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intoloopin-archive · 8 months ago

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A CHAPTER: THE SHARP AND THE BLUNT (PART 2/2).

tws: dubious consent (Haruki is still very weird and forward about initiating sex! and sometimes that gets Toxic). alcohol abuse and alcoholism. semi-smut (the driest, most unsexy and robotic blowjob in the world is given). insinuation and one very direct discussion of sexual trauma, abuse by a past partner, abuse of workplace power and stalking. a little hint of body dysmorphia (Hanjae's inner voice is often not very kind about how he looks). internalized homophobia, and a hint of biphobia in between the lines. queer pessimism (it gets a bit Hurtful). as always: if I missed anything, please tell me. starring: Lee Hanjae. Fukunaga Haruki. featuring: Dylan Hwang / Hwang Chihoon. their fellow LOOPiN members (old OT10, no Gyujin, still stuck with a bit of Beomseok). Uhm Junghwa (new manager extraordinarie). the ghost of Choi Sangwon. a brief mention of Night Child / NTCD. timeline: early to the end of mid 2022 | quick flash forward to september 2023 (additional context under the cut). word count: 14,138 words. author's note: lil delay because life has to be life, sometimes, and because the hotel scene from May 26th was way more challenging to get right in tone than i originally expected (it's one of the ones to watch out for), but here we are!!!! the Hanruki end. things get much more heavy, morally grey and blantly sad in this final part, so really, mind the tags, skip if you must. and: music rec moment two. stay safe out there, everyone!

March 13th, 2022.

Hanjae doesn’t shower, or change clothes, or gets to sleep on the couch. He lays on it and spends the whole night awake, on his phone, and on his Nintendo Switch after that, back on his phone. He catches the sun rising through the window’s curtain and maybe he sleeps, briefly.

Was it even real?, he wonders when he finds himself with his eyes wide and restless, staring up at the ceiling; Did it even happen?

He pokes and pokes at the one painful spot over his shoulder, the marking of Haruki’s teeth, and gets consumed by shame at the confirmation that yes, it was real; yes, it did happen.

When Junghwa steps into their apartment to wake everyone up in the morning, Hanjae’s sitting on the couch, breathing into his hands. He still looks like a mess. Hair, clothes, face – a mess.

She gives him a crumbling look, half pity, half exhaustion, and laughs humorless. “Out of everyone, I didn’t expect you to misbehave, Lee Hanjae.”

Hanjae peeks up at her through his clammy fingers. He feels a genuine and terrifying urge to throw up on her shoes and buy her new ones immediately after.

“12 AM to 8 PM for you,” Junghwa tells him, with a sigh. She walks more into the house, close enough to lay a merciful hand on the crown of his head – pat, pat, pat. “Just this one time.”

Haruki hours, he thinks, dazed, because that’s what everyone calls it, because he’s the one stuck with the alternative schedule the most: fails to wake up for practice often, gets shoved at the company until late at night. He’ll probably get the same sentence today. He and Hanjae might have to train alone, together, for hours. His stomach takes another queasy turn.

Hanjae watches the world move around him, for once out of the routine; after hearing his fate, Taesong takes a minute out of washing his face to force Hanjae to gulp down ibuprofen while Haegon shoves a pillow at him. Junghwa goes upstairs to knock on Haruki’s door, phone against her ear as she calls him, and then comes down in record speed, by herself.

She asks everyone, “Shall we go?”

“Can I get Haruki hours, please?” Seungsoo begs from where he’s resting his head against the wall, eyes closed, sipping Gatorade.

Junghwa doesn’t look at him as she firmly says, “No.”

“But I’m dying,” Seungsoo whines. “I’m fucking dying. I can’t work. I’m gonna drop dead, dead.”

Minwoo shoves him angrily out of the way to open the front door, tells him, “Then drop dead, Seungsoo. Drop dead.”

It takes a while for the house to fall back into quiet, after everyone’s gone. Hanjae swears he hears the sound of everything amplified now, gonging inside his head. Maybe it’s the hangover – it’s probably the hangover, but he hasn’t had enough of those to figure all of their symptoms out.

He sleeps again, a miracle, wakes up again, and there’s the faint smell of something being stir fried coming from the kitchen, slowly drowning the whole room.

“I’m making tofu,” Haruki says when Hanjae sits up to check. He’s a slouched thing behind the stove, yet he’s flashing him a grin. “You want some?”

He looks, from a distant inspection – normal, regular, like Haruki always does in the morning: a little wan, with his voice a little deep. They’ve kissed, they’ve made out, and he’s absolutely normal, proposing to make Hanjae breakfast-lunch.

Hanjae says a meek ‘yes’ to tofu, and Haruki tells him, “Five minutes.”

It’s enough time for Hanjae to go brush his teeth, and hyperventilate in privacy: every corner of their bathroom makes him think back to Sunyoung’s, and to being on the floor– being kissed on the floor– being kissed by Haruki on the floor until he wasn’t.

He goes back to the couch, a stiff walk. Haruki comes to sit with him, holding a single bowl of food with two runny eggs on top, and Hanjae jumps back up and three feet away. He bumps his heel bone on the coffee table, and the pain is a shock up his entire leg; serves him well, serves him right.

“I want to apologize for yesterday or earlier today at night,” Hanjae says in a single breath, his voice coming out rough around the edges. His arms are set like wood on his sides, tight, fisted.

