strap up onto her shoulder. “I only went because your stupid motorcycle was gone and Ceci said it was an order. ”

Héctor nearly asked what she meant, but just shook his head, following close by her side as they set off. Anything she said at this point would be tipsy rambling anyway, he just had to get her down five blocks of sidewalk without stepping into traffic was all, and by Monday this would just be a funny story to tell in the breakroom.

“I’m so tired.” Imelda said, coming to a halt so suddenly he nearly walked into her.

“Which is why we’re getting you home, so you can sleep.” Héctor said reassuringly, gently nudging her forward, “We’re almost there.”

Which was a lie.

“Can you sing the grocery song?” Imelda asked, turning to look at him. A nearby streetlight lit up her hair like a halo from behind, nearly making him forget what she’d just asked.

“The grocery song? I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocking onto his toes, caught between the desire to rush her home as quickly as possible and wanting to memorize exactly how she looked at this moment. “Could you hum a few bars?”

“You do too know it,” Imelda said, then hummed the first few measures of what was unmistakably La Llorna as she continued to walk.

“How is that the “grocery song”?” Héctor asked, starting after her again.

“You sing it when you bring in your groceries.” Imelda said, sighing as if her were being rather slow for missing something so obvious. “I don’t know what it’s actually called, you’ve never sung what it’s called.”

Héctor blinked. He was usually singing or humming or tapping out some kind of tune, but had Imelda really paid him that much attention? When he passed her in the apartment complex parking lot of all places?

He wasn’t sure what to say, so he began to hum instead. Imelda nodded and continued to hum her own made-up harmony alongside his as they continued to walk, making Héctor feel very strongly that he was actually in a very strange dream and that he would probably wake up any moment.

They traveled several blocks this way, Imelda prompting him to start the song again whenever he ended, before she decided to lay down.

“Whoa, Imelda, we’re not there yet!” Héctor said as she curled up on the cold sidewalk at his feet.

“I’m just...one second...” She mumbled, her hair tumbled over her face.

“No, Imelda, come on, just a little further.” Héctor pleaded, crouching down to gently shake her shoulder but getting no response.

He looked up, their apartment complex was in sight, but it didn’t do them much good if Imelda was passed out on the sidewalk. He groaned, pulling at his neck tie until it hung more loosely, letting him think.

“Okay,” He said, straightening and anxiously grabbing a fistful of his own hair and he looked around, “okay, okayokayokay...”

He could wait for her to get up on her own, but honestly that might not be until morning judging by how unsteady she’d been right before lying down. Calling Ernesto for backup not only felt like it would be overkill, but Héctor knew he would never hear the end of it.

Héctor looked down. “Imelda?” He tried, but she didn’t move.

Alright then. He could do this. He could handle this. It was only a short walk to the apartments, he would survive.

Héctor tried to take a deep breath, but ended up holding it instead as he crouched back down and gingerly scooped up Imelda into his arms.

All in one smooth motion he stood, one of her dress shoes fell off, she sighed as she nestled her head against his shoulder, and one of her hands lazily wove her fingers around his loose necktie.

It took Héctor a full minute of overwhelmed silence to recover, but he did not drop her, which was perhaps the biggest miracle of his life. He’d have to come back for her shoe later, there was no way he was going to try picking it up now.

It was tempting to run, but he didn’t dare, instead steadily making his way towards home while cradling the most beautiful woman in Mexico (in the universe undoubtedly) in his arms. She was much lighter than he had expected, and up close she smelled like mint with a hint of something else he didn’t know the name of, but that was messing with his head in a wonderful way.

Luckily the complex parking lot was empty by the time he finally reached it. No one saw him carefully making his way up the stairs with an unconscious woman in his arms. No one saw him nervously glance around as he managed to get Imelda’s keys, still in his back pocket, out and unlocked her apartment door. Most importantly, no one saw him duck in and close the door behind them before her cat had the chance to escape.

The inside of her apartment was surprisingly similar to how he’d imagined it. Uncluttered, tastefully modern furniture, a well-stocked and organized bookshelf against one wall. He hadn’t expected the messy collection of take-out containers on the coffee table though, and he certainly hadn’t known about the small brown tabby cat that was stiffly stalking towards his ankles.

“Shhhhh, buen gato.” Héctor said nervously, taking a step back as the little animal’s fur stood on end. “If you attack me I might drop Imelda and then we’ll both be upset.”

To his surprise the cat’s fur flattened, it was still glaring up at him with its piercing yellow eyes, but it sat on it haunches. Fine, it seemed to be saying, its ears still twitched back.

Okay, so apparently Imelda did indeed have a roommate, and a protective one at that. Good to know.

Héctor looked around, recognizing the apartment layout as being similar to his own. If he had to guess, he figured that her bedroom was probably the second door down the hallway then. He just had to get her safely in bed and then he could escape from this ridiculous fever dream of an evening.

“Pepita?”

Héctor looked down to see Imelda had opened her eyes and was struggling to lift her head off his shoulder.

“Well hey, you’re back.” Héctor said gently.

“Where did I go?” She asked blearily.

“Nowhere, we’re going to get you to bed alright?”

“Gooood, I think, I might be little drunk.” She confided for the second time that evening.

Héctor chuckled as he walked down the hallway and shouldered open the door. He’d guessed right, a perfectly made bed was inside.

“You’re so distracting Rivera,” Imelda said, leaning her head against his shoulder again. “you're lucky I haven't written you up yet for being attractive.”

“What?” Héctor choked.

He nearly dropped her, but instead turned it into setting her on her feet at the last moment. She was really far gone if she was actually complimenting him, it had to be the alcohol talking.

“It’s just, your dumb hair.” Imelda leaned up against him, her fingers combing through his hair before he could stop her again. “Do you know how hard it is not to think about your hair when I’m trying to do important work stuff?”

Keep it together.

Keep it together.

Héctor’s breathing was suddenly unsteady, his brain completely checked out at the feeling of her warm body up against his, her fingers playing with his hair.

This was too specific, it wasn’t alcohol talking.

“Imelda, you are drunk.” Héctor said aloud, reminding himself probably more than her. He commanded his arms to move and took her by the shoulders to steer her away from him and towards her bed instead. “You should get some sleep alright? You’d better get a head start on the hangover you’re going to have in the morning.”

Imelda moved to sit down on the edge of the bed and Héctor yelped in surprise as he was jerked forward, her grip still on his loose tie. He caught himself just in time, an arm on either side of her.

“Imelda you’ve got to let go of my tie.” Héctor said hoarsely.

“Oh.” Imelda said, looking at the strip of cloth in her hand like she’d completely forgotten about it. “Are you going to sleep too?”

“Yep, I’ve got my very own bed back at my own apartment.” Héctor said quickly. He felt a little like he was choking, but it wasn’t the tie, which was slipping out of its knot anyway.

“Alright, good night.” Imelda said.

She yawned, kissed him on the nose, and then slumped back on the bed, unconscious again before she even hit the covers.

Héctor straightened the moment he was free, blushing deeply as he touched his nose. His tie had slipped off from around his neck, and she was still holding it close to her on the bed. He looked down and saw the cat staring up at him, a rather cool expression on its feline face.

“I think she likes me.” Héctor whispered to it.

The car flicked its tail, unimpressed. It padded to the bed, jumped up onto the mattress, and curled up snugly under Imelda’s chin.

Héctor hesitated for a moment, but then carefully tucked Imelda’s legs up into the bed and pulled a comforter over her. He went to the kitchen, rifling through her cupboards until he’d returned to set a glass of water and a bottle ibuprofen on her nightstand. She was definitely going to need it in the morning.

That done, Héctor reached for the light switch in his way out, lingering in the bedroom doorway for a long moment. She’d shifted in her sleep, pulling a pillow close to her chest as she curled up under the covers.

Héctor wasn’t sure how long he stood there, content to gaze at her gentle beauty, before the cat raised its head, looking directly at him with a look that clearly meant move along.

“Alright, alright. No need to shout.” Héctor said quietly, flipping off the bedroom lights.

He paused by her bookshelf on his way out to make a few mental notes for future reference, then ducked out of her apartment.

The moment he was home, as soon as he’d locked his own door behind him, was when the laughing started.

Héctor sagged against the door as a chuckle of stress and disbelief escaped him.

She liked him.

Imelda knew what songs he sang when he brought in his groceries, and thought about his hair while she was working, and wanted to write him up for “being attractive.” Who knew what else was happening in that wonderful brain of hers?

He really had a chance, more than a chance. Now that he knew she liked him, under all that pretended sternness, he had something even stronger than hope to dream with.

“What on earth happened to you?”

Héctor looked up to see Ernesto standing in the hallway, dressed in his blue silk pajamas and wide-eyed as he looked down to where Héctor had slid to the floor.

“Were you mugged?” Ernesto asked.

“No no no, I just,” Héctor gasped between laughs, weak with relief. “I don’t even know what happened, I, I-”

“Are you drunk?” Ernesto folded his arms.

“I wasn’t the drunk one, Imelda-“

“Nooooo!” Ernesto gasped, dropping the book he had been holding. “You got laid?”

“No!” Héctor cried, propping himself up into a better sitting position against the door. “Let me finish!”

“Darn right you’re going to finish!” Ernesto exclaimed, dragging over a kitchen chair and sitting with his arms crossed on the back of it. “Tell me.” He commanded.

Héctor relayed the night’s events as quickly as he could, his brain already drifting to think about what he’d do the next time he saw Imelda.

“Well congratulations amigo,” Ernesto said after he’d finished roaring with laughter, wiping a tear from his eye. “Your idiot dreams came true after all. But I don’t know what you’re doing back here though, you’ve still got plenty of time to go back her apartment.”

“What?” Héctor asked as he stood, then realized what Ernesto was implying. “No! She’s drunk and exhausted, how could even suggest something like that?”

“I was just kidding, honestly, I was kidding,” Ernesto said, waving off Héctor’s indignant look as he stood and carried his chair back to the kitchen. “But,” he called over his shoulder, “drunk Imelda is probably the only Imelda you’re ever going to have a chance with muchacho, you gotta seize your moment.”

“Don’t be a creep Ernesto, it’s not funny.” Héctor said, rolling his eyes.

It wasn’t until Héctor went to kick off his shoes that he remembered Imelda's lost flat was still lying on the sidewalk somewhere. He jammed his foot back into his shoe and dashed out of the apartment as quickly as he could.

***

Imelda’s head hurt so badly.

She forced her eyes open in a tight squint against the blazing light coming through the closed bedroom curtains. Something shifted near her head and she winced at the jab of pain the slight sound made in her head.

What. Had happened.

Everything was jumbled and messy inside her head as she painfully propped herself up on an elbow. She spotted a bottle of painkillers on her nightstand and flailed out an arm, trying three times before she managed to latch onto the bottle. It took her another minute of struggling before she got the cap off and then managed to dry-swallow the largest dose she knew she could reasonably be safe taking.

She lay back heavily on her pillow, groaning. Pepita rubbed up against her face and Imelda absently scratched at the cat’s ears as she closed her eyes against the light in the room.

“What happened girl?” Imelda asked.

She didn’t remember a thing about the night before. She couldn’t remember being this hungover since...gosh, probably her freshman year at university? It must have been some kind of party, but why would she have been at a party?

He went to move Pepita’s tail from were it was caught against her neck, but came away with a strip of purple and blue cloth in her hand instead. She stared at it for a long, confused moment.

Imelda jolted up in bed, a spike of pain shooting through her skull.

There was a man’s necktie in her bed.

Oh no. No no no.

She threw back the covers to find she was in her black v-neck dress, one of her shoes lost among the covers, the other nowhere to be found.

Her head was pounding, but she dived for her purse where it was sitting on the ground. She fished out her phone, there were five missed calls from Ceci and a barrage of texts.

How was the Christmas party?

Did you have fun?

Meldaaaaa, are you avoiding me?

You better text back hermana, I’m calling the police if I don’t hear from you by eleven.

Don’t test me on this one, pick up. I just want to know you’re safe. <3

The Christmas party! That’s what had happened last night, wasn't it. Imelda glanced at the time, ten-thirty. She typed out a response to Ceci as quickly as she could.

I’m fine I think, just woke up, I’m safe. SUPER bad hangover, I’m blaming you.

Imelda bit her lip as she hit send, looking at the mystery tie lying on her bed like it was a snake. No, she’d try to figure it out before telling Ceci about it.

She stood, and had just picked up the tie when there was a knock at the door. Imelda jumped at the noise, her head ringing. Pepita pricked up her ears and jumped off the bed, trotting out of the bedroom to investigate.

Who on earth would be knocking this early on a Saturday?

Imelda followed the cat down the hallway, quietly padding to the front door and then leaning forward to look through the peephole.

Standing on her doorstep was Héctor Rivera, looking over his shoulder as if he were a little nervous. In one hand he seemed to be holding a mug of what looked a lot like suero, and in the other he was holding...a shoe?

No.

That was her shoe. Her black ballet flat with the rose embroidery.

Imelda choked as she reeled back from the door, looking down at the tie in her hand as a scrap of memory from the night before blurrily resurfaced. The memory of her pulling Héctor down by this very tie, which was horrifyingly too much information, but also far too little.

Imelda moaned quietly, pressing the palms of her hands against her aching eyes, her cheeks feeling like they were on fire with blushing. Why had she gone to the party? Why had she gotten drunk? She wouldn’t have touched a bit of alcohol if she’d known Héctor would be there. She knew her own weaknesses, and she knew that the toused-haired teacher which soft eyes and a softer heart was one of them, she would have been smarter than to get drunk around him.

There was another knock at the door behind her. She grimaced in indecision. Héctor knew what had happened last night, if she ignored him it would only be postponing the inevitable.

“Imelda?” Héctor called through the door, “I’m just checking to see if you’re alright, you, uh, you had a bit of an exciting night.”

Imelda desperately wanted to disappear completely, but the last shred of dignity inside her demanded that she settle this now.

She nearly bit through her own lip in almost tearful frustration as she adjusted her dress, glancing in the hallway mirror to quickly run her fingers through her hair and wipe away the mascara smudged under her eyes. It would have to do.

She jerked open the door, making Héctor jump hard enough to drop her shoe.

“Buenos días!” Héctor said, quickly picking it up again and flashing her one of his stupid, distracting smiles.

Imelda opened the door, silently pointing for him to come in, which he did. She was not going to have this discussion in the open.

“I brought you suero.” Héctor said meekly, offering her the mug when the door was shut behind them. “I figured you’d need it.”

“Rivera, I need you to be completely honest with me.” Imelda said, forcing herself to be every inch his boss, despite being barefoot with her hair down. “Did we...last night...did...”

Héctor’s eyes widened, “No! No no no! Nothing happened, I swear, all I did was walk you home, I promise.”

Imelda said several very harsh things to the part of her that had the nerve to want to feel disappointed at that.

She was a professional.

She was also now vaguely remembering playing with Héctor's hair, and it was making her fingers twitch, but she miraculously managed to maintain her composure.

“I, uh, I don’t suppose you’d like to go to breakfast and talk it over?” Héctor rubbed the back of his neck, and the motion pulled at Imelda’s heartstrings for some reason. “You said some interesting things last night I wouldn’t mind getting some clarification on.”

What did that mean?

Imelda wondered what would happen if she said yes. Wondered what would happen if they did have breakfast together, wondered what she had said the night before, wondered if her vague memory of kissing him was real or imagined. Imelda wondered what it might be like to kiss him when she was sober.

She was suddenly wondering a lot of things.

“I think,” Imelda said slowly, “that if you value your employment that it would probably be best if you forgot anything I may have said while under the influence.”

Héctor nodded, “Of course.”

But he didn’t look nearly as crushed as he should have. In fact, she could have sworn there was still a smile hiding in his expression. She had no doubt in her mind that he absolutely was not about to forget about the night before. Which really wasn’t fair since she couldn’t seem to remember most of it.

Although, more bits and pieces were starting to drift back now, the memory of him humming that song she’d often heard him sing before, of him...carrying her?

“Well, this is for you.” He said, offering her the mug of suero. “And here’s your shoe. It fell off on our way home.”

“Here’s your tie, I think.” She said, trading the strip of cloth for the mug. It would have been rude not to take it. “How did I end up with that?”

“It was already loose and you ah, you wouldn’t let it go when I tried to leave.” Héctor said, a crooked grin on his face.

“I’ll see you on Monday,” Imelda said, pretending she didn’t know perfectly well that she was blushing again. “Thank you for getting me home safely.”

“Anytime.” Héctor said, bowing with a smile. He straightened and looked like he wanted to say something else, but just shook his head and let himself out.

As soon as he’d closed the door behind him Imelda rushed to look through the peephole. Héctor was standing on the other side of the door, hands in his pockets, looking out over the parking lot at nothing in particular. Then he shook his head with a smile, and walked out of her sight.

She could hear him humming something cheerful and upbeat as he walked away.

Imelda let out a long breath and leaned heavily against the door. She sipped quietly at her salty drink, listening to Héctor’s song until it was out of earshot.

Pepita meowed and Imelda looked down to see the cat winding around her bare ankles.

“Alright, let’s get you some food, calm down.” Imelda grumbled, settling back into the headache of death now that she wasn’t distracted anymore.

She was going to feed Pepita, take a very long shower, and then probably a nap while she waited for her hangover to wear off. It was going to be a normal, quiet Saturday at home, and she was not going to dwell on the night before.

Everything would be back to normal on Monday.

But she would never be able to tell Ceci that. Ceci was far too good at telling when Imelda was lying.

-------------------------

Aaaaaand we’re back! Hope you enjoyed this extra long chapter for Valentine’s Day, it was supposed to be a summary of their entire dating/breakup history, but lucky for you I’m chronically incapable of doing anything by halves. This means you’ll get more of their dating history over the next few weeks.

This AU just keeps expanding, you lucky ducks.

Be sure to check out the teacher!au AO3 page, this is also where @slusheeduck and I will be organizing all the headcanon and backstory one-shots for the AU we’ve written over the past few months for your reading ease.

Happy V-day! <3

- Wit

------------------------

[Au started by @scribblrhob and also heavily added to by @upperstories]

[stone-man-warrior]

December 29, 2020: 5:53 pm:

I just returned from a shopping trip to Dystopia in Grants Pass Oregon where the conditions are Socio-Terrific.

I went to:

6th St. Market

Walmart

As I left the house, opened the door and stepped outside, four deer were there, the usual suspects, they want some tortilla’s, but the ones I have are poisoned, so, no tortillas were handed out. “Sorry, I don’t have anything right now for you guys”... I lit my lighter, slowly stepped over towards the car, as I did, I noticed that the deer are in some kind of distress, I don‘t know what the problem is, but the deer are behaving as if they are concerned about a Lion nearby, as if they want me to let them come into the house. They moved away nervously, as they did, a strange and scratchy, rough sounding coughing sort of loud sound was heard in the woods behind 520 at the bottom of the creek bed there. I walked over there, but that part of the creek bottom is about 15 feet lower than the surrounding area, so, from my fence line, I am never able to see who is hiding down in that draw area. The scratchy cough sound stopped as I reached the fence, there was nothing there that I could see.

In the car, to the gate, I saw that the vehicle that is parked at the Offensive Monroe Surveillance Travel Trailer is a rust/copper colored stolen new model of a Toyota Tacoma, or, is a GMC Canyon pick-up truck. They have had that one for about one year there at Monroe’s, cars change-out there at a rapid rate, same as at Clyde Baum’s terror cell, cars and trucks seem to be drawn there magnetically, and stay, new-ish and very expensive ones. There is a white tarp over top of the Monroe Trailer now, to mimic the trailer that is at Chapman’s County Courts terror cell, which always has a white tarp over it, for the past ten years. The tarp at Monroe Offensive Trailer is arranged as a porch patio cover over the steps at the entrance to the trailer with one central support making a ridge sort of arrangement with the tarp. I opened the gate to get on my way, and there was Sandy Monroe, about ten feet away, on the Monroe side of the fence, at the place where the yard waste and brush clearing has been done to remove a patch of bamboo reed grass, and that really cleared away much of what little privacy remains between my yard and Monroe’s yard, while at the same time, is another one of those tall heaps of brush that Monroe’s are famous for, are used as a place to hide behind, and that is what she was doing, tucked and squatting, behind a tall heap of brush, near the cleared away area, at the yard waste fire, by the pond at Monroe’s.