In front of him, Haruki’s face goes through a journey: startled, then confused, then amused, smiling. He takes a big bite of food. “Oh, you mean the bathroom? That’s what you mean?” He asks, covering his chewing mouth with a hand, and Hanjae nods once. “Pfff, no need. It’s not your fault a girl had to pee.”

“That’s not what I meant, not, not what I’m apologizing for.”

“So what are you apologizing for?” Haruki asks him, tilting his head, dark hair falling like a cloak over his eyes. He wrinkles his nose. “Didn’t I kiss you? I’m sure I kissed you. I’m sure you kissed me back.”

“Hyung,” Hanjae says, helplessly, and has to turn his face to the side, closing his eyes briefly. “Still, everything– We were drunk, and everything, it wasn’t… appropriate. To happen.”

Haruki has stopped chewing when Hanjae looks back at him, has gone full body still for a moment. When he gulps the food down, it looks like it’s a painful thing for him to do.

“Appropriate,” he repeats, looking down at his own feet, like it’s an odd word, an annoying one. “Just sit down, Hanjae. Sit back down. We’re not done yet.”

“We’re not… What?”

Haruki abandons the bowl and chopsticks, puts them roughly on the table, then motions to the vague spot on his side – come here. Hanjae doesn’t move. He still has some word stuck under his tongue he has to work out.

Haruki doesn’t take his paralyzes at all. He clicks his tongue, walks up and close and puts both hands on Hanjae’s shoulders, maneuvers him and sits him back down not that gently on the couch. He tucks himself close to him, sideways, a bent knee almost on his lap, and stays there.

He eyes Hanjae openly then, a brand new thing. Haruki’s seen him, could have gotten sick of seeing him with how much it happens every day, but now Hanjae knows with certainty that he’s never been evaluated by him, or taken into this much consideration up until this very moment.

He hooks Hanjae’s ear lobe between two fingers and pulls, taps at the hoop earring. “I thought you would be a bad kisser,” Haruki says. “But you’re not.”

Granted, Hanjae wouldn’t call their kiss a good kiss. Both their mouths tasted bitter, he remembers now, and their teeth clunked against each other like two cogs being put in an unfit machine. It happened so quick– everything, so quick.

“Thanks,” he says nonetheless, and again, “Thank– Thank you.”

Haruki laughs at him, wispy, a single ‘ha’, and the air around them grows more tense. Haruki pushes himself close until he's full on Hanjae’s lap, a similar position to some hours ago. Hanjae turns his face a little away, to the side; sets his eyes on a wall, right where a painting Haegon made when he was eight years old hangs, framed.

The cushion of the living room couch smells like an amalgamation of all of them, he notices. There’s a stain on it where Chihoon had once spilled fancy carbonara – a meal everyone saved the whole month to have on their third debut anniversary. Seungsoo had offered him three bucks to lick it clean. The video of Dylan concluding the bet is a blurry 1 minute thing O.z had recorded, still somewhere far down Hanjae’s gallery.

“Hanjae,” Haruki says now, and taps at his nose. “You’re too tense. You’re zooming out. Get out of your head.”

“It’s just–” Hanjae mutters, and can’t stop – just can’t stop: “Here? Wouldn’t it be bad? If someone walks in, if they forgot something and want to come back, and I heard, I think I heard that, isn’t there a camera here, a camera Seo CEO looks through–”

“There’s no camera. Not a single one anywhere. I would know,” Haruki looks right into his eyes to reassure him, or tries to; Hanjae can’t sustain it much. His hands are a constant goosebump on their trail on the back of Hanjae’s neck, up and up and suddenly down, up again. “Do you want to take this to your room?”

But it’s not Hanjae’s room, singular. It’s impossible to look anywhere and not see one of Seungsoo’s too colorful caps, or Minwoo’s notes, scrambled and frantic, the only indication he’s yet to fully move into the studio.

This is LOOPiN’s home, collective. They’re coworkers sharing space at their core, and it’s– It’s all just–

Hanjae makes a whimpering sound, involuntary, not an answer to anything, and with that Haruki’s off him, a sudden rise up and turn around. He walks away with a loud sigh and Hanjae thinks, disappointment and relief an ocean in his stomach, It’s done. It’s over.

It’s not; Haruki just goes to open the fridge’s door, takes something out, pours it somewhere, comes back to the couch with it. He stands it for Hanjae to take – a red plastic cup filled to the brim with some leftover wine.

“One complaint,” Haruki tells him, and goes back to where he was; a stable weight on Hanjae’s lap, both arms hooked around his neck. “One sip.”

“It’s– It’s morning, hyung.”

“No. No ‘hyung’. Stop that,” he says, and Hanjae can’t figure out, either by hearing it or looking him in the face, if Haruki’s being serious or not. He’s still smiling. “I don’t like it.”

“So what,” Hanjae asks, and sinks deeper into the couch when Haruki makes to push himself closer, “Do you like, then? About me if, or this, or–”

It’s all he can get out before Haruki puts a hand over his mouth, firm.

“I’ll blow you,” he says bluntly, and puts his hand away. Another paper thin smile. “Will that shut you up?”

Around a gulp, Hanjae nods, manages to let out a shaky, “Ok–ay.”

Permission granted, it takes a moment for anything to even happen. Haruki grabs the cup out of Hanjae’s hand quickly and downs it, almost fully drains it. He takes a deep and loud breath when he gives it back, eyes closed through it, before he begins to go down on him.

When Haruki kneels in between his legs, Hanjae tries to put a hand on top of his head, a timid and gentle fondling, but Haruki bats it away, says, “Just stay still.”

And Hanjae stays still. He looks up at the ceiling – eggshell white, the same as all the walls, with the faint darkening in a corner where there once was a leak. The kitchen sink hasn’t been closed all the way, and he can hear the drip, drip, drip of the water falling on dirty tableware under the sound of his loose belt being unbuckled, his zipper working open, the downing of his jeans.

What a waste, he thinks, over and over, tells himself that’s all he must think now; what a grandiose waste.

The blowjob’s a not so quick, but fully methodic thing. Hanjae taps Haruki on the shoulder when he’s finally near coming, says so around a pant. And then comes, Haruki swallows, that’s it – that’s the full scope of it, Hanjae has decided. Privately, he calls it efficient instead of emotionless, or confusing, or unsettling.

He zips himself back up as Haruki wipes his mouth and goes to collect the pot, the chopsticks. Hanjae catches him by the wrist before he slips away, asks, “You?”

Haruki laughs – Hanjae’s never seen him laugh so much so quickly, or in such a high pitch. He says, leaning forward, “Me? Me what? What are you even going to do? You look like you’re about to have a panic attack, Hanjae.”

Hanjae’s grip on him goes loose. Haruki breaks free of it and puts his hand on his pocket, rubs it in for a second like he’s trying to get it clean. Or maybe Hanjae’s just seeing things with his blurry hangover vision, his clear hangover discomfort.

“Right,” he mutters, and feels like he’s coming down from somewhere. His hold on the cup had faltered through their whole endeavor, and the spilled wine made a new damp on the couch’s arm. A story. He locks eyes with it.

“Don’t worry about me,” Haruki’s saying, back turned to him, halfway across the room already. The pot of leftover tofu clanks where he drops it, careless. “I’ll just shower.”

“You’re sure…?” Hanjae asks.

“Uh-huh.”

“Really?”

“Really. Now stop talking, alright? It’s not going to make me put my mouth on you a second time.”

Hanjae blinks once, and then too many times to even count. “Okay,” he says, quietly. “I’m– Okay.”

Haruki flees the scene before he notices, goes upstairs; comes back down and looks around for a long beat as if he’s forgotten where he is, where he’s headed.

He goes to the bathroom and closes the door loudly, then soon opens it again, peeks his torso out. He’s got a towel thrown over his shoulder and a smile that’s blinding when he says, looking back at Hanjae: “But next time. Make it up to me next time.”

April 14th, 2022.

‘Next time’, in industry lingo, as Hanjae has learned over the years, is the vaguest time scheduling there is. So Haruki said ‘But next time. Make it up to me next time’, and a day later LOOPiN released the final teasers for the ‘Punch’ EP, and things got hectic – music shows, variety content, a fanmeet, a fansign.

And then Seungsoo made everything come to a halt by jumping Kwon Dongwook and half of NTCD at Rewind K-Pop Fest on the 8th, getting them all thrown out of the event four hours earlier.

They missed the SHINee tribute they were set to be on. Hanjae even got handed Key’s bandana and the same blue shorts he used in the dance scenes in the ‘View’ MV, taken directly out of SM Entertainment’s archive. He had just stepped out of a makeup chair when he got the news, and was made to sit back down immediately to dismantle the whole look.

“Pussy didn’t even fight back,” Seungsoo grumbled, in their kitchen: icing his face where it hit a pole after Code pushed him off Hyunbin’s neck. He wouldn’t stop talking about Dongwook – it had been five hours, and everything that came out of his mouth was soon followed by ‘Kwon Dongwook that bastard’ this, ‘Kwon Dongwook that fucker’ that. “He made me look like an asshole.”

Hanjae ignored him. All he wanted was to drink a glass of water in silence and not look a single person in the eye that wasn’t Mijoo, his guitar instructor, in six hours time.

“You made yourself look like an asshole,” Taesong corrected him, pointing a spatula around from behind the aisle, and he sounded and looked angry in a way Hanjae hadn’t seen him in years. “You made all of us look like assholes, and now Minwoo’s going to kill you. He’s going to kill you because I’ll allow him to kill you. I will help him kill you. You deserve to be assassinated.”

“You deserve to be assassinated, you snake! You’re talking with Joseph Song, Taeng! Night Child’s Joseph Song, behind my back, about him, about me! Fuck you!”

Taesong dropped the spatula, put both hands on his hips, and looked up at the ceiling: his ‘Lord, give me strength’ pose. “I don’t talk with Joseph Song about Dongwook, or about you, Seungsoo. All we do is exchange schedule information to know when we all might meet, to try to keep peace between us and them because you’re all insane. All you, insane.”

“I’m not insane!” Seungsoo said, rising up from his chair, and Hanjae escaped the kitchen then, didn’t want to hear his bullshit claim to be functional.

He spent half an hour tuning and running his fingers over his electric guitar’s strings, and did the same with Dylan’s old acoustic one, and pressed random notes on Zhiming’s keyboard in their improvised music space, which was just a vacant corner in Heagon and Beomseok’s room.

On his phone, he got one message, and had to read it once and twice and a third time even, just to figure out what to say:

[haruhyung]: are you free ?

Hanjae sent, fingers flying over the keyboard:

[You]: Guitar pravtice with Mijoo nim sun

[You]: *practice

[You]: **soon

And shortly after, an afterthought:

[You]: Sorry

On his screen Haruki typed, deleted, typed again – the speech bubble looked like a glitch. Somewhere down on the first floor someone snorted, loud and mean, and Hanjae shuddered.

After five minutes, Haruki sent:

[haruhyung]: ok .