She was crouched into a ball, head down, hair all wet as if she had been out there in the drizzle for many hours, wearing a maroon colored coat, looking as if in distress.... but I know better than that. It was “Save the Princess” set-up. The next part for that was along the road, as I left, someone driving that black Honda with the dent on the rear fender was coming towards me in hurry as I drove on my way down Jackpine. That person is supposed to be a 17 year old boy, but the driver looked more like the leader at Bad Guy Auto terror cell at the corner of Russell Rd and Three Pines Rd, a Google sponsored terror cell disguised as a neighborhood auto mechanic.

I don‘t know what was supposed to happen, but whoever was in the creek making those scratchy coughing sounds was part of it, so was Sandy, and the driver of the small black Honda. It was a set-up for something that did not happen. There is a creek there by my gate too, goes under the driveway through a culvert, it’s dry right now, as are all of the creeks in and around here, they are season run-off creeks, no water in them yet. So, when I saw Sandy crouched there, in the trees by the creek, naturally, the only thing to do, is sing!

“... in a tree by the brook, there’s a songbird who sings, ‘sometimes all of our thought’s are miss-given’... and it makes me wonder...”

I got on my way, avoided the “Chartrand Bad Google Guy Auto”, and proceeded to the freeway.

I noticed that at Chartrand’s, there is a new Electric Power Sub-Panel installed along with new water spigot there, at a place where no electronic operated things are near in a large dog kennel enclosure. It’s all underground water pipe and electric panel stub-out to a substantial sub-panel that seems to operate nothing other than the water spigot, witch looks like any other hand operated water spigot. It’s a Pac-Pow mystery.

Today, I pretty much disregarded all of the Three Dimensional terror comm that was present on the route to the store.

“My head is humming and it won‘t go, in case you don‘t know”

... with exception of one Big-Rig truck & trailer with the words: “Royal Package Transport” on the trailer, big lettering, can‘t miss that one.

At 6th Street Market was the next part of the Monroe/Google “Save the Princess” terror play. There was a Grants Pass Police Ford Explorer Police Interceptor there parked out front of 6th Street Market. Two Grants Pass SAG Police Actors were out front, standing in the parking lot in full uniform, black. One of them was wearing a Corona/COVID Mask, black. That is how I know from a hundred feet away that they are SAG Actors portraying City Police, serving as real police, in a town where there are no real police.... hence, “Socio-Terrific Conditions”.

I just ignored them, as if to switch the channel on the TV.

I parked, walked past the Police Interceptor, waved at the onboard Dash Cam, and went inside the store, got my things. The clerk is the Hot Chick that I wonder if she is single and available, she flirted with me, said: “Today is my Friday”, so, naturally the only response on a Tuesday is: “You get the Hump Weekend then?” She agreed, acknowledged, indeed it is the “Hump Weekend”.

The clerk gal is also one of the one’s who tosses a handful of glass dust into my eyes from time to time.

The police officer came into the store just then, and advised the “Hump Clerk” that the person who was of interest, is gone, or otherwise had been dealt with. I asked “why are police here?”, she said: “They just needed to take someone out is all”,  I replied: “You make it sound so permanent”, she acknowledged somehow about permanence of the situation, she went on to repeat twice that someone had been in the 6th Street Market bothering her, and that she usually would handle that on her own, but, since it’s her Friday, she does not want to do that today, on Tuesday/Friday.

There was a number of “the people who drive around doing the same exact thing everyday”, one of them was a Jeep that is in tow on 6th St., with a rope or chain on 6th St, as they drive past the two police in the parking at the market, who look at them, then look the other way.

I went to Walmart, where at the parking lot entrance where a group of people, about 8 or 9 people all arranged there the same way Christmas Carolers stand all in a crescent shape. I did not hear any singing, and there was a Santa representative character among them, and two people playing role of the audience, as you enter the parking lot.

At Walmart, the Big Foghorn in the Sky sort of guided me in to the parking spot where it wants me to park, where a man walked by as I got out of my car, and commented about the way I got out of the car, “it’s easy to get into the car, but it just keeps getting harder, and harder to get out as time goes by”. “Yeah” I said, I could use a taller car, or a ladder to get out of this low one.”

I went towards the front of the store. Immediately I noticed that the “Circus” conditions were less evident at the entrance. The usual ropes, barriers, stuff they use to make a entrance lane, was reduced to one sign on a stand, and one trash can out by the front main entrance as you go in, outside of the store. The “In/Out divider is still there once you go through the front door.

“Tablet Man” was not there!

There was only one Walmart Vested person that I recall at the entrance today, who selected a shopping cart for me, and made a signal in the form of when the Christian people touch their chest on each side, then their belly and chin. I don‘t know what that is called, but he did that as he rolled the cart towards me.

There was someone handing out n-95 style masks at the entrance, but I did not see where that person was at, only saw some people who had just been given a mask to wear, the associate must have been around the corner where the video games are at in that front narrow hallway. That side door that leads to that hallway did not have the usual signage out front saying that it’s for store associates only.

Inside the store: GREEN

Green on the packaging, on much of the items, boxes, lots of green.

I am a red marble in all green collection at Walmart.

Totally out of place.

Today was a different kind of Walmart experience, I can’t really pin-point why it was any different, other than the offensive behavior is reduced. I did not feel entirely scared out of mind as I shopped on today’s visit, so, a lot of nitrous gas is probably why I felt that false sense of security there. I lit my lighter a lot, but did not see any ceiling tiles fall, or people flying to other departments today.

=======================

That colorful Walmart logo is worthy of some discussion.

Look at it. I see a clock. On the real vests at the store, I see a clock that has a 12 and a 6. I see a:

12:00 = Orange

2:00 = Light Blue

4:00 = Yellow

6:00 = Pink

8:00= Dark Blue

10:00 = Green

================================================

12-30-2020: 12:51 am:

I am a poor judge of time:

I made some necessary adjustments to the Walmart Color Clock, I had miss-labeled it, for the record as follows: 12:00; 2:30; 4:30; 6:00; 7:30; 9:30. Upon closer inspection, the thing is “Two-Hour Clock”, not a “30 Clock”, so, I have to go make the changes where I mislabeled the “Walmart 2 Hour Color Clock” throughout this entry here as a “30 Clock”. Sorry about the confusion. The newly discovered “Two-Hours” changes everything I was thinking about it before seeing the mistake. So, note to self: This entry was written while thinking the clock was at the marks mentioned at the 30 minute intervals. Some of what is written here will not apply because of that oversight.

================================================

(the color of that example is slightly different than the colors on the actual vests at the store)

If I had to use that Walmart clock to say what time it is today, then, it’s 10:00, (edit from 9:30 correction) today at Walmart.

(When I left the store, the sky was beautiful, there were some scattered clouds and the Sun had set behind the coastal mountains to the west, there was a reflection of orange on the bottoms of the clouds, and the most beautiful orange pillar of light that was reflecting in a way I don‘t recall having seen before. The thing I saw in the sky in the distant west looked a lot like that orange 12 on the Walmart logo... I had been thinking about that logo while in the store, made some assessments about the “Two-Hour Clock”, and then when I got onto the freeway, that pillar of light was there, like nothing I have ever seen in the sky before that I can recall. Amazing. Maybe others saw what I saw. Like a one color orange vertical rainbow post, holding up and supporting the entire sky with a delicate balance to carry all of that weight of all of those orange bottomed clouds)

On my way home, I was thinking about people who are held captive. There were so many of the regular fake shoppers who are always there. The woman who wears a giant grey sweat shirt with matching grey leotard pants and a white purse who is always at the soda aisle when I get to where the potato salad is in the “Coffin“ floor freezer near the dairy area was there, as she is so often.

There was the tall man with the shoulder length blonde hair who stairs at the ceiling as I pass by at the coffee aisle near the tortilla rack where frozen chicken is at, and the old woman who seems to block the access to the eggs just at the time I want to get some, and many other of the “Usual Suspects” of fake shoppers were there as they always are.

So, without complicating this any more than it already is, I am just going to say that today, the notion that so many of these people could be slave victims forced to do what they are doing at the Walmart, was overwhelming. One assessment is that perhaps, when SAG summons a Canadian to Grants Pass to play role of a murdered US Citizen, those people may be told some other thing about why they were selected to go live in Oregon. Whatever they may have been told, is not necessary to see that many seem to be here on false pretenses. There also is that absolute knowledge I have about the US Citizens who are held in weird captivity, is not in jail, but, is more like a dog in a kennel, has some room to move around, not much, and are kept on a short leash when they “go for a walk”. So,  also, I already know of the heroin that is used to control people, they are forced to do murder, the murder they do is horrible, they have no choices, “Big Terror” is in control of everything. The people who are forced to do what they do, can‘t sleep, cannot cope with the reality of it, so, they eventually take the heroin that is either offered, or is forced on them, so that they can cope, and get some sleep, and continue to murder, and traffic, as they are told to do by “Big Terror”. Like I said, it’s weird captivity. So, I am told that just one injection of heroin is like a lifetime of addiction to it, if you do some once, you will forever be searching for how to get more heroin is the way it was told to me. And that is how the people are controlled to do as they are told. There is more control circumstance to the heroin, it serves the “Big Terror” to have a lot of women who are addicted to the heroin, so that the “Big Terror” can have their way with the heroin addicted women sexually, women, girls, boys, who have no choices but to take the heroin, to serve the desires of the “Big Terror”.

It’s all fucked up.

Small girls, young boys, men & women, old and young, black, white, or brown, all wacked on heroin, but “wacked up-side the head with heroin”, so they will murder and do whatever sexual favors their captors demand from them. Since the terror take-over is at the scale that it is, where all of the commerce is controlled and completely saturated that way throughout the state, those people have no way to earn a living without working for

a terror controlled “employer”. There are no employers anymore, that all changed, to “terror leaders”, “terror generals”.

I don’t know how to differentiate a US Citizen held captive, from a Canadian trained terror soldier pretending to be a US Citizen held captive.

That is a tough one.

Three kinds of terror soldiers that are in existence:

Trained Canadian SDA.

Canadian’s, non trained, summoned to Oregon.

US Citizens. Held captive, do the most dangerous terror activity, are “disposable”.

Maybe there are other kinds of labels, other ways of sorting people out, I can see that for a simple way to describe terror soldiers, those are three kinds that I can see exist here in Oregon.

SAG Members

British Authority

Vatican Authority

Are three simplified ways of describing the captors of the others.

It’s a complicated mess though, “simple” can only go so far for solving the problems.

Problem:

I say: “Those who control the heroin, also control the terror army”. There is more than one way to control the heroin, I wrote that down in more detail before. So, some of what I am seeing today at Walmart, boils down to “Save the Princess” where there is a big act going on to make me, or others, feel sorry for murderers who use heroin to cope.... “Don‘t take my heroin, don‘t get my heroin dirty, I’ll get sick”. Is another way I see things developing. If helpful people came, and were roped into a “Puppy Dog Eyes” situation where the Puppy turns out to be a “Welsh Dragon with Big Teeth and breaths Fire”, that could work out bad for people who have been fooled, by a man with a Pointy Hat, and a Dog Whistle who lives on a island called The Vatican... the mother of all Hokus Pokus.

A delicate balance. That pillar of orange light, could have been an illusion put into the sky by the Vatican. They have more money than God can print, and technology hijacked from around the world, at the highest levels of complexity, and power. I think it’s possible it was all an illusion in the sky.

Even if had some good answers to solve the problems, there is no one who will speak to me. I have not had a meaningful conversation with another human being in more than ten years.

So, I use social media, until they delete the social media where I write.

====================

9:09 pm:

That colorful Walmart Logo needs more decoding work done on it.

That one I found online to demonstrate it may be different slightly to the one’s worn by the Walmart associates. That one shows a Red indicator at the 12 clock position. I saw Orange when I was there, on the vests. My memory could be better, so, I am not certain the the light blue and dark blue are arranged on the vests the same as that one I posted. Why are there two shades of blue if not for confusion service? The blue ones may have spun, or flipped sides from what is on the vests at the store. If only the blue colors changed if necessary (alternate vests at the store per specific condition) that is a binary “yes or no” at minimum. Maybe there are a number of colored vest options that arrange the color “effect peddles” in a variety of ways. It would not be something that is easily noticed as long as all of the colored vests worn on a given day remain the same on all of the associates who wear one. There may be in existence vests with the colors flip flopped in every way possible. That is a lot of potential secret communication out in the open, difficult to spot, says a lot, with a little, quietly. I see that there is red on the example I found, where Orange is at on the real vest at the store today, and I cannot guarantee that the two shades of blue are not reversed between the example and the real vests at the store today. That color logo is also mounted large on the wall above the Walmart front service counter, so, that may also prove to change stealthily, simply because it looks so permanent is why that would work so well to fool investigative people.

Those Walmart color logo’s may be part of the Pope’s Effect Peddle Board on the 1958 Flying V Guitar Rig.

============

9:30 pm:

I want to advise of the danger of relying on a computer for making decisions that are based on a hue, or shade of color. My computer is different than yours. The printing industry knows all about that problem, so, those who do graphic art destined for a printed physical substrate, spend a lot of money on special software that defines the colors perfectly, however, the output from the computer is destined for a printed substrate, not someone else's computer. I don‘t think it’s possible to guarantee that every one will see the exact same color when viewed on a computer, unless everyone crowds around the same computer to look at the color, because even with the professional software, the screen has brightness, contrast, hue, saturation settings that are always going to be set differently from one screen to the next, and the screens themselves are different, even if they are the exact same model.

When lives depend on what color is showing, only one source of the color is going to keep people alive, printed substrates may be an exception, if every one involved is provided printed material from the same run, on the same press, on the same day, and every one agrees about what they are looking at.

=================

9:53 pm: Something tells me I walked right into the color trap.

I’ll wager that some of why the color is so prevalent at Walmart today is not about color, is about Registration, at DMV, not a printing press.

(the bastards are still changing the words I write, installing a lot of “The” into the things I write, not from my home, but at Google, or at Tumblr, or at Centurlylink ISP... somewhere that has access to making such changes to the text remotely.

=============================================

12-30-2020: 1:08 am:

Walmart Clock Re-Assessment:

After I discovered I was seeing the clock incorrectly, and made necessary adjustments, I have have come to conclusion the all of what I wrote about color is not accurate, is not the main use of the logo. I see that it’s a “Two-Hour Clock”. The significance being that most things a person must do, or gets engaged in completing will take a minimum of about Two-Hours. Even small tasks will take at least two-hours to clear your mind of the task, and move on to the next task. There is a “Two-Hour per task” Idea going on at Walmart, is etched into the Logo. There is a Yellow Version, and a Color Version of the “Two-Hour Clock”. That is indicative that the Walmart Management, and the “Walmart Terror Army Color Guard” are equal to that extent, that increments of Two-Hours are important in some way, at Walmart.

It could work out that the terror slave population are required to serve a “Two-Hour Gas & Kill Work Shift” at the Walmart while posing as fake shoppers. Since I see the same people there, doing and saying the same exact thing there, and interacting with others the exact same way, at the Walmart, my conclusion is that the “Two-Hour Shift” is done in groups of people. A platoon of terror slaves, or terror soldiers, I don‘t know exactly how to describe the people, sometimes they seem as soldiers, sometimes they seem as terror slaves who must participate.

If they work in groups, or platoons the way it seems, in “Two-Hour Gas & Kill Shifts”, then, they must be housed also as a group, or, held in more restricting captivity than I previously have considered. That would help to explain the presence of “The Hell Hole” that is at the Walmart, beneath the Walmart somewhere in the tunnels that are burrowed throughout the city.

There is a place that is called “The Hell Hole”. To my knowledge, there is a entrance at where the Hardware Department meets the Electronics Department in the floor, beneath the shelving that exists at the place between departments, as I have explained here many times. There is another at the outdoor garden department, southwest corner of the building area. There are others too. There is a entrance to the tunnels at the Josephine County Sheriff’s Office, on F Street behind the Walmart. There are more entrances at Fred Meyer’s. Many entrances, all of the ones I am aware of are explained on this account somewhere.

JD’s Sportsbar

Somewhere near the old Greyhound bus terminal at F St & Agness Ave. (the bus stop is gone, the entrance remains)

Southern Oregon Dental on Union Ave.

In the men’s restroom beneath the bleachers at the Fairgrounds.

Fred Meyer Garden Department

“The Old Theater” (is empty building) on 6th Street at Midland Ave. and at address marked 1501 at the same corner diagonally w/red roof small building.

Those are the ones i recall right now.

The groups of Two-Hour soldiers could be held in the Youth Correctional Facility next to the jail. There is certainly going to be many entrances to the Grants Pass Tunnels system of terror tunnels there, and many others throughout the city, including the Asante Hospital and Cartwright’s Butcher Shop at the end of Union ave near the hospital. There are underground rooms beneath the Department of Motor Vehicles on Beacon Ave. specifically, beneath the Cartwright’s Sandwich Shop in that strip mall where DMV is at.

Many underground places, Elon Musk style Boring Company Machines were used, I saw them, one popped out of the ground during road construction on F street in 2009 at the place where the Greyhound Bus Terminal used to be, I saw it, it was big, and pointy, and could drill big holes in the ground.

So, re-assessment is much worse than the other assessment. But is easier to comprehend, and explain than color problems.

---

12-30-2020: 3:22 am:

There was a time I am recalling from long ago, when I learned that when people were called into court hearing in Josephine County, no matter what for, by the end of the hearing the people are given a “Color” and instructed they must call phone number every day at a specified time. The number was a recording that simply repeated a color, if the color on recording was the same as the color you were given, you are supposed to go somewhere to check with someone. I was given such a color and phone number, but I knew it was Bullshit, I am US Citizen, not Canadian terror soldier, we don‘t do “Call The Color Just Because Some Asshole Said So” in USA. We do it different. So, I remember calling, and hearing that the color was said, but I did not know where to go check in with someone, so, that was it, it was bullshit, I did not participate in the bullshit. So, I don‘t know much more. I do know of others who had to call, I dated some women who had to call, they had to go somewhere if the color was mentioned. I am pretty sure that some of the women I dated, called the number, went to check in, and were told that I was the mark, so, that is the reason that I wound up dating the women, they were instructed to make themselves available to do the take-out, but, were all unsuccessful. Maybe, since I have been such a pain in the ass to the County Courts, by saying so much truth, they just tossed some women at me, to keep me occupied, and learn personal information. I dated some very strange women, many very offensive ones, and at least two certifiably crazy women, Lynsi Snyder, owner of In & Out Burger, was one of the craziest people I have ever met, not fun crazy, scary crazy, So, that color Walmart Clock might be extension of what the courts started so long ago with making people call in for duty, the color Walmart Clock has not been around for as long as that other court mandated phone-in that they used to do, might still do.

=============================================

10:37 pm:

That orange reflection in the western sky... that was my Son, showing me a great big Louisville Slugger, for the home-run. The orange bottomed clouds is the place where my daughter came by, put some Windex, to clear the scene from the terra-cotta dirty pots.

Thank you. I need all the help I can get.

====================

11:00 pm:

Also when I left in the car today I had a quick look at that place under the deck of that other incomplete house i started to build so long ago, where the terror soldiers hide for a chance to shoot me with a cross-bow, or to sneak from there to inside the house where I live after I go by there on the walk to the mail. Everything looked the way I had left it. Then when I came home from the store, I could see that someone had gone under the house there again, things were out of place beneath that deck. I went out just now and had a look at that, I can see that someone has spent a lot of time under that deck, there are some things under there that have all been moved around, some room made where I can see that someone was getting comfortable while hiding beneath the house, and someone had been under there between the time I went to Walmart and came home.

I suspect that Sandy Monroe will be said to be “The Homeless Person“ who everyone seems to think I am, there is a story being told by local authorities that there is a “Bum” around here stealing everyone’s mail, and eggs from chicken coups. I am often accused of being that person, but there is no such homeless person, it’s all a manufactured story that serves the needs of the terror army, so, it could work out where Sandy Monroe gets sacrificed, is picked up by federal people. She would tell whatever story that needs to be told, then, the “County Services” could get involved with her “Care”, while at the same time that kind of an event could be used to turn an enormous terror take-over into a story about a homeless woman who stole some eggs to stay alive in harsh weather while taking shelter where she could, such as beneath the deck on that unfinished house. Then, of course the federal people would all celebrate about a job well done, and Sandy could just sit it out for awhile with her terror cell associates at the county courts, given a temporary housing, until the federal people go home, or are killed at their academy awards Back Patting session about a job well done. It’s happened before the same way. Sandy always comes back, to the house she and Jeff Monroe stole from me, with help from the county courts. That house at 434 belongs to me, It was willed to me, along with the house at 520 Jackpine, by James Nicolas Watson, a friend who was killed by the terror army about ten years ago. Watson owned both 434 and 520, I was the heir to them in his will. The courts took control of the probate, or however that was done, I don‘t have all of the details, I just know Christopher Mecca did the necessary legal paperwork to satisfy the illusion of a legal transfer of property to Monroe’s. At 520, the same thing happened, but it was Nathan & Naomi Phillips who gained the 520 property. I learned later that Nathan Phillips was sent direct from the Vatican to take control, make a false friendship, to kill me over these reports here and at Google+ where the reports were at the time.