More texts came after those, spaced out between days or just hours, sometimes full sentences or just direct question marks, one time with a photo attached in the morning. Hanjae didn’t see it right away, went back to check during lunch break and found nothing but a short trail of deleted messages.

It’s all the interaction they have behind the scenes lately. No more idle talk in the practice room, no more shared space in the house, just ‘free?’ and ‘no’ and ‘sorry’ and ‘ok.’

Now: a live session for the english version of ‘You Can’t Hold My Heart’ that they managed to film in one single take. Jooheon PD promises to treat them to something for it, and everyone’s saying suggestions on top of suggestions at the speed of light. Hanjae’s trying to gather up courage to ask for hot pot again, preparing for the complaining it’ll cause, when his phone dings.

[haruhyung]: ditch with me .

[haruhyung]: discreetly .

Hanjae takes a wild look across the studio until he finds Haruki: set against a wall in a corner, waiting to be looked at, tapping one foot on the ground. After what feels like a minute of unstable eye contact, but couldn’t be more than a second or so, Haruki ducks his head down and goes back to typing.

[haruhyng]: im really not going to ask again .

It takes little to no excuse to ditch dinner – barbecue, they have decided, and Hanjae’s trying to cut off red meat, doesn’t want to go somewhere so crowded after seeing so many people all day, he says, and Haruki interveins to ask Jooheon if he can pay their cab home. No one asks why he’s not going; no one was expecting Haruki to want to go.

They don’t take the free cab home. They’re instead back at Deh’s apartment complex, taking the stairs quietly.

“I’ll be coming three times a week to feed her cats this month,” Haruki says, unlocking and holding the door open for Hanjae so he can step inside. “She’s traveling out of town.”

“Hm,” is Hanjae’s shaky answer.

The inside of Deh’s apartment looks very much like what he would assume it would: neat, colorful, synthetic fur coats everywhere – really, everywhere.

While Haruki gathers up the cats, two small and loud things, Hanjae sits down on the printed loveseat and makes direct eye contact with a wigged mannequin head next to the TV, plastic lips shiny with lipstick.

When Haruki comes back to the living room, duties all done, he opens the big window on the far left and sits on the cushioned frame, one elegant leg over the other.

He says, with a cig materialized between his teeth somehow, “Deh’s got a lighter on the second drawer– Second drawer, Hanjae– Yeah, that one, the green one. Come here. Bring it over.”

Hanjae brings it over, and Haruki tilts his head up, points to his cigarette, still hanging from his mouth. Hanjae lights it up for him after a couple of clumsy tries, and flees – bolts away with the lighter at the center of his fisted palm, goes to sit back on the couch, grows uncomfortable, slides down to the floor.

Haruki watches him move with an enerved smile on his face. “How funny,” he says, dryly, and then no one says a thing. He smokes, and Hanjae can’t stand the smell, coffs into his hand once. He sees Haruki move even closer to the window, peeking outside.

“So,” Hanjae tries, when it all turns into too much – the smoke, the quiet. He’s tracing a pattern with his finger on the carpet; a circle on top of a circle on top of a circle. “Do you– You come by often? To see her?”

Haruki makes a choking sound. His eyes are very narrow when he looks at Hanjae. “What are you trying to ask?”

Hanjae forces a shrug that he knows falls very flat.

“Deh’s a woman, Hanjae,” Haruki says after a beat, with a strong emphasis on ‘woman’, and Hanjae turns bright red and hot on his face, immediately responds with ‘Yes, I know’ – would rather shoot his own foot than insinuate she’s not. “And I’m not interested in women, so no, I don’t see her.”

“But you– You never told,” Hanjae stammers, and Haruki tilts his head at him, frown easing. “You never told any of us you’re not straight.”

“None of you ever just asked me,” Haruki counters, and there’s a little humor in him, somewhere – a bit of pride at that, maybe, until he recalls, “Except for Zhiming once, but he doesn’t count. Zhiming somehow always knows. Side effects of having a gay mom, I guess.”

“Did you know before? Before your… Your whole relationship, with– was your relationship what made you…” Hanjae stops talking. Haruki’s eyebrows have darted up and they stay up, waiting, challenging; ‘go on, finish the sentence’.

Hanjae sheepishly goes back to the mannequin head. It has a pink rhinestone hot glued on its nose, mimicking a piercing.

“Alright,” Haruki says, giving in. He rearranges himself on the window, puts his two feet steady on the floor, manspreading. “This again– Alright. You get three questions. Just three. Then we’ll never talk about it again, so be wise. If it’s something stupid I won’t answer.”

Hanjae accepts this, tonguing his cheek while he thinks. He has a billion questions, too many, all build up in these two months, but they’ve all escaped him somehow. He settles for an hesitant, “‘This again?’”

“I know you know Chihoon’s aware. And now Jiahang is, too,” Haruki says, and Hanjae patiently waits for more information. A whole minute goes by and Haruki, smoke coming in and out of his mouth, doesn’t offer him anything else.

“Since when?”

“Dylan? L.A. After the beach with you, he caught the… aftermath,” he grims, humorless. “And J.J knows since last week, after the festival. The day you ditched me for guitar practice with Mijoo nim.”

“That’s not,” Hanjae offers, alternating between looking at him and not looking at him; peeking instead at the shape he made on the green carpet, there still. “Not what I meant.”

“Of course not,” Haruki agrees, and his smile turns tiny, tinier, up until it no longer exists.

He takes a big drag of the cigarette, the last one; tosses the bug right out of the window without putting the flame out. Behind him, the world looks pink, green, warm yellow. It’s the sort of spring that makes you feel like it’ll never leave you.