So, for the federal fools.... don‘t be fooled again.

They will use Sandy. I suspect that she was rounded up today, taken away somewhere into the “county services”.

===============

12-30-2020: 2:00 am:

Also while at the Walmart as I was parking, I saw what looked like a Beachcraft King Air Twin Turbo Prop fly over the Walmart parking at above 1,500 feet where it’s supposed to be, and head for Grants Pass Municipal Air Port, I think it was about 3:00 pm. The Beachcraft is bad news.

That is both unusual, and is a signal to terror soldiers about some alerting condition of some kind.

That flew overhead, then, there was a woman wearing the “Air Support Signature Red & Black checkered colors who was there in the parking within about three minutes of the Beachcraft flyover. She was blonde, about 50 years old, was loading groceries into a white pick-up truck or white SUV, I forget, was big and white. So, that with the airplane is a lot, seems like it’s not, bit those who know how to read her motions would know what the pilot said to her as he flew overhead.

Combined with other unusual activity I observed at the same instant the Beachcraft flew over, when the “Community Watch” Walmart Parking Security drove behind the Grocery Outlet. That also is alarm system terror style, just that he went into the back parking at Grocery Outlet.

There is something going down in the neighborhood. The police at 6th Street Market is another part of the same alarming conditions.

Please send help to Oregon.

Please send US Military, there is no more national guard here.

Please send medical services.

Bring your own hospital.

==================================

Alert Reminder!

The terror army protects their underground places with Mustard Gas!

There are usually coded signs that say where Mustard Gas is used for Terror Protection, is used for keeping investigative people out of their underground places.

You may see creative means to signal such places, I know of the use of “Grey Poupon Mustard Bottle” left at a place where such a bottle is out of place, such as with the condiments at a coffee table in a lobby waiting area, it’s just there with the sugar packets, and creamer packets where complimentary coffee is offered. I suspect other brands of Mustard would also suffice to say the same thing. So far, I only know of one such place, in Medford at former office of Dr. Brett Quave corner of Siskiyou Blvd & Murphy Ave. where there is a airtight glass enclosure for the staff if the gas is deployed in the office, however, that information is from 2012, may have changed, but the underground place remains beneath the entire neighborhood, houses built on top of experimental surgery center. Is explained in more detail throughout this account, with maps. Is very dangerous even to do Google Search of that area. So, be careful of Mustard and other poison gasses, especially in tunnels in Oregon.

Oregon Health Science University is the same as the place in Medford, goes nine floors below ground under the Veterans Admin, Hospital there. I have personally been down there, it’s not pretty. Might also be protected with Mustard gas or other offensive poisons.

=========================================

12-30-2020: 4:18 am:

I am happy to be alive after the Walmart excursion. I waited nearly a month to go somewhere in my car in my car, I think... I waited until I could no longer wait, and It’s more dangerous to go somewhere on weekend than during the week, so, timing is important to add to that “Survival as a Red Marble” bit I wrote about. I am pretty sure that the term: “Weekend Warrior” really is a “Soldier of War” idea, not just someone doing a patio cover project.

If the nsa were to investigate these reports, they might end up at the local stores, so, I have some connecting dots from In & Out Burger, to Winco Foods. Both of those places are relatively new to Grants Pass, they both did the same strange technique when the construction began at the buildings. Unbelievably, they both used a full size, inflatable building to place at the construction site, filled it up with air, like a Bouncy-House style, the inflatable buildings looked almost exactly like the real buildings do after the construction. It allowed that the finished product could be seen in place, moved around, placed exactly the way the wanted it to be before the construction began. Adjustments a little bit this way or that way, with driveway and access considerations all dialed in before any lumber is dropped or cement work done. For a big company planning many of the exact same buildings, I can see that such a method could save a lot of headaches later on, and prevent any kind of “Hindsight is 2020″ from happening later on.

It’s 2020 now. For about 43 1/2 more hours it looks like.

“Hindsight is 2020″ could be why they did that.

The balloon buildings have a Richard Branson sort of feeling happening with them.

Place it, move, adjust it, move over, move it back.... a little more.... nail it! That’s where it goes, right there, and you can see ahead of time how it looks and blends in with the surroundings before hand. So, both In & Out Burger and Winco Foods did the same thing, used the “air building” to get it right the first time, no do-overs required, ever, that way. They moved the Winco air building around more than a hundred feet in all directions it looked like to me before settling on the final placement.

They took the air building away, and built what stands there now. It’s notable that Winco Foods waited more than one year to erect the finished building after floating the air building at the sight where Winco Foods is at across from Walmart. The In & Out Burger did not wait, the cleared the Shell Station away, set up the air building, took that away, and began construction within a short time, maybe the same month.

Both are killing fields is why I mention it. Same as Walmart.

[thenewtdimension]

The Alignments | 01

Pairing: Newt Scamander x (Ravenclaw!)Reader Prompt: Sequel to stargazers One shot(x) or Chapter (x) P. [1/5] Word count: 1.8k Warnings: none. Genre: Maybe only a sprinkle of angst? Eventual angst & fluff. A/N: Sorry I put it off until recently guys! BUT here it is. Forgive any mistakes! Officially this is the ‘before the incident in NYC’ part, which is why it’s a bit short.

December 3rd, 1926

Out of all the things you had that particular weekend, a meeting with the Ministry of Magic was the least you looked forward to. You were entirely puzzled when you received their letter a few days back, unsure of what it meant.  Did it not usually indicate trouble? You suspected it did. Growing older, and hopefully wiser, had only increased your paranoia when it came to seemingly official matters. Or, maybe you had been reading too many muggle fantasy books. Whichever the case, you couldn't help but wonder why you.

The letter was short, concise and to the point, giving nothing away.

"Dear Mrs. Y/L/N,

You are requested for a private meeting. Please arrive before 5 o'clock, check in at the Atrium.

Ministry of Magic, HQ, Sealed."

That is how you found yourself warily walking out of the old phone booth and into their headquarters, into the bustle of the Atrium. It was filled to the brim as on routine. A multitude of shuffling feet resonated against the lively walls and the wooden floors, and you made your away amongst the bodies, slowing down out of curiosity. There were many different wizards there, some with their families, others alone. What you found curious was how eccentric some looked despite their early ages. Most had one thing in common: they were leaving quickly, having finished their purposed visits and hoping to get back to whatever they were previously doing. You would soon be in their shoes, scurrying about.

Finally making your way towards the security desk, you gave one of the workers your letter and proceeded to wait for the next. Your eyes drifted elsewhere quickly, absorbing the size of the room and the symbols above everyone's head. How long had it been since you step foot into the Ministry? Years, clearly, although they offered no excuse for your lack of memories of the place. After turning down the Auror position, you had no need to go near the Ministry throughout the passing years.

"Madam,"

You let out a small "oh," slightly startled, before turning and receiving a small folded paper. After thanking the wizard, you made your way towards the lifts. Only that, above every head, a mop of neatly styled curls appeared out of one of the metal transporters, and so your feet stopped, your eyes wide.

Is that..?

And your stilled feet suddenly turned into action, your heart hammering in your chest as you catch a glimpse of freckles you could never map out, never touch. Picking up speed, you opened your mouth in hopes that his name would come out, but nothing did. Your throat was dry as soon as you had recognized his hair, and your voice lost. What would you have said anyway? Would he even remember? It had been years.

 Suddenly, the mass of bodies before you thickened, and after accidentally stepping on a man and having him grab you by your sleeve, you were sure you'd be too late. No, please wait, you mentally pleaded.

"Miss-" Yet you gave him no time. He was another random Merlin in your book, and the glimpse you got of him was barely as important as the curls you were chasing.

"I'm tremendously sorry sir, but I am in quite a hurry," you said, hoping your creaky voice at least sounded apologetic, and took your hand back before moving away. But it was too late, by then. Even when standing where you had seen Newt, not a curl, and not a freckle of his, was seen.

Blinking furiously, you began to wonder if what you had seen was real. The night before had been particularly tiring for you, for being a Healer consumed most of your time. It could have been a hallucination, constructed by the subtle sting you felt each night as you thought of your old friend, but it was an undesirable possibility.

And if he was truly there, then just like your last years back at Hogwarts.... How was it that you had lost him yet again?

Your hands tremble lightly as your memories together resurfaced, but you swallowed them down. It had been about 10 years since you parted ways, and you were already aware you had to get over it. Unknitting your brow, you begrudgingly made your way to one of the lifts open, and headed to your respective floor.

Newt never truly minded confined spaces. He had grown accustomed to the variety of dwellings he explored to save his creatures, as well as the different habitats he needed to replicate for them. When it came to people, however, it was a bit different.

The proximity was the least of his worries. He had been used to visiting the Ministry, familiar with the sea of hats and robes that dashed across the various levels. But he never got used to the nudging, the slight yet consistent shove. Not of him, but of his suitcase. At some point of the evening, he always had to bring it to his chest, surround it with his arms before anyone accidentally knocked it off and set everything loose.

At least, he thought, in a few days he would take Frank to Arizona. That, and the fact that some members of the wizarding community, even if few in numbers, seemed truly eager or his book, eased his heart.

As he got out of the elevator with a timid smile still playing on his lips - a remnant from the weirdly phrased praises he had gotten earlier that evening) -, he gave a look to his briefcase, easing himself. It was still whole, safe in his hands. Then, like many times before, he saw one of the locked clips had already sprung open.

Newt urgently went to close it, until... was that a patch of fur? Quickly it scurried and landed on the floor, and suddenly golden eyes stared at the tall man, as if challenging.

"Don't you dare-" Newt began, but the Niffler had already sprang into action. It hid itself between the busy legs of passing wizards and witches, as if playing hide and seek.

Almost throwing himself onto the creature, Newt quickly summoned his wand before following. Some wizards barely noticed the man crawling about with his wand out, but most that did gave him disapproving stares. Not that Newt ever noticed, preferring to catch the creature before they could ever come to harm it - and before a scene ensued.

In a matter of seconds, somehow the Niffler had lead him towards the exit phone, and as soon as he could get a clear view of the bugger, he murmured a clipped "accio!"

With the playful furball then in his hands, he gave it a stern look - though his eyes could never betray their own softness. Then, after finding a quiet corner and shoving the Niffler back into the suitcase, he left. He had to prepare everyone for the upcoming trip, including himself.

"Wait a second dear, please repeat that,"

"Elizabeth, you aren't deaf. I... " you pressed your lips together, pausing, as if not wanting to mention it again, "I think I saw Newt."

"You think?" your best friend stared at you through the rim of her tea cup.

After a rather... peculiar evening inside the Ministry's Level 9, you decided you needed to see her. You had always stayed close, in touch despite making a living in different fields and going separate ways about two years back.

Elizabeth, and yourself, had previously studied and practiced to apply for Auror positions. It was something she had looked forward to the most, but the occupation had quickly lost its grip on your interest. While she applied and filled her role, rather magnificently if you may say so yourself, you had ventured elsewhere.

For a moment you thought maybe you'd turn into an astronomer, but the field of medicine had slowly lulled you to its side. So, officially, while you spent most of your evenings on a small Clinic in the outskirts of England, you were also a nighttime traveler. That is how your love for the stars sustained itself, along with indulgences in various books and topics related to it, such as divination.

"My mind, it's been drifting to him lately. We don't get letters anymore. It's been years, I shouldn't be holding on to his memories like this”

"Are you suggesting you hallucinated?"

"Perhaps it's a possibility," you answered, thankful for the way she could read between your lines.

 "Well, you did have a rather disastrous weekend didn't you? You look a bit awful, Y/N." Elizabeth said, a bit amusedly as she took another sip of her tea.

You followed, finally touching the forgotten drink in front of you. After the hot liquid made its way past your throat, you remembered how tired you were. And how good that milk tea soothed your tongue. By Merlin's beard, the obsession for the tea would come again. You could feel it.

 "Dear me, I am ever so thankful Ellie. I forgot I owned a mirror," you bit back inoffensively with a sneer, but she ignored the comment. Instead, you could feel her eyes burning your figure, questioning.

 "Y/N. Why don't you send him a letter? I never understood why you stopped trying to contact him after that one time. So he never replied once, maybe the letter got lost. "

You hummed, not being able to quite come up with an answer. You hadn't known why you stopped trying. At some point, Elizabeth and you had been too caught up with the overwhelming changes happening around you both. Before then was when you still maintained contact with him, but as life only moved forward, and your paths diverged in their entirety, the days grew shorter. Sending, receiving, and replying to letters was postponed - from both parties - for late night wonderings and a cup of tea, if you even managed to get away with such a feat.

It was about 4 years since you had last gotten one of his letters, and 4 years since you sent your last reply.

Honestly, you could not remember what you wrote. The memory grew foggy and you had simply forgotten. Days had passed, mostly unnoticed, and eventually you grew anxious. You had wondered if he was alright then, remembered how much you wanted to see him, his curls - those perfectly scattered freckles. But you had receded into a shell, a consequence of overthinking. What if he didn't want to be bothered? What if he simply grew tired of having to constantly keep up with the written passages? What if - what if… what if he had forgotten, but forgotten about more than just the letter?

Pressing your lips together, you shooed away your thoughts and continued to drink your tea.

 "I don't know. We were all wrapped up in our lives back then. And currently, he is still a very busy man, you know? With writing his upcoming book and all."

 "I still think you should give it a try. You already got informed about his current work. You can ask about that," Elizabeth said.

You couldn't help but murmur a "Maybe so. Maybe not," before giving it a rest, and working to change the subject of the conversation.

 "Before you comment again on my past weekend...”

[carryonmylovelies]

I Looked For You In All Of Them

(Sorry guys, I was hoping to get this up by Sunday but the weekend kinda got away from me. I still hope you like it my lovelies.)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

Simon

It can’t be him. But it is.

Why, after spending so much time looking for him, would I actually find him? I was never supposed to find him. I mean, how could I? My black-haired, grey-eyed Kleenex boys were keeping me alive. Barely, but alive. Use once, throw away, repeat. I didn’t deserve to ask for anything more than that. I still don’t now. But then tonight happened.

And I never said my name.

He never said his.

But they still rose up, unearthed from the darkness of that December night, and into the shared breath between us. And there’s no way we can rebury them.

**

We tear away from each other so fast someone probably lost a limb. Maybe it was the leg I was holding to my hip. Or maybe it was the hand I had tangled in his hair. But honestly, being deprived of an appendage isn’t my biggest worry at the moment, because his eyes are saying ‘run’, and the hole in my chest hurts like hell.

It’s probably for the best, if he did run. Which doesn’t make any bloody sense because what even is ‘the best’. I still wouldn’t blame him, though.

“What the fuck,” he says quietly, “did you just call me?”

I swallow and shake my head, tears stinging the back of my eyes.

“How do you know my name,” he asks, eyes glinting in the ill-lit bar corner.

My mouth is full of cotton and my tongue is heavy.

“You know why, Baz,” I whisper, shrinking back against the wall, slowly sliding down until my arms are around my knees and my head is ducked.

He pretends not to hear me.

“Answer me, Snow!” He yells, in a way that’s cruel, familiar, and infuriating.

But it’s too much. The name, the voice, the words backed by cold hatred. That crossed a line, and he knows it. He slumps down beside me, and I can hear his head thud against the cement behind us.

His outburst brings it all back. Nightmares in a room of our own, magic sharing nursery rhymes, long denim legs, cold fangs and hot trees, and fire kisses.

I can’t take this anymore.

A giant sob racks my already trembling body, and tears are falling from eyes. I can’t stop shaking, and I’m choking on my heart. My chest hurts, and my mind can’t stop screaming at me. I never should have left I never should have left I never should have left I never-

And then I’m interrupted.

“I’m sorry.”

Basilton Pitch just apologized. I never thought I would see the day.

I look at him and smile, and then cry harder.

“I’m sorry too.” I am.

His eyes widen and his mouth falls open, but nothing comes out. He shudders and a few tears roll down his cheeks. He doesn’t bother to wipe them away. And I can see him. I can see Baz. Scared and hurt tears, but with the beginnings of a new flickering light in his eyes. Regret and worry at the surface, but proud and brave and sarcastic as hell just underneath. I found him. And Jesus fucking Christ, I have missed this lovely git.

“I never should have left you,” I blurt out, staring at my feet and trying to ignore the tingling pleasure that shoots through me as he shifts closer.

He laughs, loud and sad and wonderful, until he starts crying right through it. Then he laughs again, only breathier this time.

I feel his lips on my ear and I can’t help but shiver in response.

“I never should have let you go,” he whispers gently, and then leans back, his cheek resting on the wall, watching me with a smirk.

I copy him, so now we’re facing each other, sitting in the back corner of a bar, silently apologizing for all of the unsaid mistakes we made when we were kids.

He hasn’t changed and he has. His jawline is shadowy and strong, but now is peppered with red love bites. His widow’s peak is gone, but his hair is still just as soft. The skin on his neck and arms is ghostly pale, but is now dominated by the spiked and ragged lines of his strange tattoos. He’s stunning, but that will always be true.

I move in close, and kiss him lightly. I break away, and he tries to drag me back, but I smile lightly and shake my head.

I grab his hand and stand up, pulling him with me. I take a deep breath and look into Basilton Pitch’s grey eyes.

“My apartment isn’t far from here. Do you want to come over?” I ask, putting myself and everything I want out in the open, so he can see it, clear as day.

And then I wait for the answer. The answer with the potential to change everything.

“Yes, I would very much like to do that,” he says.

I smile.

Baz

If someone asked me how I got from the bar to Simon’s apartment, I would have no fucking clue what to say. But if they asked me how many moles Simon has across his chest, I would be able to tell them exactly twenty-nine.

We still have so much to talk about. We made so many mistakes when we were younger, and they haven’t gone anywhere but stick around to haunt us. There are so many things that are still broken between us, and won’t be fixed any time soon. We gave away so much of ourselves to those desperate one-night stands, that neither of us actually know how to have a real, functioning relationship.

But we can figure all that out in the morning, tomorrow, next week. Just not now. Not when the moonlight is drowning us both. Not when I can still feel his hot tongue on my hip bones. Not when I can still feel his soft lips pressing lovely words into my skin. Not when I can still remember how it felt to throw our clothes on the ground and finally see Simon Snow. (He’s so beautiful, my god. But he’s always been beautiful.) Not when I can still hear his exhausted but happy voice ask if I wanted to hear a secret.

“Yes, I do, love. What’s your secret?”

He giggles and says something that wouldn’t have made much sense to anyone else, but makes perfect sense to me.

“I looked for you in all of them. Always.”

[blainexandersons-blog1]

Coffee With A Splash Of Courvoisier

WHO: Blaine Anderson @blainexanderson & Sebastian Smythe @smythebastian

WHERE. Starbucks → Sebastian’s penthouse.

WHEN. December 8th - Late Night

WHAT. Blaine and Sebastian meet up for coffee after a series of texts and make some major decisions about their relationship.

WARNINGS. NSFW. Cheating TW

Sebastian finished up at work and left the building, smirking the entire way to the Starbucks around the corner from his apartment building. He figured it was best to be close, in case Blaine wanted to get it on again. He got out of the cab and went inside, going up to the counter and looking at the menu with disgust. This place turned coffee into a joke. He ordered a plain, black coffee, and looked around for Blaine.

Blaine hurried to the coffee shop and smiled when he saw that Sebastian had already arrived, he'd been a bit distracted with Sebastian's snap before he'd left and wasn't sure if he should send an inappropriate text or ignore it. He opted for ignoring it, but now that he saw Sebastian again that seemed impossible. After he'd order his tea he sat at the table with Sebastian and grinned, "So...hi."