“Look, Hanjae, you don’t want to know everything. Not very pretty, with him being married and a dad and my boss and all. Bottom line is he casted me, he made me into a trainee, and that might have saved my life. I understood the way he looked at me and decided to just– let him have it. So I asked him out, kind of. He said yes, kind of. Next thing I knew, it had been going on for years.”

“Years?” Hanjae lets out, a little scandalized, too blunt, and Haruki gives him a look – ‘last question’. He rushes to amend it with, “Why?”

Haruki, with a hint of afternoon sun contouring his falling face, says, “I don’t know. I don’t know why,” and it’s the one thing Hanjae didn’t want to hear.

He wished for: because he loved me, or because it made me happy. But he knew it wouldn’t be that, felt it like a hollow in his stomach. From that day in the rain, he knew.

“I have a question for you, now. Just one,” Haruki says, turning his face back inside. Hanjae hums, letting him go on. “Are you dragging it out on purpose? Fucking me, I mean. Are you trying to make it some grand thing?”

Hanjae takes a beat to respond because he knows he should. He thinks about it deeply, eyes stuck in a corner, and shakes his head ‘no’. It’s the truth; he’s not trying to turn it into a grand thing – he understands now, with a tang of sadness, that he can’t make any of it special.

“Good,” Haruki says, and nods too. “You shouldn’t. I know marketing wants everyone to think I’m some sex god, but I’m not. I’m really not. You should just get me out of your system already. Quick and nice. It’s not like there’s a point in waiting, or… courting. We’re never going to date, Hanjae. You know that.”

“Yes. I know.”

“So…?” Haruki looks around, to all the space, and Hanjae does too. There’s very little of it, it’s a little room, but still, it looks so lived in. It looks like a place that’s loved.

Hanjae lowers his head down, eyes his small circle, fading. “Would Deh mind?” He asks, a whisper.

“Hanjae, she won’t know. No one will know,” Haruki says, and he’s grown annoyed now, shifty in his seat. “No one cares to know. No one gives that much of a fuck, or– It’s fine. It’s really fine.”

“I just– the thing is–,” Hanjae stutters, and tries to push through even when Haruki makes a discontent noise. “I never planned to do anything about it, or act– really act on liking you. This,” he motions to the drift between them, the awkward air: this, “Is not just me thinking you’re attractive, or– I really respect you, hyung, as my bandmate, as my colleague. If anything, what I always wanted was just for you to trust me with who you are, someday, because I think you’re– I just want us to be closer. Any way goes. That’s what I feel.”

He takes a peek up, over his own bangs, and sees Haruki’s eyes flickering. He widens his stance, knees more apart, and his voice sounds very low when he says, “You can grow real close to me now.”

Hanjae sighs at him, because he can’t help it. He tries to think of words, better words. Tries to build some sort of bridge out of them.

“Is it a good time?” It’s what he asks. “It’s been– It’s been a really long week, and you just… Aren’t you tired? I’m tired. You look like you’re tired.”

Haruki’s face clouds, gets taken over by something very cold. “I am tired. I’m tired of you rejecting me.”

“I’m not. I’m not rejecting you. I just don’t want to feel like I’m making a mistake. I don’t want to make a mistake, and I think, neither do you, right? Again?” Hanjae asks, and immediately regrets it when he catches the effect of the word ‘again’. It makes Haruki close his legs shut, makes his jaw tense. Hanjae says, quicker, “I’ve lost a team one time, hyung, by being impulsive – and it looked like this, it felt just like this.”

The silence that gets in between them is loud, almost sticky. Hanjae fights an inner battle to not fill it up with, ‘Please let’s talk, can you talk to me, really talk to me, just talk to me, and tell me what is it that you actually want.’

In a room away, the cats scratch a door, begging to be let out, and Haruki’s new phone goes off – a familiar ringtone, a lack of surprise or urge to pick up Hanjae’s seen before.

Haruki rests his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. His chest visibly rises and falls when he breathes. “Ah, this is funny,” he says. “So not today, then, but soon? When I look better, not tired, is that it?”

“If you still want to.”

“If I still want to…” Haruki repeats, like he’s testing out the words, like he wants to figure out how they sound all together. And then rising up, out of the window, splinting behind the couch, behind Hanjae, “Okay. Alright, okay. If that’s what it takes– It’s on.”

“It’s… on?”

Over his shoulder, Hanjae catches the hint of a big grin being thrown at him. “It’s on.”

April 29th to May 6th, 2022.

After Deh’s apartment and the sex that didn’t, Haruki turns into someone else for a week.

It’s impossible to not take immediate notice; when Hanjae and Dylan sit down on Friday to play Fifa at night he catches the whole thing, even though he’s not a fan of sports, or video games, or hanging out. Hanjae scores two goals and Haruki cheers him on, in an enthusiasm that makes it seem like he’s winning the real World Cup.

When he excuses himself to use the bathroom, Hanjae and Chihoon share a quick, tense glance.

‘What’s happening?’, Dylan mouths, putting the game on pause, and Hanjae mouths back, ‘I don’t know’, pressing for it to go on.

Later, they order takeout food for everyone, and Haruki doesn’t drink anything with his pizza except for a Sprite Zero. He gathers up everyone’s scattered plates after dinner and takes them to the kitchen, where Hanjae has just begun to do the dishes.

He circles him around the room, then leans on the counter, close, says, “Hanhan, what did you do with my KidSuper jacket? I can’t find it anywhere. Come help me look when you’re done with that. I’m in the laundry room, come help me, don’t forget to help me look, yeah?”

It’s an excuse. There’s no KidSuper jacket that needs to be found in the laundry room. Hanjae goes in, Haruki closes the door shut and immediately kisses him against it, suddenly.

They break apart, and Haruki taps Hanjae’s chin up, making Hanjae’s hang open mouth fall shut. He breathes into his face, mutters, “Cute– You look cute surprised,” and leaves – just leaves, vaporizes in thin air.

Six entire days of this: playing cat and mouse at odd hours, being shoved and kissed by Haruki somewhere, catching no sleep, having anxiety all night, wondering if anyone saw it, if anyone has catched on to this whole… energy.

“You look like a zombie,” Haruki tells him, once – a direct whisper into his ear, with the slightest press of teeth. “Is it because of me? Are you not sleeping well because of me?”

It all comes to a halt on Friday, just as suddenly as it began, because Haruki snaps over something in the afternoon, and he won’t tell anyone what it is.

He locks Dylan out earlier than he’s ever done it, skips dinner, ignores calls; gets fully trashed somewhere between midnight and 4AM, alone. Beomseok had bought fancy imported dry sake for his older brother, a wedding gift he was keeping in the dorms, and the whole thing’s gone, drained.

Beomseok made a big commotion about it, went on to bang on his room door until the entire house was awake at 6 in the morning on a day off, soured everyone’s moods, split them into two: people pissed off at him and people pissed off at Haruki for pissing him off.

It’s tense through the whole day, with no one seeing eye to eye quite right, and when schedule breaks go this south Hanjae knows to expect an empty house after the sun sets.

Soon enough: at 6PM a voice message from Jiahang on their group chat, saying, ‘I’m going clubbing! I’m going clubbing and everyone can come with me! I refuse to not have a nice night tonight, I refuse it!’

Hanjae’s the first one to answer him, off the shower:

[You]: Pass

[jayjayjiji]: 🍅🍅🍅🖕🙄🖕🍅🍅🍅

Hanjae’s midway through sliding his shirt over his head when Haruki barges in without knocking. He stands there, arms up and tangled with the fabric, in his pajama bottoms, short hair wet. Haruki’s a figure that flops on his bed, face and stomach first.

He’s the only one who didn’t get a haircut for ‘Punch’. The hair stylist had run a hand through his hair, moved Haruki’s bangs one side and the other, said, like a joke, “But he’s perfect! He looks perfect already, Junghwa, what do you want me to do?!” It’s a wild thing now, at the back.

“I will sleep with you,” he announces, voice coming off hoarse and loud; drunk again, but mildly.

Hanjae, fully clothed, says, “Seungsoo–”

“Going out. Not a problem. And Minwoo, he is out.”

Hanjae takes small strides to get the burst open door shut. He takes a long peek at the two sides of the corridor: empty.

Behind him, he hears Haruki grumble, “These days, they’ve been so time waste. A waste. Why are you not caring?”

“What do you mean?” Hanjae asks, and comes back near, not too much. He’s still standing up in the crack diving his bed from Minwoo and Seunsgoo’s bunk one.

“I’m trying,” Haruki stresses. “To appeal to you. With my all, to get you to. Start something. You never do. Do something,” he commands at Hanjae, less angry, just agitated. “I am right here, so just– anything.”

Hanjae sits down on the edge of the bed, then. A calculated descent over the sheets.

“But hyung,” He stutters, and Haruki grunts something incomprehensible under his breath. It doesn’t sound like korean, it doesn’t sound like japanese, it doesn’t sound like anything. “Haruki, there’s people at home. No one’s left yet, we don’t know– Don’t know if everyone will.”

“So what? You were all always– So what?”

Hanjae hesitates, worrying his mouth. He takes one of his hands and slowly places it on Haruki’s hair, trying to somewhat pet it, but Haruki isn’t satisfied with that, and turns his face to the side, looks at him with a strong frown. Hanjae puts his hand back where it first laid on his lap, goes back to picking at the hem of his shirt.

And then Haruki reaches out a hand himself, and places it on Hanjae’s exposed knee, squeezes, sinks nails on it. Hanjae pushes himself further back, startled, and the hand follows, leaving a scratch; he almost falls off the bed trying to sneak away from it, and the hand stills, lifeless, not that far away.

“It is like,” Haruki says, and stops for a moment, gulps spit and something else down. “Like when you touch me is all so nothing. Like you do not… You do not really want me. Like you are not trying to make me remember. How can I remember. That you want me. I can not know if you are, just… Not leaving something behind. Like haunting.”

“Haunting?”

Haruki stops moving completely. “I really miss the way, really…” a breath. “The way you looked at me before.”

“And how,” Hanjae prompts, leaning closer, eager to hear it, “How did I look at you before?”

Haruki ignores him. “It is gone,” he laments, and Haruki actively looks like he’s grieving the death of it, whatever it might be. “You have not even fucked me yet, and– gone.”

It’s a quiet, long minute. Hanjae sees Haruki’s eyes go glossy in real time, catches the whole process up until Haruki turns his face away, presses it on the mattress again, hides it.

Haruki pushes his upper body up with his elbows, covers his face with his hands, inhales. Looks at Hanjae again, his eyes peeking through his fingers, dark.

“Ah, you are so nice, Hanjae. Very, very nice, you,” he says, voice still. He stands an arm out, matches every single word with an absent tap on Hanjae’s shoulder. “And all worried, all in your head. It is so annoying. So weird how you–” And he doesn’t say; doesn’t tell Hanjae what’s weird about him.