Sebastian hummed, pulling a flask out of his suit pocket and pouring some liquor into his coffee cup. "Hey." He gave Blaine a coy grin. "How was your day, dear?"

Blaine raised a brow, "Hey you." He whispered and grinned, taking a sip of his coffee as he watched Sebastian, "My day was good. Really busy with my final." He shrugged, "I think it went well though. How was yours?"

Sebastian offered the flask to Blaine, shrugging. "Okay. Long, though." He wet his lips. "What are you doing this weekend? I'm busy tomorrow night, I have to go to a party for a six-year-old, but I'm free other than that."

Blaine shrugged, "I'm not sure yet." He spoke quietly, "I wanted to...talk to you about that..." He added, shaking his head to the flask and smiling, "A six year old? A relative? Or?"

Sebastian closed the flask and put it in his pocket, frowning. "Talk about what?" He shook his head. "No, uh, my best friend's kid. She's a pain in the ass, like her mother, but I love them both to death." He smiled softly.

Blaine chewed on his lip, "So..." He sat up, leaning in towards Sebastian, "Last night was..." He smiled, blushing as he looked up at him,  "I've been trying to sort out...how I should feel...about it..." He admitted, "I feel a lot. But I guess...I was wondering..how you feel about it?"

Sebastian licked his lips and grinned. "It was amazing. Really. I just... want to repeat it. Over and over." He leaned in closer.

Blaine nodded, smiling again and looking down at his cup, both hands around it as he sucked in a deep breath, "And I'm...glad for that but..." He bit his lip, "I cheated on my fiance last night. And that is a choice that will eventually have consequences. If I stay with him, I'm living a lie. And if I leave him...frankly...I'm terrified of the thought. I'm alone here. In this city. I don't have a job. I don't have family here, not very many friends that aren't his." He paused, "I want to understand what this is. Or what we are....if we're anything at all, before I make a decision that's going to change my life."

Sebastian sighed and sat back in his seat, running his fingers through his hair. "Do we really have to do this? Now? Can't we just keep having fun?"

Blaine stared at Sebastian for a moment and he looked down again, "Fun. Yeah." He repeated back, "I think...this was a mistake. I should go." He nodded, "Uhm...yeah I'm gonna leave."

Sebastian groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "Fuck. Why..." He groaned again and grabbed Blaine's hand. "Don't go. Just... stay."

Blaine frowned, "I can't." He hissed, leaning forward again, "I'm not going to continue cheating. I'm not. And if this is nothing, then I'm going to leave my fiance. I love him. I know it seems..." He shook his head, "I know my behaviour...is... bad. But I do love Chase. I just got confused and I...made a mistake. I don't...regret it. But I won't make it again. I can't. I can't be alone...here."

"A mistake?" Sebastian scoffed, hurt. "Wow." He crossed his arms. "What part was confusing for you? Because it seemed, to me at least, like you knew what you were doing."

Blaine frowned, "You...were not the mistake. What I did was....I...broke...a promise." He whimpered, "A promise to someone I love...d." His eyes were wide as he pulled back and realized he'd said he loved Chase, did he not love him anymore? When did that happen? It frightened him a bit. "I can't keep doing it. I can't continue to cheat, it will...weigh on me."

Sebastian rolled his eyes, standing up. "Fine. But don't expect me still be there waiting for you next time you fight because one of you left the toothpaste lid off, or whatever the hell couples fight about." That was a lie, and he knew it as he said it. He knew he'd always make himself available for Blaine, a realization that was scaring him.

Blaine stood, swallowing hard, "You can't expect me to leave my fiance for a guy that just wants to hook up with me." He murmured, "You're asking...me to rip up my entire life...for you...but not even for you." He whispered, "Maybe I would...for you. But...not if...it's not for you...do you...understand what I'm saying?"

"No. I rarely do."  Sebastian picked up his coffee and took a sip. "See you around the building. Or whatever."

Blaine sighed, "Bye Bas." He spoke softly, "I'll...yeah. See you I guess." He mumbled, pulling away and picking up his tea, "Thanks for everything."

Sebastian scoffed, throwing his mostly full coffee cup into the trash. "Yeah." He turned around, forgetting his shoulder bag in his rush to leave, hurrying out the door.

Blaine sighed, letting Sebastian go and picking up his shoulder bag, following after him and groaning as he tossed his tea out, "Bas!" He called and frowned, "You for...got this." He spoke breathless as he caught up to Sebastian.

Sebastian stopped and turned, raising an eyebrow. "Why are you out of breath?" He saw the bag and took it from him. "Thanks."

Blaine glared, "My legs are short, i don't know. I was in tears ten seconds ago. You literally ran out on me." He narrowed his eyes and looked away, "Here...see you." He handed off Sebastian's bag

Sebastian furrowed his eyebrows. "Why were you in tears?" He put the bag over his shoulder. "You told me you didn't want to see me anymore, what was I supposed to do? Did you want me to-" He crossed his arms, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue. "You wanted me to fight for you, didn't you?"

Blaine sighed, "No. I was hoping you...were interested in me." He shrugged, "I was figuring things out. And you...helped." He spoke quietly, "I want to see you. But...if I see you, I give up everything. Do you understand that? I can't give up everything for a guy that just wants...fun."December 9, 2017

"Don't you see the kind of pressure that puts me under? I mean, what if the spark goes away the second it's not exciting because we're sneaking around, or whatever? And then you gave up everything for me?" Sebastian shook his head. "Besides. I don't do boyfriends, or feelings, or any of that."

Blaine nodded, "I see it. That's why I can't see you anymore and I have to go back to him. And be his fiance and marry him." He sighed, "Look, we had fun, but you'll probably have fun with...any other guy." He shrugged, "One that's not engaged. Or afraid to leave their fiance for a guy that... 'doesn't do boyfriends' or whatever."

Sebastian rolled his eyes. "Uh-huh. Well, good luck with that. See you in like, three days." He adjusted his bag, pulling it further up his shoulder.

Blaine scoffed, "You're an asshole, you know that?" He called, "And you're kind of fucked up too." He added and shook his head.

Sebastian laughed, coming back over and moving in close, pushing Blaine up against the wall. "And you can't get enough."

Blaine leaned back and up towards him, "Stop." He whispered gently, "If I leave him...I will lose everything." He whimpered, "I won't have a job...a house...I'll have to leave school...and you'll move on because of the...spark being got or whatever...and...I'll be alone. I'll be alone and I'll be...scared." He shook his head, "I can't risk all of that."

"Aren't you sick of living so... safely, all the damn time? Of never taking a risk?" He slid his hand between them and groped Blaine, pressing wet, hot kisses to his neck. "Take this risk, Blaine. Take me."

Blaine closed his eyes and moaned, "Easy for you when Daddy buys you a penthouse..." He let his mouth open from Sebastian's kisses, "Oh god..." He mumbled, "Please Bas..." He whined, pushing Sebastian back, just enough to stare up at him, hesitating a moment before he leaned up and kissed Sebastian deeply, moaning again. "Fuck."

Sebastian smirked, whispering in Blaine's ear. "Wanna go back up to that penthouse and do things that would make my Daddy furious?"

"Are you gonna make me leave this time?" Blaine whispered back harshly, "Are you gonna fuck me and make me leave" He whined, pulling Sebastian closer, "Maybe it's a lot of pressure to ask you what I am to you. But everytime I chose you....it's huge for me. So don't belittle that but fucking me and kicking me out."

Sebastian shook his head. "No. No. I want you to stay. I don't plan on us being done until morning anyway."

Blaine nodded, kissing Sebastian slowly and pulling his arms around Sebastian's neck, "Take me home." He breathed quietly, "Now."

"Okay." Sebastian nodded, moving away and walking quickly, looking over his shoulder at Blaine. "Let's go, come on."

Blaine laughed and followed behind him, "Slow down....your legs are so long...." He teased and tried to catch up, "Excited much?"

Sebastian shrugged. "Only been waiting for this all day." He slowed down a little bit so that Blaine could catch up. "I saw you viewed my Snapchat story..."

"Yeah." Blaine laughed, looking up at Sebastian, "I did. Of course...you did post that for me...didn't you?"

Sebastian shrugged again, raising at eyebrow at him and turning the corner to the block with their building. "Maybe. Maybe not. What did you think?"

Blaine grinned, "I thought...gee, i can't wait to get that dick back down my throat." He teased and bumped his hip against Sebastian's, holding the door to their building open for him as they arrived.

Sebastian laughed, wiggling his eyebrows at Blaine as he walked in. "That can be arranged."

Blaine chuckled, "Oh really?" He teased, pulling Sebastian into the elevator, pushing him against the wall as the doors closed and leaning into him, "Hold the doors!" A voice called and Blaine pulled back, his eyes widening as the doors reopened to a familiar figure.

Sebastian grinned when Blaine pushed him against the wall and leaned into kiss him but didn't get a chance before Blaine pulled away. "What are you-?" He saw Chase and rolled his eyes, reaching for the door close button.

Chase stepped into the elevator and raised a brow, "Hey Squirt." He chuckled arrogantly as he sided up to Blaine and pulled his arm around Blaine's shoulders, Blaine grimaced and shrugged away, "I told you I don't like that." He muttered up at Chase and Chase chuckled, "Silas, was it?" He looked to Sebastian as if he'd forgotten his name.(edited)

Sebastian smirked, raising his head and giving Chase a smug look. "Bas, actually."

Blaine coughed, half choking at Sebastian's comment as he looked to him with wide eyes, "You're...home early?" He asked Chase and Chase nodded, "Well I missed my favorite Bubble Butt." He teased, leaning into Blaine and smirking, "I know you get up to all...sorts of naughty trouble when you miss me. Don't you Blainey Boo." He spoke quietly, crass and certainly loud enough for Sebastian to hear and Blaine glared, "Chase, stop." He whispered, realizing how little Chase was affecting him in the moment, looking to Sebastian with longing and he frowned.

Sebastian rolled his eyes and looked away, pulling his key out of his pocket and unlocking the penthouse button, giving Chase a "that's right" look as he did.

Blaine pushed Chase away and leaned up to kiss his cheek, "I'll meet you down there, okay Babe?" He offered a smile and followed Sebastian out, waiting until the doors closed before he looked to Sebastian and frowned, "I'm...sorry." He spoke softly and bit his lip, "If I....had a solid reason....to leave..." He shrugged, "Maybe I would."

Sebastian was surprised when Blaine followed him out, looking at him. "You're not... going with him? Isn't he going to wonder why you're here?"

"I'll...explain...lie to him, when I get back down." Blaine frowned, "But..." He sighed, "I wanted to say goodbye."

Sebastian scoffed, crossing his arms. "You have to be fucking kidding me."

Blaine groaned, "Sebastian! What do you want from me?" He sighed, "Come on....I..." He pushed his fingers through his hair and growled, feeling torn, "Do I leave my fiance, for you?"

"I'm not asking you to!" Sebastian clenched his jaw. "All I'm asking from you is great sex! That's it! Why does it have to be this massive dilemma for you!? Just fuck me!"

Blaine glared at Sebastian and shoved him angrily, hesitating a moment before kissing him deeply and growling, "Fine...I'll fuck you." He hissed, his hands already at Sebastian's pants and undoing them, "I'll fuck you...." He bit his lip and leaned up, kissing Sebastian's neck.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, discovering that he really liked angry Blaine. "Yeah?" He relaxed a little, letting Blaine take charge. "Go for it."

Blaine tugged Sebastian's pants open, reaching into them and pushing his hand into them, stroking him roughly, "Shh." He hissed and kissed him again and whined.

Sebastian mimed locking his mouth, which was immediately contradicted when he moaned. "Fuck. Your hands are so soft."

Blaine moaned and nodded, his thumb swiping across the head of Sebastian's dick and grinning, "You bed..." He whispered.

Sebastian nodded quickly. "Downstairs." He wet his lips. "How much time do we have?"

Blaine shrugged, "I don't give a fuck, get undressed." He stroked him still before pulling his hand away and nudging him, "Wanna see your beautiful body."

Sebastian stripped his clothes on the way down to his bedroom, leaving a trail of them. He went into his bedroom and quickly got into bed, curling his finger and looking at Blaine. "Come here."

Blaine followed, his eyes dark as he watched Sebastian, standing over the bed domineeringly, "I will..." He whispered, his hands sliding up Sebastian's legs that seem to go on forever and he hovered over him. "How do you want it?"

"However you're gonna give it to me." Sebastian nodded, letting his eyes move down Blaine's body. "Just pick something fast."

"Lube?" Blaine questioned, looking around the room and biting his lip, "Condoms?"

"Nighstand." Sebastian breathed out, sitting up and stroking himself. "I have a couple different sizes in there."

Blaine nodded, leaning to Sebastian and kissing him again, "I'll be right back." He whispered before climbing over him and pulling open the nightstand grabbing the lube and rummaging through the condoms before pulling one out and hurrying to reposition himself between Sebastian's legs. "Spread." He whispered, opening the lube and squirting it on his fingers, warming it up by rubbing them together as he looked up.

Sebastian quickly followed Blaine instructions, biting on his bottom lip as he watched him. "Fuck. I thought you didn't think I could bottom?"

Blaine shifted, moving his fingers to touch Sebastian's asshole and smirking, "I do love to top." He mumbled, "There's still so much you don't know about me."

Sebastian moaned softly, grabbing Blaine's arm. "Mm. Tell me. I want to know everything."

Blaine shook his head, pressing a single finger into Sebastian and grunting softly, "I'm a mess." He whispered, "Everyone knows it....Blaine...the walking disaster." He mumbled.

Sebastian reached up, breathing out and cupping Blaine's cheek. "Blaine. You're talking to me. I have two friends, and one is six. Those are the only people in my life."

Blaine nodded, pushing his finger deeply and moaning, "You have me." He whispered, "What am I to you? I must be something?"

Sebastian closed his eyes, gasping. "Shit. I meant before you." He groaned, moving his hand down to Blaine's shoulder. "You're really good at this."

Blaine smirked, "Yeah well...it's not exactly my first time..." He whispered, "And I'm what they call....a giver." He grinned and continued, his phone dinging in his pocket and he bit his lip, "It's him...probably." He mumbled, a second finger slipping into Sebastian.

Sebastian furrowed his eyebrows. "You mean a top?" He looked at Blaine, breathing heavily. "With that ass?" He rolled his eyes. "Block his number."

Blaine rolled his eyes, "No...not a top. I'm just....generous. I like to...please." He grinned and pull his phone out of his pocket, tossing it to the other end of the bed and shifting, pushing his fingers deeper, "You're amazing. This ass...amazing."

"I can tell." Sebastian arched his back, whining. "Just fuck me already." His breath hitched, looking closely at Blaine. "Come on. Now. I can't wait any longer."

Blaine grunted and nodded,  "In a minute, you're not ready." He mumbled and continued for a moment before pulling out and undoing his jeans, pushing them off, grabbing his cock and stroking it fast a few times before rolling on the condom.

"I'm totally ready. I'm not exactly a virgin, Blaine." Sebastian watched him hungrily, lips parted. "God damn. How the fuck is that idiot not doing this constantly!?"

Blaine smirked, moving closer before pushing into him slowly and groaning loudly, "FUCK!" He hissed, leaning down and grinning, "You want me like this everyday?" He whispered.

Sebastian tossed his head back and nodded, grabbing Blaine's hips and pulling him forward. "Every second of the day. Kiss me."

Blaine growled, leaning into him and kissing him roughly, "Fuck....your ass is...fucking spectacular. Fuck." He whispered harshly and thrust into him hard, "I think about doing this....so fucking often." He muttered, "I think about us....up against those windows...." He bit his lip.

Sebastian moaned, digging his nails into Blaine's skin. "Yes. Yes. Me too. I think about us doing it in every single inch of this apartment. Harder. Harder, Blaine. Wanna feel you for days."

Blaine nodded, thrusting harder, faster, letting his brow furrow as he realized he hadn't felt so much, so intensely in a long time. "Fuck fuck fuck."

"God. God, God, Blaine." Sebastian groaned, grabbing Blaine's ass and pushing him in further. "God. Yes. Own me."

Blaine grunted again and nodded, "You're mine now..." He muttered and moved to hold Sebastian's hand, "Fuck....you're so tight..." He licked his lips and smirked.

Sebastian laughed. "Yeah, I top way more, you're not the first one to just assume that's all I do. But like I said before-" He moved his leg over Blaine's shoulder. "I'm flexible."

"I can't wait to feel you inside me." Blaine whispered and moved his hand to Sebastian's thigh, fucking into him hard still, "You're amazing. You could...do whatever you want to me."

"Whatever? That's kind of dangerous." Sebastian laughed. "What if I wanted to tie you up and spank you or something?"

Blaine smirked, "Do it." He hissed, and chuckled, continuing quickly and moaning, "Fuck, I'm close." He muttered, reaching to stroke Sebastian, "Come with me."

Sebastian's eyes widened. "Really? Because I was like, half joking." He nodded quickly. "Yeah. I'm almost there. Say something hot."

Blaine smirked and nodded, "Really." He whispered and moaned, "Something hot....the next time you see me naked you're going to be fucking my ass. All night long." He mumbled, ducking his head and kissing Sebastian's neck, nipping at it and groaning.

"Fuck." Sebastian whined and nodded, moaning loudly as he came over Blaine's fist. "You're so fucking hot."

Blaine shuddered, gasping and looking from Sebastian's hand to his face with wide eyes, "Oh jesus christ, you're hot." He muttered, grabbing onto Sebastian's hips with a tight grip and giving one last hard, heavy thrust into Sebastian before he came with a moan. "Fuck."

Panting, Sebastian lowered his leg. "Wow. That was... yeah." He smiled, grabbing Blaine's hand and squeezing it. "You're really good at that."

Blaine sighed and pulled out, rolling off his condom and tossing it before he laid back next to Sebastian and grinned, "Yeah, I know." He teased and squeezed Sebastian's hand back firmly. "I haven't felt like that in...." He shurgged, "Forever."

Sebastian put his arm over Blaine's shoulder, pulling him close. "Yeah. Me either." He rubbed his shoulder, smiling softly. "I'm starving."

Blaine cuddled into Sebastian and nodded, "I...have to go, Bas." He whispered and kissed his cheek before sitting up, "He's...waiting." He frowned and pulled his shirt on, "Can I see you again?"

Sebastian's smile fell, sitting up and pulling the blankets up over himself. "Right." He gave Blaine a small, fake smile, and nodded. "Yeah. Just uh... text me, first. In case I'm like fucking someone else, or whatever."

Blaine pulled away, a look of disappointment on his face, "You know what...never mind." He shook his head and scoffed, struggling to find his pants and finally pulling them on, "Go fuck whoever you want. Have fun." He muttered, picking up his phone and slipping it into his pocket. "You're...unbelievable."

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "So you're allowed to sleep with someone else, but I can't? That's how it is?"

Blaine's eyes narrowed, "I...I'm not advertising it. I'm not bragging about it like you're nothing." He mumbled, "Whatever. It's not like I'm ever leaving him for you." He spat out and shook his head, "Just forget this ever happened."

Sebastian pulled his blankets up higher, nodding sadly. "Fine." He sighed deeply. "Do you need me to walk you out?"

"Do you walk all your fuck boys out?" Blaine asked bitterly, "I'm fine." He looked to Sebastian and frowned, "We could have...been great, you know that?"

Sebastian looked away, shaking his head. "No. We couldn't have. Because you need someone who will love you. And I can't be that guy."

Blaine winced, stepping back and nodded, "I hope you're happy. You...jeopardized...my whole life. I...fucked up my entire life plan...for you." He muttered, "Whatever. Bye."

Sebastian quickly got out of bed, putting his underwear on. "I knew this would happen! I told you! I asked you like, a hundred times if you were sure! I reminded you of the consequences! Do not pin this on me! You knew what you were doing!"

Blaine nodded, "Yeah...I did." He stepped back again, "It's fine. We're done. I'm nothing to you. And you'll always just be...a mistake I made."

Sebastian's lip shook the tiniest bit, nodding and looking away. "Cool. Great." He crossed his arms tightly across his chest. "If that's how you feel, then it's a good thing you're leaving. Go have crappy sex with your boyfriend."

"I have to leave." Blaine whispered, "You know I do....he's...waiting. And if I'm just some random hook up..." He mumbled and looked away, "Tell me differently? Give me a reason to...stay...."

Sebastian shook his head, refusing to look at him. "I'm not going to ruin this for you. It's what you want. I can't give you it."

Blaine nodded, "Okay. Fine. Good, you made my decision easy." He mumbled and turned around, heading to the door, only stopping to straighten himself out in the mirror before he looked back up and moved to the door.

Sebastian went out and watched as Blaine went up the stairs, standing at the bottom. He sighed and groaned loudly before speaking. "Fuck. Blaine! Come on. Come back down here."

Blaine stopped when Sebastian called, closing his eyes and hesitating as he turned, looking down the stairs to Sebastian, "Why?" He shook his head and sighed, "He's...waiting."

Sebastian came up the stairs, sighing. "I don't... look. I can't... promise you anything. But I don't want to lose you. I want you in my life. In my bed." He bit his lip. "I know you have to go now, but I don't want you to go forever. I want you to come back to me."

Blaine's eyes followed Sebastian as he moved towards him and he nodded, pulling his arms around Sebastian's neck, "I don't want to hear about your other boys." He whispered, "And you shouldn't have to hear about...him." He added and leaned up to kiss Sebastian slowly. "I...I'll text you as soon as I can." He promised.

Sebastian nodded, kissing back, his voice soft. "Okay." He swallowed. "You know none of them could ever measure up to you, right?" He cupped Blaine's cheek, looking him in the eye. "You're special to me, Blaine. I could never forget you."

Blaine frowned, "I'm sorry that I hurt you every time I leave I just..." He whimpered, "I don't know what to do." He whispered, kissed Sebastian again, "I think you're...the most amazing guy I've ever met."

Sebastian shook his head. "It's okay, Blaine. As long as you come back. That's all that matters." He stroked Blaine's cheek with his thumb, smiling softly at him. "Tell Chase that we're study buddies. We go to the same school, it wouldn't be that strange. You can say we have a writing class together or something. It would work for both of our majors. Okay?"

Blaine nodded, "Okay...okay...I'll come back, I promise." He whispered and hugged him hard, pulling him tightly against his body, "I can't wait to see you again." He mumbled.

The hug took Sebastian by surprise, but he pulled his arms around him and smiled. "Good. Me too." He kissed his forehead. "Go ahead, I'm sure he's waiting. Make sure you shower as soon as you get there."

Blaine nodded, "Yeah..." He whispered, pulling back and smiling, "Text me." He murmured and smiled again, pulling away completely before turning and leaving, heading back down to his apartment, dreading all the lies he'd have to tell.

[angelic-courting-rituals]

interstitial (part the third)

Continued from part the second. An AU where this time, it’s Shinji’s turn to wait. (part the first here) 

He finally remembered their song twelve hours after the end of his fourteenth birthday, when he realized that Kaworu wasn’t planning on attending.

Initially, he hadn’t been nearly as hurt as one might expect when his entire birthday slipped by with nary a sign of Kaworu’s presence. And make no mistake, it had hurt, but he’d only sulked for a few days before he more or less pulled himself out of his slump by reasoning that it was a bit unreasonable to expect Kaworu to arrive promptly upon the hour, so to speak. After all, their first time around, it had taken a good few months before Kaworu had finally appeared to him like one of the angels after which his species had been named. So Shinji resolved to abstain a little longer, since good things were supposed to come to those who wait. Kaworu had practically confirmed that himself that day he’d taken Shinji’s hand and said, “good things happen when we’re together,” hadn’t he? Surely, this was some kind of trial to test his faith, because serious matters such as true love really required a proper trial of the subject’s mettle.

He thus held out for one more month, sending daily letters to Kaworu with religious devotion. “Do you remember that one time we tried to dance to that recording of the violin waltz you played for the school concert? And I was secretly (or maybe not so secretly - you know everything, it seems) glad that I’d discovered something you weren’t good at?” “Today at school Asuka made some comment about ‘no homo’ and I suddenly remembered that one time we were sitting on the couch together looking at sheet music together, and I was lying with my legs over yours and Asuka walked in and said, ‘that’s really gay,’ and then I started laughing right there at school. So even when you’re not here you make me laugh. I’m sure Asuka would have something to say about that. Can’t wait until you’re here so that we can find out exactly what.” “It’s been a couple weeks since I’ve remembered something about you, or us. I’m a little bit worried.”

At the three month mark, his letters had slowed from a deluge to a stream of about once a week, but Shinji managed to write this off as a matter of quality vs. quantity. He’d cringed when he’d thought of some of the proto-love letters he used to write on the back of his math worksheets once they’d been handed back after corrections, because if his school insisted on killing some trees, they might as well be put toward something more valuable than times tables. Although “Dear Kaworu, how was your day? I hope you didn’t get stuck in traffic,” maybe wasn’t all that much better than “12 x 9 = 108” in terms of things Kaworu might be interested in. All for the best, then, that he hadn’t had the idea to send them up via burning until later. So yes, he told himself, Kaworu probably appreciated not being overwhelmed with what had basically amounted to insipid diary entries.

And furthermore, Shinji had penned Kaworu a lengthy, praise-laden letter for his birthday on the 13th, chock full of all his favorite stories he’d managed to recall so far in as much detail as he could manage, and once he’d run out of those, he extended the content of the letter by switching the genre from creative nonfiction to speculative fiction, imagining all of the things that could possibly fill in the numerous blanks in their timeline. (“Do you think there’s some universe out there where we met at a wedding? For some reason, I feel like that’s something that could have happened.”) He refrained from burning a lock of his hair like he’d heard of in Mari’s plethora of romance books, because he did have some standards, plus, being friends-slash-lab partners with Mari meant he actually had experienced the smell of burning hair before, and that wasn’t romantic in the least. He imagined Kaworu would be a bit offended (but only a bit, since anything more would run contrary to his utter goodness) should Shinji consider him not sensible enough to possess standards of his own.

Six months after Shinji’s fourteenth birthday, the stream had nearly dried up completely, although it wasn’t as if Kaworu was on his mind any less. He kept thinking on a daily, if not hourly basis, “I’ll make sure to send a letter to Kaworu by this Friday,” and then when it was Friday, and he had nothing to show for all his affections, he shifted his deadline to the end of the weekend, and then again to Wednesday, and then back to Friday night again — surely it’d be done by this Friday, because he didn’t have much else going on anyway. And then the cycle would repeat itself again and again until it was the middle of December, and Shinji looked at the only half-used notebook in which he’d composed Kaworu’s letters, and he thought that maybe, just maybe, he might have the slightest idea of how Kaworu felt.

A few weeks later on Christmas Eve, he knew he had no idea how Kaworu felt.

Between the remembering, the resultant crying, and the sheer implausibility of the whole thing, he really didn’t have the energy to tell Misato what was wrong, so he choked out something about seeing all the couples walking around together. “I don’t know,” he said, “I just all of a sudden had this thought, that I think that maybe I’m never going to have that, I don’t know.” After that, Misato seemed to think she understood what the problem was, and she started dropping little comments about “You know, Shinji, you should try going to that New Year’s party at Makinami’s, make some new friends, maybe meet a nice girl you’ll like — or boy! Because that’s totally fine; it’s 2015 now.” Shinji appreciated the effort, and he went to the party both to get Misato off his back and maybe to see if there was a certain nice boy who might have arrived now that Shinji knew about that and maybe that meant he was really ready to meet him, like maybe Ayanami had a secret brother who grew up somewhere else, and she’d brought him along now that he was in town for the holidays. Or something like that.

But he met no such nice boy.

“You know, you don’t have to resort to that. There’s this thing called internet porn,” the cashier at the convenience store said when he spotted Shinji perusing one of the teen girl magazines a little too closely.

“I’m holding it for her,” Shinji said, gesturing towards Asuka, who was browsing the selection of frozen treats even though it was January. “It’s cold, like my heart,” she’d said with a deadpan expression when the cashier had directed a similar subtly snide comment about her own shopping choices. Now that he hadn’t gotten a rise out of Shinji either, he rolled his eyes before lowering them back down to the cell phone game he’d been playing when they’d walked in, and Shinji felt safe to return to his reading, the “Good Boyfriend Quiz.”

It was one of those quizzes where it was pretty clear what the answers were supposed to be. For example:

Question: When you’re having a bad day, what does your boyfriend do?

Answer, practically broadcasting heavy font and multiple underlines: C) He tells you he loves you and buys you ice cream. Even in the middle of January, presumably.

Shinji had made it all the way to the last question before he’d been interrupted.

The meanest thing your guy ever did was:

A) not call you for three days during one of your fights

B) have the waitstaff at the restaurant sing you “Happy Birthday.” It was embarrassing!

C) yelled at you during an argument, calling you stupid

The answer, of course, was “kept you waiting for fourteen years, and continue to keep you waiting despite this — this better be one hell of a date!” But there was no option for that, so he just pressed his thumbnail to the pale pink box next to choice B, leaving a faint crease in the glossy paper, because he didn’t need the Powers That Be to have any reason to think bringing Kaworu back to him would be anything but a blessing. Just to emphasize his point — poorly written magazine questionnaires didn’t possess all the rhetorically blunt weapons in the metaphorical shed — he repeated the process with every other copy of the magazine available on the rack before he carefully rearranged them.

When he got home, he plugged his headphones into his keyboard and practiced their song until he could play both parts with just his two hands, but he made a point not to, because he didn’t want Kaworu to ever think that he didn’t need him.

@mermaidsnogrr

[hushedhands]

Challenge 59

@disnarutard @clarafarleybarrow

*Maxerica pregnancy scare

(I’ve had these prompts forEVER and I’ve been wanting to write the story of how we got Lief, because it’s different from the other Laws of Inheritance Schreave babies, but it’s... sort of... long? And comes with its own world building history lesson? So I haven’t had time. But then I hit writer’s block with The Thing with Feathers (don’t worry! I have everything outlined, it’s just a matter of telling the story in a nice, readable way), so I decided to give myself a break and write something different and fun AKA this) (PS, it worked, my writer’s block is BUSTED in a way it hasn’t been in months. I’m only kicking myself for not trying this sooner!) 

The day before Maxon and America were scheduled to leave for a diplomatic tour of the Australian Islands, Jamesy came down with a vicious cold. Though her motherly instincts were screaming that she should cancel her participation in the tour, America’s duties to her country as their queen won out over those to her children as their mother. That night, America rocked Jamesy in Amberly’s rocking chair until he fell into a fitful, cough-filled slumber. The next morning, she was exhausted as she bid her family goodbye and boarded the royal plane with Maxon, but it was just as well. They had a long, long flight ahead of them and there would be plenty of time to sleep on the way.

Her first day of tour, though tiring, went fairly smoothly. Silvia had made the trip with them, along with Gavril and a small pool of reporters. Silvia and her counterpart in the Australian queen’s entourage, a man named Nigel, kept the entire group on schedule, and consequently, America and Maxon were able to enjoy a private meal in their suite at the palace before falling asleep, fast and hard.

Maxon awoke the next morning feeling nauseated, the lingering jet lag toying with his body. America woke up with a light case of the sniffles, but convinced herself that it was just allergies, her body overreacting to her unfamiliar surroundings. She made it through the day thanks to Silvia keeping a supply of soft tissues close at hand, and survived the state dinner that night by sipping chilled wine to soothe her achy throat.

On her second morning on the Australian islands, sadly, it was no longer deniable. She had Jamesy’s cold. There was a rush of activity throughout the palace as the Australian royal family’s personal doctor contacted Dr. Ashlar all the way back in Illéa (despite a brutal time difference), and proposed a course of decongestants, cough suppressants, antibiotics to prevent infection, and vitamins to supplement her immune system. The Australian Doctor received Dr. Ashlar’s full approval for the proposed treatment, and America was dosed with a cocktail of medications to keep herself well enough to tour. As someone who was naturally suspicious of fancy medicines, it was a little bit of a nightmare for America, but she was forced to concede that they helped.

It truly wasn’t fair how quickly Maxon adjusted to the new timezone and was back to his normal self. More than that, he was glowing and gorgeous from his time out of the office and into the Australian sun, touring nature reserves and watching soccer matches, while America sat beside him, hot, dizzy, and splotchy.

She woke up on their fourth morning abroad with a terrible migraine. There was yet another international consultation before she was dosed with even more medication, then sent on her way with the Queen to tour some nearby public schools.

She began to feel drastically better by day five as her immune system finally began to put up a decent fight, and by their final day of tour, she had all of her stamina back and was down to only taking the decongestant and antibiotic to keep herself on the path to recovery.

Maxon and America flew back to Illéa, desperate to see Addy, Jamesy, and Maisy. This time the time change meant that they were awake for much of the flight, and they enjoyed stargazing from the bed in the back of the plane. With the window shades open and the lights off, if they were laying flat on their backs, they could peer out the windows and up at the sky. At this altitude, out over the black ocean, the view was breathtaking (and breathtakingly romantic).

The jet lag was hell again, when they got home, but they were arriving in the early, early hours of Sunday and would have most of the day to sleep and readjust.

By noon, Maxon had dragged himself to the office for a quick briefing to catch up on anything the advisers felt needed his immediate attention. America didn’t even eat breakfast and take the final dose of her decongestant cocktail, along with the rest of her usual medicines, including the one that kept her heart healthy, until the middle of the afternoon.

But after that rough adjustment, Maxon and America settled back into their usual routine with relative ease. Over the next month, 8 year old Addy wrote a play about pirate unicorns, which was performed by the Palace kid gang for all of their parents, 6 year old Jamesy lost a tooth, and 4 year old Maisy began early education lessons with Ms. Alvaraz.

The latter was perhaps the most traumatic for Maxon and America. For the first time since Addy was born, there were no kids to toddle back and forth between Maxon’s and America’s offices all day. Kenna and Paige still nannied in the evenings, alternate weekends, or if America and Maxon were going to be traveling, but their regular hours were much shorter now that all of the Schreave kids, plus Kile and Astra, were in tutoring lessons for so much of the day. Paige was even beginning to help out as one of America’s lady’s maids again, just to fill out her work schedule.

The actual nursery adjacent to the family room, where each of the Schreave babies had slept until they outgrew the crib, was now a play room filled with a cluttered mess of toys, and the crib had long ago been taken apart and placed into storage. Maxon and America couldn’t wrap their heads around the thought that it might not emerge again until little Addy grew up and had a baby of her own. It was such a desolate thought that, most of the time, they just tried not to think about it.  

Later that month, America cancelled her usual quarterly checkup with Dr. Ashlar. Having blood drawn for the panel to check her vitamin and hormone levels always left her exhausted for the ensuing several days. It was a terrible excuse, she knew, but she was already feeling sluggish and she had important legislative negotiations to take care of (They were still a few months away from the early December formal session, where Maxon would make official amendments and enact new laws, but that just meant that they were in the thick of figuring out what those repeals, amendments, and new legislation needed to be. America couldn’t just nap her way through these important meetings).  

So, she figured she’d just get her blood drawn in a couple of weeks, once the legislative details were more settled and she could afford to spend an afternoon or two sleeping off some blood loss.

Dr. Ashlar, however, was having none of that. He (politely) pestered her and pestered her until, finally, it was easier for America to give in and give up some blood than to continue to make polite excuses to blow him off. By the time Dr. Ashlar wore her down and she submitted to her checkup, America was already eleven weeks pregnant.

Dr. Ashlar was so grim-faced and sullen when he insisted on the emergency meeting in her office that same afternoon that, at first, America thought she might be dying. She’d had very low energy for a while now and she’d vomited a few times in the last few weeks, perhaps her body was shutting down, rejecting nourishment, slowly deteriorating until it wouldn’t be strong enough to go on? By the time Dr. Ashlar started explaining what her blood test had revealed, she was already convinced that she’d be dead by the end of the week.      

But what Dr. Ashlar said, instead, was that she was pregnant, and that he needed to perform an ultrasound to figure out how far along she was before he’d be able to answer her questions about how this was even possible.

She was stunned, and she was convinced there had been a mistake. The machines had glitched or something. She didn’t know what ‘glitch’ was, but she knew it could happen, and she was sure that it had. Still, just to be sure, she canceled her next meeting and joined Dr. Ashlar in the same room where she’d gotten all of her ultrasounds done with her various pregnancies. She hadn’t set foot inside since before Maisy was born. As soon as she laid eyes on the bed where she’d been laying the very first time she and Maxon ever set eyes on their very first baby, during their very first ultrasound appointment, America was overwhelmed with nostalgia so strong, it made her chest hurt.

This had to be a mistake, she firmly reminded herself. She’d been taking birth control tablets nonstop, without fail, for years. There could be no baby. And anyway, she and Maxon had three perfect children. It was enough.

… Or at least, that was their mantra. They repeated it and repeated it every time they started to doubt it. Three was enough. Three was more than enough! Three was plenty, given how hectic their jobs were. More than three would be too many, after all. Three was the perfect amount. Any more than three would be excessive, in fact. They had their three, what more could they ask for? Certainly not four, which would be too much. Three was enough.

But Dr. Ashlar turned on the machine and jellied her stomach, and sure enough, there was a baby in there. A baby that had been forming just fine without prenatal vitamins, and with its mother taking birth control tablets every day (which, as Dr. Ashlar explained, were useless at stopping a pregnancy once it started). If America had gone if for her blood panel earlier, her lowered iron levels (which had led to her sluggish anemia) would have been a dead giveaway. She’d been anemic with all of her other pregnancies, too.

When the machine was off, and America’s stomach was dry, Dr. Ashlar rubbed his forehead, slumped on his stool across from the exam bed, and sighed a heavy, forlorn sigh. As far as he was concerned, this was an unqualified disaster. The King and Queen did not want a fourth child, and he’d made a mistake somewhere along the way, and now the Queen was pregnant and in a very difficult situation. He wasn’t just afraid for his job, he actually wanted to be fired for this. He craved punishment and absolution for his horrendous mistake, and otherwise would never forgive himself for it.

“How could this have happened?” America asked. She wasn’t angry or frightened or anything. She was in shock, completely numb, not fully wrapping her head around what she’d just seen on the ultrasound monitor. Maybe she was afraid that she’d wake up in a minute, realize this was all a dream, and be devastated. It had happened before.

“It’s hard to say precisely, your Majesty.” Dr. Ashlar looked vaguely nauseous. “The tablets you take alter your hormone levels, and are very exact. If anything interferes with their absorption, and you end up with too little hormone, this… type of thing… could happen.”

“That’s why I take them at the same time every day.” America reminded him, as if she needed to. “I’ve never missed a day, though.”

“No, but timing isn’t the only factor.” Dr. Ashlar pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking back. “It’s been eleven weeks since your last menstrual cycle, so we date the fetus there, but it’s been... what... ten weeks since your royal tour of the Australian islands?”

“More or less.” America shrugged, unable to remember exactly. More than two months was all she knew for sure.

“Well...” Dr. Ashlar shook his head, gulped, and frowned, “The time change could have thrown things off. In other words, you took your tablets at the same time of morning as usual, it’s just that morning arrived 17 hours early.”

“The time change? That was it?” America couldn’t believe it. How could they have missed that crucial detail?

“Maybe,” Dr. Ashlar shrugged miserably, “But maybe it was the antibiotic you were taking whilst you were gone.”

“What? Antibiotics can do that?”

“Not most of them.” Dr. Ashlar said, forlorn, “And I haven’t seen any studies to suggest that the kind that you took had any effect on birth control absorption whatsoever. That being said…” he winced, “The antibiotic you took was a variation on what I’d have given you here, but it wasn’t the exact same thing. The specifics of the medication are proprietary, and it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that the Australian antibiotic interfered with your Illéan birth control tablets.”

“Each country manufactures its own versions of medicines?” America shook her head. It sounded absurd to her, untenable.

Dr. Ashlar seemed to disconnect peacefully from the present as he offered her a history lesson: “Hundreds of years ago, there were a small handful of large corporations which owned the patents to the vast, vast majority of individual drugs. Back then, these corporations could sell the same formula all over the world, so long as they were following local laws. They made unimaginable fortunes in this way, more wealth for one company than has been left in all the world, after the wars. However, when resources grew scarce, these giants chose to make outrageous profits by charging high sums of money for basic, life saving medicines. After the dust had settled on the fourth world war, several of the highest level executives of these corporations were charged with crimes against humanity in an international court of law. After all, several million people were dead, having been unable to afford the necessary medication that they’d needed. From the corporations’ perspective, there really had been no financial incentive to lower the drug prices, in other words cut profits, just to save a few poor people in countries that were destined to collapse anyway. And it was their intellectual property, anyway. They could do whatever they wanted. It was a shameful moment in human history, to say the least.”