The hand on his shoulder goes up, scoops his jaw for a tiny moment, then yanks him forward by the back of his neck – Hanjae has to put a knee on the bed frame to not fully stumble. It’s a grip locking him in place, now, as Haruki drags his face near.

“Pick a fucking date. Pick a date,” Haruki tells him, and his voice almost doesn’t sound like his own; is a pure growl. “I am tired. Tired.”

He leaves the same way he came: a door meeting the lock loudly.

Before going to bed, Hanjae selects another shirt to sleep on, a clean one, red like blood in the water.

May 26th, 2022.

“I think I just– Hyung, I think it all comes down to the fact that I don’t understand what you’re asking, because you’re not– you’re not asking. We’re not communicating.”

Haruki’s long pace back and forth in the hotel room comes to a halt. He’s only in underwear under the bath robe he’s got on, black and with an embroidered logo on the chest and back – they both were, up until Hanjae put his shorts back on.

It didn’t take long for Hanjae to pick a date for them to officially have sex: the pre-Camp Camp filming days are the calmest, with the ease of certain success making everyone better to work with, smoothing all the nerves, and a day before they start shooting LOOPiN always have the liberty to do whatever they want. Most staff are too busy setting up cameras around the park, testing the traps, and putting the winning team barracks up to keep them all in check.

Hanjae brought it up to Haruki a couple of days before they traveled to Jeollabuk over their stale text messages, and promptly got an ‘yes’ and nothing further; Haruki kept his distance like a bride on a wedding day over the weeks, barely a blur on the corner of Hanjae’s vision.

So here they are, a day away from being shoved in a park to pretend it’s a jungle. Hanjae walked around with a condom in his short’s pocket since morning and he’s been trying to look forward to it, trying to rationalize the hollow in his stomach as positive anxiety.

By mid afternoon, everyone was leaving the hotel – absolutely everyone. Hanjae couldn’t put a finger on it, but he felt like Haruki had something to do with it. They were sorted into their dorm roommate arrangements by Junghwa, all in the same corridor, both of their rooms at the extreme ends. Hanjae waited for his text to come over Haruki and Dylan’s suite, then made his way in a quiet and dragged on zig-zag – tapped a little song on a vase with a single flower on the hallway table just to bite time.

Dylan was still there when he got in, angrily tying his hiking shoes, and he refused to look at them as he made his way out. He stopped at the door, turned, looked like he was about to say something.

Haruki went to shove him off the room with a tight, “No, Chihoon, I don’t want to hear you, not today, no one wants to hear you, leave, get out.”

Things happened at a weird pace from there. They made out for a long minute, came close to fully undressing then froze awkwardly in the middle of Haruki’s bed, paused it.

“What do you want to do?” Hanjae asked from where he was set on top of him.

“Whatever you want,” Haruki answered, absently tugging at one of Hanjae’s red ears.

So he tried to work with whatever, since he didn’t know what he wanted – he tried to remember some guilty ridden fantasy of his which Haruki had starred in and use that as a guide, but the search came out blank. Hanjae wasn’t getting them anymore, funnily enough, ever since he had been kissed by him a second time.

But no matter what he tried, be it a kiss on the neck or a firm hold on his tight, Haruki barely made a sound, barely seemed to engage and, the most defeating of all, he wouldn’t get hard. It took Hanjae a long moment to notice, too long, and he did so by accident; went to push him by the waist closer but his hand slipped down, and he noticed how limp he felt under his underwear.

That wouldn't do; he asked Haruki again he wanted him to do, what he shouldn’t do, and under the scrutiny Haruki only blurted out dismissively, “Stop, no one fucks to get comfortable, anyway”, and Hanjae’s hand fell from his shoulders.

He said, “What?” and Haruki, “What what?”

“What do you mean?”

“Mean by what?” Haruki asked, an uneasy sound, and Hanjae could almost feel him growing cold under him, losing body heat, so he stepped away.

That was a whole hour ago. They’ve been trying to recover, but the mood has gone sour. Hanjae has put his shorts back on a couple minutes after his boner fully died and Haruki seemed to take that as a personal offense, hence the walking.

Hanjae reiterates: “I just can’t know if you like anything if you don’t tell me or… respond. Physically.”

Haruki rubs a hand over his face. He’s annoyed but he’s trying to mask it, says like a tease, “What’s with the language? Did you do research?”

Hanjae sighs. He’s tired of hearing this tone on him. He’s tired of one too many things at once, a Russian doll of exhaustion. A block; the everyday chaos of work, another; the weight of lying to everyone, the effort of keeping it up, and the core one: Haruki not wanting him, pretending to do so, going about it like a chore, like something he must cross off a list.

“What am I doing wrong?” Hanjae asks. “Can you tell me?”

“No, not– You’re not doing things wrong, it just doesn’t happen, okay?” Haruki lets out. “I don’t really get hard, or anything.”

Hanjae processes the phrase word by word. “You mean, you mean never? Or–”

“Not never, just not always. Not a lot.”

“Hyung. Shouldn’t you get that checked?”

“‘Get that checked’,” Haruki parrots, half heartedly, and then quieter, to himself, “I need a fucking drink. ‘Should have sneaked something, should have– Got something.”

Seeing him stuck in place, an unpleased thing, Hanjae can’t help but think back to his snaggletooth days, the pre-rhinoplasty times, that one White Day in seventh grade where his deskmate pity gave him half a chocolate, and wonders if he’s lying, if he’s making something up to make him feel better, if he noticed that Hanjae’s not feeling great, nowhere close to nice.