America had known that those dark, brutal years immediately before Illéa’s founding had been bad for a whole variety of reasons, but she’d never heard about this gruesome aspect of that history before.

“When the trials were done and the former executives charged with acts of genocide, both the surviving and the newly formed governments of nations around the world released the medical patents into the public domain, and from then on, each government insisted on the ability to control the supply and price of medications directly for its own people. It was the only way that they could each be certain that, if resources grew scarce again, their people wouldn’t be cut out of an international chain of supply for medicines. It made perfect sense at the time.”

America wasn’t sure what she’d have done if she’d been Queen, and faced with such a decision. Probably exactly the same as Gregory Illéa had done. It was one of the few times she’d ever tentatively agreed with the man, and the thought made her shudder involuntarily.

“So you see, your Majesty, though these older medications come from the same basic recipe that was used by the international corporations that once patented them; in the intervening centuries, each country has experimented and altered the medicine as they’ve seen fit. And those alterations are, with a few notable exceptions, proprietary. Even after everything our species has survived, we’re still so suspicious of one another that we won’t share our intellectual discoveries freely.” he lamented.

“So you don’t know exactly what was in those antibiotics?” America scrunched her brow, trying to understand how he could possibly have allowed her to take them, if that had been the case.

“I have a good idea,” he said in his own defense, “It isn’t as though they could have laced in some poison or something. We’re talking about a basic antibiotic, so there wouldn’t even be different ingredients. There couldn’t be. There just wouldn’t be the need.” he explained. “What we’re most likely dealing with is a different level of potency. Sustained over the days that you took the medication, it’s not beyond all possibility that it interfered with your tablets.” he concluded, shoulders slumping again. He was back from his history lesson, into the present reality of their situation.

“So, it was either that my medication schedule was messed up because of the time change, or the antibiotic I took was too strong?”

“Not to mention, they medicated you for migraines. I thought nothing of it at the time, but there’s a chance that could have altered your absorption, too.” he looked like he needed a stiff drink. He was back to mourning as if someone had died. He counted off on his fingers, “The tablets are only 99% effective in the first place,” he ticked a finger, “And between all the time changes you underwent, you may have missed as much as an entire dose, not to mention your sleep schedule and breakfast schedule were off for the week you were in Australia, and the week after you returned. That’s two weeks of abnormal doses.” he ticked another finger, “On top of that, it’s possible that the particular antibiotic and migraine medication you were given, though safe, may have altered the amount of hormone you were able to absorb when you took your tablets. Any one of those individual mistakes might explain it, but added all together…” he paused, shook his head, then dropped his chin to his chest in shame, “We should have put you on a longer term birth control method, one that was less fragile. I knew you were done having children, but there’s a high risk of discomfort with intrauterine devices, and you were doing so well on the tablets, not to mention it’s illegal to surgically sterilize the King or Queen—“

“Wait.” America stopped him, the shock slowly beginning to wear away. Her mind was less fuzzy, she became aware of her whole body, and all of her senses were functioning properly again. This wasn’t a dream. It had gone on too long to be a dream, not to mention the vivid details of reality were returning to her. “I’m having a baby?”

“Yes, your Majesty, didn’t you--“ Dr. Ashlar gestured to the screen of the ultrasound machine, confused. She’d just seen the occupant of her womb, firsthand. Then he stopped himself, shook away his confusion and said, “What I mean to say is, this is entirely your choice, your Majesty--“

America held up a hand to stop him, knowing exactly what he meant.

“Is my heart healthy enough to go through with this pregnancy?” she asked, slowly and seriously. “Will I survive the labor and delivery?”  

Immediately after Maisy was born, America’s blood pressure had plummeted to unsafe levels. She’d gone unconscious, and to this day she mourned the loss of those first precious few minutes with their baby girl. Afterwards, she and Maxon had reluctantly determined that the safest thing to do would be to stop having children. They couldn’t risk America’s health, she needed to be alive for Addy, Jamesy, and Maisy. There could be no negotiation about that.

“Well… my best medical opinion is that, yes, your Majesty, you are healthy enough to support this pregnancy.” Dr. Ashlar said. “We would monitor you closely, of course, and examine our best options for labor. It’s possible we could opt for a cesarean delivery, if a prolonged labor were to become too stressful. But major surgery like that is also very stressful on the heart, not to mention the extended recovery it would require.”

“But would a cesarean be too stressful?” America demanded. She needed him to be absolutely positive. “Kenna had one with the twins, and it went perfectly. Kenna and I have the same heart condition. If she could do it, so could I, right?”  

“I don’t... you don’t... I don’t see any indication, based on your recent cardiac tests, that such an operation would be medically unsafe.” he advised.

She nodded, finally allowing herself to believe what was happening. “Then, Dr. Ashlar, I’m having a baby…”

“Your Majesty?”

America laughed at an inappropriate volume, pressed a hand to her mouth, and nodded. “This… this is… this is the happiest I’ve been in a long time, Dr. Ashlar. Thank you.”

He was thoroughly taken aback. “You’re thanking me for the greatest professional mistake I’ve ever made?”

America felt tears swim in her eyes as she bit her smile to keep it in check and wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug, “It’s not a mistake. This isn’t a mistake. This is the best surprise of my entire life, this is not a mistake.”

***

She dragged Maxon out to the gardens after dinner that night. The kids were at the indoor swimming pool with May and Ryland, splashing around and having a great time. Therefore, Maxon and America had a couple of hours alone with one another.

America sat down on their bench and Maxon followed along, assuming that they were just having an impromptu mini-date. With three children and a country to run, most of their dates were impromptu and miniature.

“I’m so happy that you’re feeling better, Love. You’ve been a little rundown lately, and I’ve been so worried about you.” Maxon gently tucked her hair behind her ear.

“Maxon, this is the best I’ve felt in years.” America smiled.

��Is it?” he was baffled. “You… you haven’t been unwell for so long, have you?” The very idea that she might have been secretly ill seemed to panic him.

“No!” She hurried to reassure him. “No, it’s not that. I’m just... I’m happy. I’m so happy, Maxon.”

Maxon smiled indulgently, “I see. Well it’s not hard to believe, my darling, you’ve been humming all day, and you’re certainly aglow.”

“Am I?”

“What’s got you so overjoyed? Is it something with your family? Marlee?” he seemed to sense a positive life change on the horizon, he just didn’t know it was a baby, and he didn’t know it was theirs.

“No, it’s me. It’s us. It’s our whole family.” America’s breath hitched with excitement.

“We’ve done something to please you?”

America laughed, “Of course you have! I love you silly Schreaves around the moon and back again.”

Maxon laughed too, “You know you’re one of us ‘silly Schreaves', don’t you?”

“Maxon, I’m pregnant.” America blurted, still giggling.

Maxon’s face froze as he slowly replayed what she’d just said, “...You’re... did you just say--“

“Pregnant. Yes, that’s what I said. Maxon, we’re having a baby!”

Maxon narrowed his eyes, a look on his face as if he was doing advanced calculus. “You’re pregnant... with a baby?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Um--“ she lifted her eyebrows, fairly sure he knew how.

“No, I mean... No, I do mean ‘how’! How?” he exclaimed.

“Something to do with our tour through the Australian Islands, though it’s hard to say exactly what.” America wasn’t concerned. “Probably the time change, maybe some other stuff. Something about the fourth world war, but it doesn’t matter. The point is, we made a baby over there.”

“Well… No, because you’ve been taking birth control tablets ever since. Surely mistiming a dose or two--“

“It turns out, I was probably not quite on schedule for two weeks,” America was chipper as she explained, practically giddy.  

“Two weeks?!” Maxon was aghast.

“Maxon--“ America took his hand, knowing his head was swimming at this news. She guided it to her stomach and placed it there as firmly as she could. “I’m pregnant. This is a baby we’re talking about.” If there was one thing she knew about her husband, it was that he adored babies. Once the idea sunk in, he’d be smiling and laughing just like she was. Maybe he’d pick her up and twirl her around and—

He stared down at the hand touching her stomach, furrowing his brow hard, “Love... your heart--“

“Dr. Ashlar says I’m healthy enough for the pregnancy--“

“That’s not what I’m worried about!” Maxon exclaimed loudly, meeting her gaze urgently. His brown eyes swam with terror, “I hardly had time to cut Maisy’s cord and kiss her forehead before your blood pressure was plummeting. You have no idea... the sounds those machines were making to indicate that you were dying! You were dying, America!”

“Maxon--“

“I will not lose you. I am King and I refuse.” he commanded, as if this settled the matter because even death was subject to his decrees.

“Listen to me: Dr. Ashlar will explore different delivery options with me when the time comes. They’ll know this is a risk, and they can monitor it, and--“

“America, I don’t want any risks. I’m not willing to risk you at all! Our children need their mother, I need my wife, and Illéa needs its queen.” he seemed to believe the matter was settled again.

America’s shoulders fell as she dropped her gaze to her lap. Maxon hadn’t removed his hand yet, and she took that to be one small sign that he wasn’t as against this as he sounded. “Maxon, the blood pressure thing was a fluke, and they fixed me right up. If it happens again, I’ll be fine just like last time.”

“You can’t promise me that.” he muttered mutinously.

“I… I can’t promise you... that the roof won’t cave in on my office tomorrow. I can’t promise that I won’t fall down the stairs and break my neck. That I won’t choke on a strawberry tart and suffocate. I can’t promise you anything, Maxon.” she glared at her knee.

“We don’t ride motorcycles because it’s a risk.” Maxon said randomly.

“What?” America peeked up at him. As far as she knew, they’d never even thought of riding a motorcycle.

“We don’t go skydiving and we don’t go bungee jumping. There are so many things we avoid because they’re dangerous and we want to be alive for our children.”

“If I let you go skydiving, can you be happy that we’re having this baby?” America sassed.

“Stop it.”

“I’m serious.”

Maxon looked like he was going to come back with a withering reply, but just as the words reached the tip of his tongue and he opened his mouth to speak them, a gut-wrenching sob escaped instead.

And with that, Maxon was crying as fully and as without restraint as the children did when they fell and scraped their knees. And just like with the children, America wrapped her arms around Maxon and held him close as he buried his face in his hands.

The time it took Maxon to breathe through the sobs and regain control of his crying gave America a precious minute to regroup and make a new plan. Maxon was pale as a ghost and shaking, and maybe he had reason to be. She’d been unconscious after Maisy’s birth, she’d missed the whole thing, but he’d been awake and living the nightmare as Dr. Ashlar had sent the nurse for help and begun the work of saving America’s life. For her, it had been a blank of nothing, but Maxon relived it in nightmares all the time.

“Come on.” America stood, as soon as Maxon’s breathing was steady and his sniffles subsided. “Come with me.”

“Where--“

“You’ll see.” she laced fingers with him and swiftly led him to Dr. Ashlar’s private suite. She knocked loudly on the door, interrupting the doctor and his wife at dinner, and apologized but begged for a few minutes in the hospital wing. Dr. Ashlar didn’t even hesitate, leading the way.

She sat herself on the bed in the ultrasound room and lifted her dress, waiting as Dr. Ashlar jellied her stomach and prepared the machine. All the while, Maxon had a look on his face like he might vomit.

Dr. Ashlar placed the wand on her abdomen and the screen attached to the machine lit up with the outline of their baby.

“Listen,” America said, squeezing Maxon’s hand, “I know it’s frightening, and I know it’s risky. Pregnancy is always risky. The best advice from Dr. Ashlar, our medical professional, the greatest doctor in the whole country, Maxon, is that my heart can handle this.”

“...But Ames...”

“Sweetheart, I am pregnant.” she said firmly.

“But--“

“Maxon, there’s no ‘but’. If I were perfectly healthy and nothing frightening had happened last time, wouldn’t you want this baby?”

Maxon gulped, knowing she was about to corner him into this. Still, he had to be honest with her, “Of course. God, Ames, nothing would make me happier than to have a baby in our nursery again. Nothing. But it’s not worth losing you, potentially losing you both. Addy, Jamesy, and Maisy…”

“I know. Believe me, I know. If I thought this would kill me, I’d never put myself at that kind of risk.”

“Ames, you have no idea what happened last time, what it was like--“

“Dr. Ashlar, do you think my blood pressure will fall off again?” America asked their doctor, point blank.

“...Well, no, your Majesty. Frankly, that type of blood pressure drop is not uncommon after labor, and not necessarily tied to your heart condition. During your recovery, the anesthesiologist and I consulted and we believe the most likely culprit was actually your epidural.”

“My epidural?” America said, eyebrows raised. She supposed it made sense; it must be risky to inject anything into a person’s spine. “So, if I didn’t take an epidural for this labor, there wouldn’t be as high a risk of my blood pressure dropping off?”

“Substantially less, your Majesty.”

“Even with my heart defect?”

“As far as your heart is concerned, you’ve been managing your condition responsibly, eating well, exercising, and taking your medication. Frankly, your Majesty, you’re the picture of health.”

“Okay.” America turned back to Maxon, “Did you hear him?”

Maxon looked as if he wished he hadn’t. “Yes.”

“So if we decided to... to end this pregnancy now, it wouldn’t be because of actual medical necessity. It would be because of fear.”

Maxon leaned his head back as he took this in, then lowered his gaze to Dr. Ashlar, a menacing look in his eyes, “Are you sure?” he demanded.

“Yes, sir.”

“This poses no threat to America’s life?” his eyes flashed dangerously.

Dr. Ashlar recognized the look on Maxon’s face and squirmed; it was undiluted Clarkson. The doctor straightened his shoulders and said, “Every pregnancy comes with risk of complication. Princess Adrienne, Prince Jameson, and Princess Carolynn were all risks. But the risk is less with a healthy mother, and frankly, the Queen is certainly that. If a complication did arise from her pregnancy or labor, it wouldn’t be because of her heart.”

Dr. Ashlar knew, in that moment, that he’d just staked his life on his medical advice. If he was wrong and the Queen died in childbirth, Maxon would have his head for regicide.

“Maxon, our doctor says that I’m healthy and I can do this.” America said, smiling. “And we both want a baby in that nursery.”

Maxon looked down at America’s face, then he looked down at her exposed stomach. He lifted his gaze to the screen of the ultrasound machine and rubbed his chin, “I want three more medical opinions.”

Dr. Ashlar nodded, “Of course, sir.”

“Immediately. Now. Tonight.” Maxon ordered.

“Maxon.” America narrowed her eyes at him. She had a very low tolerance for the times when he resembled his father, given her own history with the man.

Maxon rolled his eyes and relented, “Please.”

America smiled and gratefully patted his hand.

“Yes, sir.” Dr. Ashlar said again.

“And if the medical consensus, the best scientific information we can get, says that this is safe enough...” Maxon paused. His gaze flickered back to the screen and he softened for just a moment, “Another baby...”  

Dr. Ashlar turned off the machine, handed America a cloth to clean her stomach, and then bowed his way out the door. Even though it was evening, it only took half an hour for the chief of obstetrics at Angeles hospital, as well as two highly respected cardiologists, to arrive in the hospital wing.

America and Maxon waited right there, holding hands, comforting one another with brushes of thumbs across knuckles, until they were joined by the impromptu medical panel.

After a thorough examination, including an ultrasound of America’s heart and uterus, the doctors were in perfect agreement. America was as fine as could be. Maxon was just scared.

Thinking back to her other pregnancies, this was always the hardest part for him, America remembered. This was the part he couldn’t control or command. He just had to hold her hand when she needed it, and hope for the best.

Maxon thanked the doctors for their help on such short notice, then he even apologized to Dr. Ashlar for being so short with him earlier. He told the doctors that word of this pregnancy was not to be spread to anyone, not even their own families, until America and Maxon had announced it to the nation.

It wasn’t until he said those words that America realized that he was done resisting. That he was with her.

As soon as the doctors, having been dismissed, closed the door behind them on their way out, Maxon turned to America.

“You’re pregnant.” he said, testing out the words in his mouth.

“I noticed.” America laughed. “It’s sort of monopolized my day.”  

He inhaled deeply through his nose, but this time when he exhaled, a smile bloomed across his cheeks. “There’s a baby in there.” he brushed his pointer finger across her stomach.

“Yep.”

“Ames!” he laughed out loud, “A baby!”

“I know.” America grinned. This was the reaction she’d been expecting out in the gardens. This was the man she’d seen every other time she’d told him that she was pregnant.

“Do you think it’s a boy? A girl?” he wondered eagerly.

“I have no idea.”

“I think I still have our baby name list in my desk drawer...” he pretended, poorly, to be uncertain.

“You think so?” America grinned at how transparent he was. He was the spitting image of Jamesy trying to lie to them about how much dessert he’d eaten.  

“Well... yes. I couldn’t throw it away.” Maxon confessed.

“I know what you mean.” America said, swinging her legs off of the exam bed. “I kept my copy, too.”

“You did?”

“Yes. Maxon... we’re going to have a baby again.” America’s eyes flooded with tears, “I didn’t think we’d have four... I thought we were done with three... but Maxon, we get four!”

“We get four.” he agreed, pressing a kiss to her head. “But Ames, we have a long way to go before we get our fourth. We’ve got to keep you healthy, because...” his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, hard, “Because you need to meet this baby, once it’s born. You need to feed it and carry it out to meet our country on the front steps of the Palace. You can’t miss this because you’re… you’re…

“I know. I’ll be there.” America promised. Then a wicked smile spread across her face, “And if this goes well, who knows? Maybe we’ll have another.”

Maxon scowled and looked to the ceiling, as if asking the heavens for patience, “You’re going to be the death of me, woman.” he offered her a hand up from the bed.

She took it and pulled him straight in for a kiss, “Only if I’m doing my job right.”

***

In the end, Lief’s birth was the smoothest of all of America’s labors, possibly because America stubbornly willed it to be so. Without the use of an epidural, her closely monitored blood pressure remained stable and strong.

In fact, it all went so well that, a couple of years later, Maxon was easily agreeable to having one more baby, so that Lief would have a brother or sister companion closer to his own age than Addy, Jamesy, or Maisy. It was actually Rosie’s birth (too early, which added enormously to the stress America experienced all throughout her contractions) that convinced Maxon and America that they were truly done having children. Besides, with the addition of baby Rosie to their family, they now had five children. And whenever Maxon or America said the words ‘five is enough’, they actually rang true.

[andrewuttaro]

New Look Sabres: GM 53 - CAR - Chasing Two

We meet again, Canes of Carolina. Your 53 is our 53 now as we meet for the 53rd game of the season. We already did playoff trash talk for the Canes but I got a feeling there will be more coming down the stretch here. Why do we hate the Hurricanes so much right now? The Skinner stuff is behind us and I suspect his extension will soon be as well. It’s probably the gull of a team as consistently bad as Carolina, perhaps longer than Buffalo has been bad, deciding this is the season to get in our fucking way. Unless one of Pittsburgh, Boston or Montreal hits the skids real hard down the stretch it’s you, me and Columbus for the one wildcard spot left in the East. So fuck you Carolina: this Sabres team has been shit for a solid two months straight but whatever hope I can muster that they still got a chance at the playoffs this year I will sharpen into a fine shiv and run into this cage match with. That hope could have died tonight. For some of you reading this it may have. This game was about chasing two straight wins – two straight wins which would be this club’s first two wins in a row since December. Perhaps they ultimately didn’t get there because they were doing too much chasing so to speak. But what occurred last night was not the performance of a club accepting its fate and tapping out of the playoff race. What happened last night was enough to make the Spartans at Thermopylae proud. Sure, once you explained ice hockey to them and they observed it long enough to understand what being good at it looks like they may have had some thoughts on the Sabres first period and most of their third; but CHIN UP I say to you! Chin up because this Sabres club is not going down without a fight! Honey, we’re going down swinging!  

The Carolina Hurricanes came out shooting like lax southern gun laws to start the first: every puck that a Sabre was not on was scooped up by Hurricane and blown into the zone closest to Linus Ullmark (Thanks Coach, I knew you would make the right goalie decision). The Canes did what any team who watches this Buffalo club knows is the Sabres biggest weakness as of late: turnovers, unforced and not. The team from south of the Mason-Dixon Line capitalized in this brutal stretch when North Carolina’s favorite soft boy Sebastian Aho served up the juiciest pass from behind the net to a streaking Justin Faulk. Ullmark couldn’t get to the other post in time and Faulk buried it. Well beach bodies: up here in New York we got this thing called ice, the game is actually played on it. What followed shortly after the Faulk goal was a penalty on definitely-moonlighting-as-a-vampire Jaccob Slavin which led to a powerplay for the home team that froze Carolina up like a Buffalo Ice Storm. The powerplay was fruitless but the Sabres poured shots on Curtis McElhinney for the rest of the period. Teuvo Teravainen tallied a second goal for Carolina early in the second period. At this point in the night I’m listening to the game on the radio driving up the 190. WGR 550 has these musical interludes as the broadcast returns from break and at this 2-0 dire moment in the second period one of those interludes was a section of “Slide” by Goo Goo Dolls. My throat got real dry and I shed a tear. Is it because I’m an emotional wreck paying attention to the Sabres these days? NO! But a good guess. NO, it’s because I visualized the playoffs like Jack tells us to and I felt it slipping away! But then what happened? Jack’s team came back.

HUT HUT, FIND A HOLE! The McElhinney wall has to come down! FIND A HOLE! Ristolainen from the line: save; puck to Conor Sheary in front: save; puck to Evan Rodriguez who holds and sweeps that puck into the hole like the beautiful Canadian Sniper he is! Now the Canes really froze up like they’d never seen ice before because seven minutes later resident Dad-Bod Jason Pominville collected his own rebound and tapped an equalizer past McElhinney. Tie game you fair weather mother fuckers! Believe it or not it’s hot here for a couple months in each year and you know what I spend that time doing? Oh, not going to the playoffs? You’re funny: you’re a real piece of work for giving more of a shit about NASCAR than the variable 1970s strong man competition of a gun show y’all have for a lineup! Oh, but when hockey players clap a little and slide down the ice into the goal like it’s a slip-and-slide after wins all you guys come running to the arena! I hope y’all don’t make the playoffs just because you’re a bunch of fucking ungrateful slow talkers who like Duke! The game was tied! It was tied going into the third! And then what happened? Well: a relative menagerie of frat-boy-looking Hurricanes capitalized on the Sabres doing Sabres things like turning over the puck and chasing it around like they’re fishing catch-and-release! First it was wrestling team captain and beer-pong champion of the Carolinas Greg McKegg who polished in a loose puck behind Ullmark after being giving ten fucking years to put it in and still bounced it off the post! Then Jeff Skinner had a fucking hulk moment and realized the profundity of the situation he was in and flew off on a breakaway to guide the puck in like a clumsy baby giraffe. Oh no, I know it was art. Please sign soon, Jeff.

Stop those warm feelings for sweet sweet Jeffery because Fergus, Ontario’s High School Quarterback and favorite ginger son Brock McGinn cleaned up a Jordan Martinook rebound right in front of Ullmark to get the visitors ahead 4-3. Do they even have American Football in small town Ontario? Whatever because here comes the President of the punchable face club Nino Niederreiter to capitalize on the powerplay and put the Canes up 5-3 with five minutes left in regulation. Now here is really the moment when I realized this team isn’t going down without a fight: down by two goals (again, which is a concerning problem all its own) this team did not quit. Jeff Skinner emerged from the box beaten but not defeated. But before he gets his time against his former team it’s time for irony to a drop kick you in the balls. Marco Scandella, in a move that will certainly earn him starts for the rest of the season over far more deserving defensemen, gets the puck from Sam Reinhart and shoots low. The puck went in and it was a one goal game now. Irony has a name and it is Marco Scandella. Perhaps it was too late as time now ticked into the double digits in regulation with the Sabres down by one. Guess who you butter-binging, Trump-voting motherfuckers: JEFF MOTHER FUCKING SKINNER! Collect the puck, toe drag, bender: tie Game! It’s like the third act of fucking Miracle beating the team in the red jersey! There was 56 seconds left on the clock! This one goes to OT. And there, well there Teuvo Teravainen streaks into the Sabres defensive zone 2-on-0 and dekes out Ullmark for the game winner. That’s the way the cookie crumbles in this league: one good rush in OT and it’s all over. Carolina wins 6-5.

The Chase for Two straight wins falls flat; but you know what didn’t fall flat? Yea, the Buffalo Sabres. Yeah, they really stunk up most of the third and looked like they were playing hot potato with the puck for most of the first but you know what: that was one hell of a comeback, two if we’re counting game deficits here. Imagine Jeff Skinner pots the OT winner for a hat trick and the Sabres get two points out of this game instead of just one. It’s a whole different conversation then, isn’t it? I’m not rationalizing the many mistakes or playing the what-if game. I’m calling the glass half full and I don’t know about you but I’m not holding my breath tomorrow waiting for Jason Botterill to make a trade as if 95% of the trades he could reasonably make would have any effect on this team down the stretch. We got what we got right now folks and trust me; I am dying for the playoffs too. What happened last night was not nothing and we didn’t get nothing for it either. Carolina, you better watch your back because we’re breathing down it and every game between now and March 16th is going to be an assault on your chances to take that spot from Columbus. The Sabres can certainly get three points out of this weekend’s two matchups and Carolina only has one game in that same stretch so there’s a scenario where we’re sitting here Monday morning and the Sabres are 1 point back of that playoff spot and ahead of Carolina again. Yea, I’m not broken yet and neither should you be. Honey, we’re going down swinging.

Of course everyone in the locker room is going to be disappointed with that result and that emotion is good even if Savior Sam is misdirecting it at Ullmark. Phil Housley was the only postgame interview I was at all embarrassed by. He’s the one misusing players out the wazoo and throwing forward line combinations at Velcro board and seeing what sticks. Put out your best lineup, Phil. This is the team now and I’m not saying it is good enough to make the playoffs having won 9 of its last 28 games but teams not good enough make the playoffs all the time, you can ask New Jersey about that. And I refuse to hop on the locomotive of self-loathing Sabres twitter seems to be on. This game just gave me too much to chew on. Well like, comment and share this blog even if you think I am insane. With this team: sometimes I feel like it. This frickin team! They hurt me over and over and lord knows I’ll still be watching them at my in-laws this weekend. This frickin eternally ass team: Oh the shit I would do for a playoff berth. OH THE SHIT I WOULD DO! Go Sabres! If they make it by one point this game is going to be my masterpiece. Oh god I need them to make the playoffs. Go Sabres! I’m going to repeat it like I’m trying to remember it: Go Sabres! Go Sabres! Don’t go breaking my heart.

Thanks for reading.

P.S. Sara Civ is a great follow on twitter. She is one of the better hockey beat reporters out there and if it weren’t for her covering that frickin team I’d probably be mentioning her more.

[astudyinimagination]

The Heir, Chapter 3

Chapter 3 of my WIP fic The Heir. Prologue can be found here; chapter one here; chapter two here; description here. Still need a tags page for my fics (somebody pester me, please!).

This chapter does not have a title yet, but it’s probably one of the most interesting thus far, and starts to dip into the Victorian legal system which I have yet to properly research. (In all seriousness, I expect there will be quite a few mistakes and spaces that will be fixed and filled later when I have a better working knowledge of the legal system.)

Feedback is much appreciated! (But gently, please, dear reader: yours truly is a fragile creature.) Also, any aid, insight, or corrections you can give to real life facts would be extremely appreciated!

An average Monday morning at New Scotland Yard typically consisted of several new prisoners from arrests made over the weekend and mountains of paperwork. Lately, however, every day had an extra layer of chaos due to the impending move to New Scotland Yard on the riverbank. With the move scheduled in two months, December, the pressure was enormous. Detectives and constables alike were expected to do their part on top of their normal duties, and the fact that the Criminal Investigation Department was expected to move last did not make things any easier.1

Lestrade had started his day by questioning the arsonist from Sunday morning, and after a fruitless and mostly one-sided conversation with the surly prisoner, he had to fill out some paperwork and see if he couldn’t sort a few more stacks of old papers into boxes.

Naturally, Sherlock Holmes appeared in the doorway of his office when he was about to start packing. “Good morning, Lestrade.” The amateur detective didn’t look as though he thought it was a good morning—the dark circles under his eyes and paler-than-usual skin told Lestrade the younger man had been awake through the night.

Conclusion: Mr. Holmes had found something very important in Clay’s flat.

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said blandly, resisting the urge to haul the younger man by the collar out the door to the nearest cab and send him back home. The man was going to burn himself out young yet—Watson had only delayed the inevitable, not stopped it altogether. “What can I do for you?”

“Have you spoken with the arsonist yet?”

“He refuses to talk. I even made him the offer of a lighter charge if he would tell who put him up to it, but nothing. He looked scared.”

“I’m not surprised,” Mr. Holmes said sourly. “Is Jones in his office this morning?”

“No, he won’t be back until this evening. New development with John Clay?”

The sour expression deepened. “Yes and no. It’s nothing provable.”

“Ah. Do you mind if I pack while you tell me about it?”

“Not at all.”

Lestrade rose and moved back to his boxes. “Take a seat. Smoke a cigarette. If you don’t mind my saying so, you look as though you could use one.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” Mr. Holmes said dryly. But he didn’t continue until he was seated with a lit cigarette. “Well, you know that I’ve been chasing after evidence to convict the elusive Professor Moriarty for years now.”

Lestrade nodded. “If it’s any consolation, you do have me convinced. The problem is convincing a jury.”

“Of course. And what I’ve found will not do that.”

“And that is?”

Mr. Holmes exhaled smoke. “Letters to John Clay. From Moriarty.”

Lestrade snapped upright and stared at Holmes. “And how is that not condemning?”

The amateur’s smile was bitter. “They are only signed ‘The Professor.’ There are no personal details, other than revealing an apparently close relationship with Clay.”

Lestrade frowned; that did not sound good. “Do you mean to tell me Clay is some kind… protege? For Moriarty?”

Mr. Holmes hesitated. “I… have no proof, Inspector.”

“Be honest: that’s never stopped you. You’ll go fifty miles on a hunch and prove it right in the end. Do you think think that John Clay is Professor Moriarty’s protege?”

The younger man looked down for a moment, then met Lestrade’s eyes again. “Yes.” He took a long drag of his cigarette before continuing. “Going by the content of those letters, I believe that Clay was intended to inherit Moriarty’s criminal empire. This robbery was just the beginning, meant to incite tense relations with France which would then be resolved to their satisfaction. Clay would then have travelled to France himself to expand Moriarty’s reach—a sort of foreign minister, if you will.”

Lestrade dropped the stack of files he’d been holding into a box. “Good God above,” he breathed.

“Indeed.” Mr. Holmes studied his cigarette. “What charges are being brought against Clay, Lestrade?”

“I don’t know—haven’t spoken with Jones yet today. Fraud, certainly, for the Red-headed League… but I’m not sure how he’ll be charged for the attempted theft, particularly since he was probably after the French gold.”

“The gold on loan from the French government,” the younger man clarified. “Intended to provoke tension between their government and ours. Inspector, I do believe the Treason Felony Act of 18482 could be invoked.”

Lestrade just stopped himself from whistling, and ran a hand over his hair, instead. “You could be right about that. He’s certain to be convicted—he was caught in the act, for goodness’ sakes!—and charging him with that would send him to prison for life.”

“Thereby putting him out of the reach of any grand schemes of his employer.”

Lestrade raised both eyebrows. “That it would.”

Holmes snubbed out his cigarette. “I would like to see Clay.”

Lestrade nodded slowly—he’d been expecting that. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

“Thank you.”

Although, studying his amateur colleague just now, Lestrade wasn’t sure that was a good idea—there was something in Sherlock Holmes’s eyes that looked troubled, and altogether too personal.

For years now, he had carried on a quiet crusade against the master criminal the CID knew as “the Professor,” and Holmes was certain he knew by name. Years of frustrated efforts: verdicts of “innocent,” prisoners dead in their cells, no names, no records, tracks covered as thoroughly as any criminal could wish for. Too thorough even for the man people were now calling “the Great Detective.”

Letting him talk to someone so close to the root of this trouble did not sound like a good idea, but he couldn’t just refuse him now. Moving to lead Holmes to the holding cells, Lestrade hoped the man had a firm-enough grip on that impassivity he valued so much; he was going to need it.

Jail seemed to have done Clay very little harm, Holmes noted. The man’s face was no longer clean shaven, but he himself looked clean and well-rested enough. So much for “no rest for the wicked”...

Clay stood as the warden unlocked the door and let Holmes and Lestrade in. “Oh, hello again, Mr. Holmes.” He bowed to Holmes, then turned to Lestrade. “And I believe I have not had the pleasure.”

Lestrade gave the man a terse nod. “Inspector Lestrade of the CID. So you’re the infamous John Clay.”

Clay spread his hands in a gesture of modesty. “I do beg your pardon, Inspector, but I had hoped that if I got the chance to speak with Mr. Holmes, I could do so in private.”

Holmes shook his head; that kind of condition never boded well. “There is nothing you could say to me which you could not say before this man.”

“Perhaps not.” Clay smiled faintly. “But I’m afraid I will not talk unless he leaves—it’s nothing personal, Inspector, you understand.”

Lestrade snorted.

Clay arched a challenging eyebrow, and Holmes’s eyes narrowed. Not looking away from the prisoner, he said softly, “Lestrade, would you be so kind?”

He almost saw Lestrade suppress a sigh without actually seeing it. “If I must. I’ll be out in the hallway if you need me.”

“Thank you, Inspector.” Lestrade rapped on the door, and the warden let him back out and closed the door again.

The two men were left staring at each other, sizing each other up. This is the man Moriarty replaced you with? Holmes’s mind hissed. The polish was a veneer; Holmes could just see the traces of a coarser personality. Of course, only Clay’s grandfather was royalty; his mother had married far down in rank, leaving her son with few privileges and a commoner’s surname.

Nevertheless, privileged upbringing or no, Holmes could also see a mind active and clever enough to match his own.

Clay finally broke the silence, smirking slightly. “So. You are the celebrated Sherlock Holmes, the Great Detective.”

“And you are the man to whom Professor James Moriarty wishes to leave his criminal organization,” Holmes returned evenly.

“I’m afraid I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Clay said with exaggerated innocence. Holmes stared, and the other man chuckled. “Very well. Do you know the reason, Mr. Holmes, why I wanted to speak to you in private?” He leaned in conspiratorially, and murmured, “Because you cannot repeat what I say outside this room. It’s my word against yours.”

Holmes frowned. “I think that a jury is hardly likely to believe you over me.”

“Perhaps, but perhaps I can bring a little more weight to my words, when the time comes.” Clay grinned fleetingly. “I can see why he likes you, you know. You remind me of him.”

Holmes just stopped himself from taking a step forward. “I am not like him,” he gritted out.

“Why, of course you are! Similar family background, similar interests, similar intellect, similar polish. I may be the heir apparent, but you’re the prodigal son.”

“James Moriarty,” Holmes said, practically spitting out each word, “is nothing to me.”

“Oh, he’s everything to you, even after all this time, and you still are to him, trust me. If you went to his office right now to reconcile, you would be back in the will and I’d be out in the cold. But your morals are too strong for that, so it looks as though my position is safe, for the moment.”

Holmes shook his head. “There is nothing safe about your position, Clay.”

“I wouldn’t say that. You of all people should know: you can’t outmaneuver him. You try, and then you find out he had five contingency plans waiting and since the first didn’t work, he’ll use whichever did.”

Holmes shook his head. “No one is omnipotent—or omniscient. And I’m wasting my time if fruitless banter is all you have to offer.”

Clay laughed. “What did you expect? A full confession, signed and sealed? Just admit it, Holmes: you envy me, and you miss him. You miss the closeness, the warmth you two shared.”

“My dear boy, I am not a man given much to sentiment; however… could I ever have had children, I could not wish for a better companion in them than I have in you.”

“Whatever was between myself and the Professor is over,” Holmes said coolly, “and it is our own business—none of yours. In any case, I can see that his standards are slipping, if he was willing to take as his heir a man as petty as you.”

Clay snorted as Holmes moved over to rap on the door. “Give him my love?”

“Tell him yourself in hell,” Holmes hissed as he stalked out, Clay’s scornful laughter following him down the hall.

After Holmes had all but stormed out of Scotland Yard, Lestrade sent a telegram, a specific message he was to send out only in an emergency. Supper is laid out. Will you come?

He was wrapping up his work for the evening when the answer finally came, in the form of a visitor. The man strode slowly into the office, limping ever so slightly, and settled into the empty chair. “You do realise, I have work to do. I had a hell of a time getting away.”

“I understand that,” Lestrade said evenly, taking out his cigarettes and handing the man one. Smoking for the sake of calming one’s nerves was required when having conversations with this particular Detective Inspector. “I’ve been undercover, too, don’t forget.” After lighting the other man’s cigarette, he lit his own. “But there’s a new development regarding your target; you want to hear this, trust me.”

“Well, then?”

Lestrade took a long drag. “What do you know about Moriarty’s plans for the future?”

The other man shrugged. “Little enough, just like anyone else who’s only close enough to know his name. International politics? Beyond that…” He shrugged.

Lestrade nodded. “What about a replacement? If anything were to happen to him.”

“Well, everyone knows it would be Colonel Moran; he’s the man’s second.”

“What if I told you Moriarty had an heir?”

The other man leaned forward in his seat, blue eyes alight. “Son? Or protege?”

“Protege.”

“Must be keeping him very close to his chest. Who is it?”

“John Clay.”

The man’s eyes widened in surprise. “Are you sure? Clay’s had some dealings with the Firm in the past two years or so, but he seems to prefer working as a loner, and in the short-term. Leading that large of an organization would not be his style.”

“Perhaps not his style as we know it. You know he was just arrested?”

“Yes, I’ve heard about it.”

“He was working a long-term job to steal money from the Bank of France. What was that you were saying about international politics?”

The other man took a minute, puffing on his cigarette in silence. “I think,” he said slowly, “we may have stepped on a hornet’s nest without realizing it. I think it’s time we assembled that team we drew up three years ago.”

Lestrade nodded slowly. “I’ll get on that first thing tomorrow.”

“Good. Things are going to escalate quickly; there’s no chance they won’t. If Clay is Moriarty’s replacement, he won’t give him up without a fight.”

Mycroft Holmes was rarely troubled at work by the domestic goings-on of Scotland Yard; it was typically only when cases took an international turn that he was apprised as to the situation. As soon as Inspector Lestrade had informed him of the arrest of John Clay, Mycroft had been expecting a certain visitor. Once the news hit every single paper in London, he knew that it was only a matter of time.

And, most unfortunately, the Duke of Essex3 did not disappoint.

“This is an outrage, sir! A scandal!”

Mycroft resisted the urge to massage his temples. “Please, sir, do take a seat.”

“I shall not!” The older man’s face was red with indignation. “How dare you sit there so calmly when a member of the royal family at this moment resides within the holding cells of Scotland Yard!”

“With all due respect, sir, your grandson is not, strictly speaking, a member of the royal family.” The older man opened his mouth to speak, but Mycroft dared to continue in spite of him. “I understand your feelings, sir, but the simple fact is that Mr. Clay was caught in the act of breaking into a bank with the intent of robbing it of its French gold. I trust you understand the implications of that act. We are in an economic recession.4 However, the City and Suburban Bank was holding its own well enough that the Bank of France entrusted it with a loan, and now, I am receiving messages from the French ambassador that speak of betrayed trust. Our relations with France are now strained. Forgive me if I do not concern myself so much with the current status of your grandson, but the Prime Minister and I are doing our best to clean up the mess he’s made.”

“There must be a mistake—John would never betray his country!”

“Perhaps, but if there is, he had best explain it to the police. I understand that, thus far, he has refused to talk with them.”

“He was waiting for his attorney!”

“As is his right,” Mycroft soothed. “However, he had best clear up any confusion soon; his case may go to the Crown Court next month.”

The old man’s dark eyes widened. “The Crown Court!”

“I’m afraid, sir, there is a strong possibility that your grandson will be indicted under the Treason Felony Act by 1848.”

“Not if I have a say in it. I refuse to allow my grandson to be tried for treason! If you will not act on his behalf, I shall! Good day to you, sir!”

The Duke swept out of the room, and Mycroft sank back in his chair with a sigh. “If I were to act in this affair,” he murmured dryly to the empty air, “I would have your grandson drawn and quartered for the trouble he’s caused.” The next few weeks would be long, indeed.

1 The London Metropolitan Police moved its headquarters from the original Scotland Yard to New Scotland Yard in 1890, specifically December 1890. The CID moved two weeks after the rest of the force.

2 Treason Felony Act of 1848: “If any person whatsoever shall, within the United Kingdom or without, compass, imagine, invent, devise, or intend to deprive or depose our Most Gracious Lady the Queen, from the style, honour, or royal name of the imperial crown of the United Kingdom, or of any other of her Majesty’s dominions and countries, or to levy war against her Majesty, within any part of the United Kingdom, in order by force or constraint to compel her to change her measures or counsels, or in order to put any force or constraint upon or in order to intimidate or overawe both Houses or either House of Parliament, or to move or stir any foreigner or stranger with force to invade the United Kingdom or any other of her Majesty’s dominions or countries under the obeisance of her Majesty, and such compassings, imaginations, inventions, devices, or intentions, or any of them, shall express, utter, or declare, by publishing any printing or writing . . . . . . or by any overt act or deed, every person so offending shall be guilty of felony, and being convicted thereof shall be liable . . . . . . to be transported beyond the seas for the term or his or her natural life . . . . . ." (The treasonous bit relevant to John Clay in bold.)

3 A royal dukedom of Essex has never, to the knowledge of the author, ever existed. Within this story, the Duke of Essex would be a cousin of Victoria Regina, 

4 Need to research this more, as it appears that the very real recession may not have begun until November 1890... and right now, we’re still in October in the story.

[ahouseoflies]

The Best Films of 2016, Part I

Rodrigo Perez of The Playlist posted his best-of list on January 15 and spent the introduction whipping himself for it being too late to be relevant. That was over two weeks ago, and here I am. But who can feel caught up if an actual critic doesn’t? Even now, at a point when I have to turn the page, I haven’t seen Toni Erdmann, Paterson, Things to Come, or Jack Reacher: Never Go Back. Aside from pretending that my thoughts on movies are worth something to other people, I’m just a regular guy living in a film market that is not L.A. or New York, and the system for movie release schedules is broken for all of us. Most of the year is trash if we can’t go to festivals. Then we hear about interesting stuff from the critics’ top ten lists that bubble up in early December. Because the press machine follows an old model, interviews and commercials and dates on posters are timed to promote a film while it is technically on about six screens. In the case of, say, 20th Century Women, it opens in my area on January 20th. By that time it has already been judged a failure because it had to share the airspace with dozens of other pictures released in a one-month window. And Hollywood wonders why a) they lose $75 million on Live by Night or b) regular people pirate the product. Forgive those hicks for wanting to see the thing you’re selling. This pattern repeats every year, and no one learns anything because exactly two movies end up being financial successes. I hate movies. Because I hate movies, I watched 124 of them in 2016, which is a 3% decline from my viewing last year. (In consolation, my balance between classic films and contemporary ones was better.) As usual, I have ranked all 124 and divided them into the tiers of Garbage, Admirable Failures, Endearing Curiosities with Big Flaws, Pretty Good Movies, Good Movies, Great Movies, and Instant Classics. As Isabelle Huppert probably said in Things to Come, “Allons-y!” GARBAGE 124. The Bronze (Bryan Buckley) I'm reading an hour and forty minutes as the running time on imdb, but I could have sworn this laborious movie was at least five hours. The main problem here, besides profanity being a joke in and of itself, is that the film is never sure how much empathy it has toward its characters. It judges them for cheap laughs, then turns right back around and tries to wring emotion by taking them seriously. Juggling both of those modes isn't impossible, but The Bronze proves how difficult it is. I rented this on a weekend when my baby had diarrhea, which really took the viewing experience up a notch. 123. Equals (Drake Doremus) What a snoozefest of a perfume ad this is. I liked Doremus's Like Crazy a lot, but I found little nuance or invention in his world-building here, for a setting that needed something new to separate it from the emotionless dystopias we've seen before. Kristen Stewart is at watch-everything-she's-in status for me, but even her whispery performance is paint-by-numbers.

122. Dirty Grandpa (Dan Mazer) I'm mostly angry with myself because I thought I had gotten trash like this out of my system. You can learn a lot from bad movies, but I learned all I could by seeing whatever two movies were playing every Friday of high school. I had been making such better choices. I hope, at the very least, that one of Robert De Niro's failing TriBeCa restaurants was able to hire additional bartenders as a result of this. The experience is a bit like spending time with a child who has just learned how to use the F-word, but also if that child had a deeply-ingrained sense of misogyny? God bless Jason Mantzoukas for at least trying in all of these red-band write-offs. By the way, same diarrhea weekend. 121. Sausage Party (Conrad Vernon, Greg Tiernen) Up until now, the Rogen-Goldberg aesthetic has been "genre/premise...but it's filthy." Sausage Party, more of a brand management lark than anything else, seems to stretch the high concept side and the filthy side until the whole thing breaks. The atheism allegory stalls halfway through. (So there is a God, but that God is evil? Is death being expired or is death being taken home? How can the device be so heavy-handed and so muddy at the same time?) The villain (a literal douche) is adequately motivated, but the screenplay drops him for a huge stretch of time. In the end, I needed more than hot dogs cursing. I wouldn't recommend this movie, but I would recommend the three following things in it: 1. Tha god Edward Norton as Sammy Bagel Jr. 2. The epilogue is clever! Where was that kind of thinking the whole time? 3. The one joke that I liked, then felt dumb for liking: A lavash lamenting that he won't get thirty-seven extra virgin olive oils. 120. The BFG (Steven Spielberg) If you drink every time you hear "Bee-Eff-GeeeeEEEE," then you'll die. And you might be better off than a person asking "who cares?" to the ether for almost two hours.Now that his style is so solidified, a brand of its own even thirty years ago, Spielberg has trouble merging his voice with anyone else's. You could argue that he did it with The Color Purple or Empire of the Sun, but Minority Report feels nothing like a Philip K. Dick work by the end as Anderton rubs the pregnant belly of the wife he's back together with. In Jurassic Park he casts a literal cartoon to yada-yada the science that Michael Crichton was fascinated with. And here he tries to wrap himself around Roald Dahl, a man who was simultaneously way sillier and way more cynical than Spielberg. Here's something that happens about a dozen times: The BFG doesn't speak English well, despite hearing all the whispers of the world and being alive since the beginning of time. So Dahl creates malapropisms and nonsense words for him. He calls someone "a human bean," and the girl corrects him  with "Bee-Eff-GeeeEEEE, it's human BEING." And that's the film in a nutshell: Someone toying with the wacky only to yoke himself back to this boring world. 119. Neighbors 2: Sorority Rising (Nicholas Stoller) Compared to the first movie--not a masterpiece by any stretch--this one has no stakes at all. It's always a bad sign when characters have to keep repeating what their short-term goals are as the film goes on. If (when) you look really closely at Efron's abs, you can almost make out the "lol nothing matters" gif. 118. Wiener Dog (Todd Solondz) Todd Solondz hasn't made a good movie since the first half of Storytelling, and he hasn't made a financially successful movie ever. Yet here he is in 2016, getting more chances to spray the same pointless contempt. All of his movies are mean, but they're also weirdly toothless. My mistake that I thought the people who deserved scorn were venal billionaires and hypocritical authority figures. It's actually slightly materialistic middle-class people and college kids who need to be taken down a peg. Go get 'em, Todd! Danny DeVito comes close to saving his misshapen segment, injecting pathos into a character who is a self-loathing mouthpiece for Solondz. Fewer people fit the bill of "sad-sack" more than DeVito, and he wears his character's anxiety on his slumped shoulders. I had almost forgotten about this observant, reserved side of DeVito, and he takes over until the film shuffles along to another half-scene--you know, before we, God forbid, get attached to someone.There's a reason that Solondz's best scenes take place in schools, and there's a reason why he keeps returning to his younger stand-in Dawn Weiner, his only character that rises above a type. It's because Todd Solondz is still the weird kid in the back of the classroom giggling to himself. Then, when the teacher asks what he's laughing at, he looks down and says, "Nothing."

117. The Neon Demon (Nicolas Winding Refn) Bukowski wrote: "An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way." Of course, he didn't live to see any of Nicolas Winding Refn's movies, which challenge that notion. It's hard for me to reject something crafted so meticulously--I won't be able to unsee some of these shots--but I suspect that Refn dresses these things up so luridly because he isn't saying much. (Shout-out to your best movie being the only one you didn't write.) And he falls back on provocation because he doesn't have as much confidence in us as he has in himself. That's reductive I guess. "There's no difference between text and subtext" might be closer than "not saying much." Take the bathroom scene, for example, where the labored rhythm of the dialogue really takes hold. The Jena Malone character says that lipsticks have names that conjure images of food or sex, and she asks the Elle Fanning character what her lipstick name would be. In other words, "Are you food, something devoured by others, or sex, something you are active in for your own pleasure?" Luckily, the character doesn't answer her, but the movie spends another hour and a half clinging to the line between predator and prey. (Unless it's literally placing a predator into the character's motel room to force the issue, a moment as magical as it is didactic.) Beauty is something as pure as it is ephemeral. So if beauty becomes a currency, and one is forced to use her beauty as a transaction, can it ever really survive? Is its innocence lost then? Alternately, if a truly beautiful thing enters a realm of ugliness, doesn't it become a poisoning element that corrupts that environment? Isn't beauty, in that sense.../puffs joint/...ugliness? I think I'm pretty close, but you be the judge. The Neon Demon reminded me of Under the Skin, another film I did not like, because they both spell out obvious ideas, thinking that the genuinely artful visuals will complicate that text. (And the camera loves Elle Fanning as much as it does Scarlett Johansson. None of this is her fault.) Both films could probably be played at double-speed without missing much, but then they wouldn't be fables or dreams or other things I don't like. I feel as if I get what both of them are saying but...so? Both films suggest something blinding and poetic on the margins just beyond our view, but there's nothing there. Their beauty is empty. 116. Mascots (Christopher Guest) "Hi, I'm Laci." "What's your name?" "Laci." That's the time I laughed. I could have used maybe ten fewer characters--though please keep Parker Posey and her heretofore unseen physical comedy. Eerily reminiscent of the Netflix season of Arrested Development in which none of the stars were in the same room at the same time. Do I have to go back now and make sure those other Christopher Guest movies are actually good? 115. Zoolander 2 (Ben Stiller) The first Zoolander was silly fun, and I didn't expect much more from the follow-up. But man, Zoolander 2, separated by fifteen years from its predecessor, feels stale. And it isn't tonally desperate in the way that many of these belated follow-ups are; it's just an idea that culture has zipped past, more of a satire of the fashion world of the first film than anything relevant now. I laughed a scattered handful of times, but the final third is rough. My biggest takeaway: Will Ferrell must be a loyal friend to have signed back up. ADMIRABLE FAILURES 114. Tale of Tales (Matteo Garrone) I appreciate Garrone's visual ambition: There's a shot that is manicured to look exactly like John William Waterhouse's Lady of Shalott. No two films of his look the same either. But I paused this movie to go to the bathroom, and I got really upset when I saw that there were forty-five minutes left. Most of the stories of this fractured fairy tale collection start off interestingly enough, but they all become bloody, sometimes unresolved messes that assert, well, I have no idea what I was supposed to take away actually. Violence makes the world go round? 113. Swiss Army Man (Daniels) Most reviews of Swiss Army Man start with the "what"--desperate castaway finds flatulent dead body and pals around with him--and move on to the "how"--it's actually about friendship and living life to the fullest and so forth. I'm going to flip that. I'll buy the "why," the semi-animated corpse as a device. I appreciated that it served to highlight a type of person we don't normally see on screen: sort of educated but rides the bus, social problems but resists being emo, family problems but has worked through them enough. No, the "what" is the problem. It was clear where the line between fantasy and reality was, but the filmmakers were inconsistent with that logic once the action moved into the real world. I feel as if I gave the movie the benefit of the doubt for its entire tedious second act, then it repaid me with, well, not much. 112. Elvis & Nixon (Liza Johnson) Team Shannon 4-Ever, but I think this worked better as a photograph. 111. Ghostbusters (Paul Feig) I would say that Ghostbusters was a mess, but the word "mess" implies risk-taking that went wrong. A much rarer breed, this remake is actually a safe mess. It hews closely to the original, slavishly incorporating cameos from the original cast and hitting all of the same beats. But it's also uniquely incoherent. For example, when the ghosts are released into Times Square, the lady busters can't shoot at the car Slimer is driving because "it would be like a nuclear reactor." So that problem disappears, and now the problem is that the ghosts have taken the form of a Thanksgiving Day parade? But our heroes extinguish that threat, so now everyone is possessed by the garbage villain into disco dancing? And now the ghosts are all huge again? By trying to up the stakes, the film can't even decide on what the obstacle for the characters should be. That sort of muddiness would be understandable if the film felt edited to shreds, but I watched the two hour and fourteen minute extended cut, and it still felt like that. Most of the cast is game, but Kate McKinnon is the standout, injecting weirdness (and, separately, queerness) wherever she can. It seems as if Holtzmann is the only member of the team who actually sciences, and McKinnon's mugging is just as indispensable to the team. The few shots that the film takes at protective nerds are funny, so I wish that the script had more of that bitterness. Or any tone of its own at all.

110. A Hologram for the King (Tom Tykwer) Spoiler: Tom Hanks gets wi-fi for his team. There isn't much "there" there in yet another low stakes tale of a White guy lolwutting a foreign culture. To be fair, Tykwer doesn't other the Saudis as much as most films of this type, but even with that respect, this feels like a movie we've seen before. Without Tykwer's surreal touches and without an actor that has built up so much goodwill, the film wouldn't have worked at all. 109. Amanda Knox (Brian McGinn, Rod Blackhurst) The recent true crime works that prompted Netflix to snatch up this one have been objective and gripping, reaching past their tawdry roots to reveal something about our own prurient interest in the subjects. Amanda Knox, on the other hand, can't get past tawdry. It exhibits just as much sensationalism as it decries in others. It is nice to hear Foxy Knoxy in her own words for once though. (For the record, I would have had enough reasonable doubt to acquit her.) 108. Jason Bourne (Paul Greengrass) Even the title makes it seem as if there's no reason for this movie to exist, so the least I can do is provide alternate titles: 1. The Bourne Pickpocket 2. Bourne: Folder Labeled "Black Ops" 3. Bourne: Last of the Jump Drives 4. The Bourne Cable-Knit Sweater 5. The Bourne Daddy (That one is accurate and true to the The Bourne ____ structure, plus you get a millenial hashtag.) I think Greengrass knew what he had with that trill car chase at the end, so everything else could be rote. Jason Bourne felt like returning to the house you grew up in and going, "Oh, they turned my bedroom into an office."  107. Money Monster (Jodie Foster) Dumb in small ways--a billionaire didn't hear about a national news story involving his company because he was on a plane?--and fairly big ways--dropping threads left and right and failing to give resolution to one of its main characters. Films involving finance are often too complex, but Money Monster isn't complex enough; it's missing a B story. If you think about the best possible version of a movie like this, it's probably Dog Day Afternoon. That film works because we care about Sonny just as much as we do about the boyfriend on the other end of the phone. There's no equivalent for Money Monster, though it could have been the cop, it could have been the girlfriend, it could have been the code-writers. There are a few surprises, good intentions, and Foster has a deft hand for the pacing. But any time the script asked me to care about these characters as people, I felt like it was faking. Maybe the smartest, most modern touch is the suggestion that becoming a meme on Vine is a deeper indignity that going on trial for breaking international law. 106. Jane Got a Gun (Gavin O’Connor) Jane Got a Gun makes sense as a vanity project for Natalie Portman because it allows her to play a lot of qualities she never has: steely, street-smart, matronly. The problem is that she doesn't play any of those particularly well, and the title character is not the most interesting or active one in the piece.That designation would go to Joel Edgerton's Dan Frost (not the woefully miscast Ewan McGregor). When the movie works, it's because he's selling the doomed nature of the Dan-Jane love affair, tugging at his own pride. But just as the film is cresting to an elegiac place, it pulls into the final shootout station. All of these movies end with the same twenty minutes, and if you aren't invested in the characters, that last leg can go on forever. 105. April and the Extraordinary World (Franck Ekinci, Christian Desmares) Like anything steampunk, April and the Extraordinary World has at least one dumb thing for each cool thing. I think the problem is that it can't decide how much of a mystery it wants to be; that is, which elements are unexplained to engage the viewer and which elements are unexplained because the filmmakers don't feel like explaining them. The art direction has so many tiny ingenious touches that define this alternate past in Paris, so of course the movie leaves Paris for a fake jungle created by sentient lizards. The animation does have some cell-shaded, Ghibli charm though. I almost forgot how water splashing looked for ninety years. 104. Florence Foster Jenkins (Stephen Frears) Meryl Streep is in this, I guess, so feel free to throw any awards you want its way. It would be impossible for Stephen Frears, Streep, and Grant to turn in something less than competent, but, other than normalizing adultery, I don't know what Florence Foster Jenkins is doing that is novel or unsafe. Here's something: Has any review mentioned that at least fifteen minutes of running time is made up of someone singing poorly? Not a starting-to-sing and we cut away after a few reaction shots. We're riding out full performances that are--such is the premise of the film--supposed to be unlistenable. Customize your back speakers to really steer into that piercing quality on minute eight of the Carnegie Hall performance. We got the point in the first half-hour, but let's really make it unpleasant. If you like this movie, it probably reminds you of splashy, unchallenging pictures that used to get made for adults. But, as a story about a person of privilege who is coddled to absurd, harmful degrees to hide her from an undeniable objective truth, it might be the most 2016 film I saw all year. 103. Cemetery of Splendor (Apichatpong Weerasethakul) If you say so. I still don't really get this guy. Part of the point is that these mystical things are happening all around us: goddesses chopping it up at picnic tables, intermediaries taking over dead bodies and going on dream walks. And all of that is written with deadpan certainty. But if the supernatural is always presented in that nonchalant way, then is it noteworthy? At the risk of sounding like an ugly American, what else is there if the film is about a bizarre sleeping illness, but we aren't meant to believe that the condition is bizarre or an illness at all? From a directing standpoint, other than a graceful dissolve at the halfway point (and who can't do graceful dissolves?), it's just full two-shots for the length of scenes--even simpler than the composition of Uncle Boonme Can Recall His Past Lives. The last five minutes play out like an observational music video, and I think I would prefer a music video from Weerasethakul to another film.

102. Elle (Paul Verhoeven) It's useless to think about what a movie is not, but it would have been interesting to gauge the reception of this film if it didn't have the imprimatur of an interesting director and a truly great actress. Because what we get is tawdry on the level of a Cinemax feature, despite the handheld trappings of art cinema. People who laugh with the film instead of at it might point to Michele's job as a video game designer as layered: She's in the business of devising fantasies publicly, and that's often what drives her privately. But the dialogue in that space--"This is our one chance with Activision," "given your publishing and literary background..."--is too clunky and artificial to seem lived-in. (That’s what happens when a novel is written in French, the screenplay is written in English, the screenplay is translated into French, and French is the director’s third language.) And, at the most basic level, the character just doesn't seem to know what she's doing. There's one specific plot thread that I found ridiculous, but in general the screenplay seems to confuse lots of stuff happening to the character with the character authentically developing. I can see what the filmmakers were trying to do by refusing to make Michele traditionally sympathetic, but I'm out on this. 101. The Fits (Anna Rose Holmer) For a debut film, The Fits is visually decisive and polished, but it's as thin as its 72-minute runtime might suggest. The girls in the movie, for reasons no one can figure out, fall victim to fits, and those seizures become a metaphor for the inexplicable, almost mournful dread of becoming a woman. It's rare that a movie of this type works on the level of metaphor but fails as a slice-of-life thriller--the thriller tropes are kind of the easy part. I liked how locked into the setting we were, but there wasn't enough meat on the bone for me. 100. Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (Gareth Edwards) The first Star Wars film that doesn't feel like an event, Rogue One has one interesting thing (what we learn about the retro-conned nature of something that happens at the end of A New Hope) and one cool thing (Darth Vader smoking some dudes). Ben Mendelsohn avails himself well I guess. But mostly the film feels like bloodless, sexless information in search of any type of humanity. What's weird, considering that A New Hope is one of the most mythologically sound films ever made, is that there isn't a lot of care spent on setting the scene. Can we see a bit more of the type of evil the Deathstar can wreak to build some stakes? Can we stay in one location for more than a few minutes? Can we not have a location named Jedah because it sounds too much like Jedi and makes me confused for a split second every time it's mentioned? I don't think I can say it any better than A.O. Scott, who considers Rogue One "a schoolbook exercise in a course of study that has no useful application and that will never end."