He’s been hiding his right hand under the cover, trying to not let Haruki hold it, not that he’s tried to do that yet, nor does it seem like he’ll want to.

“We can just not do anything,” Hanjae reminds him. It’s his fourth time saying it, and it gets the exact same reaction out of Haruki each time: an annoyed huff, a roll of eyes. “Not have sex, if it’s not what you want. If I’m not– Not attractive to you.”

“You are, you are. Very attractive,” Haruki says. “Happy?”

“And if I am,” Hanjae prompts. “It’s okay, right? You think it’s okay?”

Haruki’s mouth hangs semi open, his eyes semi shut, when he shoots him a look. “What? I– What?” It’s almost a hiss.

“Can you just tell me why?” Hanjae presses. It’s the right wrong question; it sends Haruki back to pacing, his back turned to him. “Why do you want us to have sex?”

“You want this to happen,” Haruki tells him. “You always wanted it to happen, everyone knows, you made this happen, with all– everything.”

“And you want it too?”

“That’s such a stupid question! Am I not here? Didn’t I tell you to be here?”

“You’re not just,” Hanjae takes in air, sharp through his teeth. “Looking and understanding and– letting me have it, like–”

He can’t fully say it, Haruki doesn’t allow him, shuts it down with a sharp, “Are you my therapist? You’re my therapist now? Fuck off, shut up, be quiet for just a fucking a minute, will you?”

Hanjae withers. From a place inside him, he recalls, he had hoped. He had cultivated hope the size of a grain of sand that maybe, just maybe, the hesitation ment care – that perhaps Haruki liked him, and didn’t know what to do about it, how to go about it. A nice piece of fiction to cling to. But no. It’s clear now: no.

“I really don’t want to pressure you,” Hanjae says, and tries to make his voice louder as the phrase goes on, less miserable, but fails at it.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, Hanjae, I understand korean, I understand what you’re saying, I’m not fucking stupid–”

“I didn’t say– I didn’t say you are,” Hanjae tries to reason, but all the sound gets drowned out; there’s only Haruki talking quickly, loudly.

“–So you can stop repeating all these good phrases now, these made up phrases. No one speaks like that. In the real world, no one says that–”

“I mean it.”

“–You’re not pressuring me, Hanjae, trust me, you can’t do that, no one– There’s no pressure, or urgency, or anything. I don’t feel any of that coming from you, so,” Haruki flashes him a smile, thin, ironic, sharp. It looks like something that would be carved out with a pocket knife somewhere.

“Then why,” Hanjae breaths. “Why don’t we end this here? Can we end this here?”

“Again?” Haruki asks, with a laugh. It’s a mean sounding one. “Are you serious?”

“No,” Hanjae says, and swallows. “All of it.”

He almost regrets saying it, given how hard Haruki’s face crumbles. It takes a full minute for him to recover, and Hanjae watches him try to piece an expression back together until he can no longer look.

“Bullshit,” he hears Haruki say, and then again, “Bullshit. C’mon, just. Give me a minute, alright?”

He moves very close, very soon, back on the bed. Their knees are touching again, and they both feel icy.

Haruki says, “I can do better, I promise,” and there’s a hint of a plea there. Hanjae hates to catch it.

“Haruki, it’s okay. It’s okay–”

“No, just, if you just,” His hands hover over Hanjae’s chest, unfocused, trying to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. “I can do this, I can, really, if you just try to be more horrible, if you– if you force me, then–” and Haruki shuts his mouth very tight, looks down at the tangle of sheets between them, about to fall off the mattress.

Hanjae at him once and again, forces his eyes to stay open even though. He takes hold of both of Haruki’s wrists feather light, puts them away from him, pushes them to be on Haruki’s own chest. They fall limply on his sides once he lets go.

“Haruki,” Hanjae begins to say, and then stops, has no idea how to proceed. He puts his hands on his forehead, digging. He presses the heel of them over his eyes, hard. “I’m not… I’m not going to do that to you. I don’t want to do that, so can we not? Please? Can we not?”

He takes his hands off his face to try to look him in the eyes, to tell him with them to: I’m not doing that.

Haruki stags up, seems to tense from the heel off his feet to the top of his head. “This is so– awful, awful. What is it, your face is– It looks so–”

Hanjae takes notice of his frown, his quirked down mouth, his eyes – watery, blinking. It’s a sad face, an about-to-burst-into-tears face.

“I can’t stand this, I’m not– Not going to stand here, and be looked at like–” Haruki swallows dry, goes back into motion; picks his shirt back up from the floor, puts it on in a hurry. “I’m going to the pool. I’ll be in the pool, away from you. The whole trip, away from you.”

He stops abruptly at the door, a shaky hand on the handle. Haruki says without looking back at him, exasperated, “You’re gonna let me walk out? I’m leaving, I’m walking out.”

Hanjae says nothing, and experiences what might be the heaviest silence of his life. He feels it from within, taking the form of a bone crushing pressure.

Haruki is even quiet when he leaves, making the door fall shut with almost no sound; a complete dissonance.

June 2nd and 3rd, 2022.

Hanjae lays down, once he’s alone. He spends the rest of the day checking the door, checking his phone – a wild expectation followed by nothing, nothing, except for a tense engulfment of sleep.

Summer comes and Hanjae sees more rain clouds then he sees of just Haruki. It’s voluntary and it isn’t; they’re both avoiding each other.

But promotions are not done, yet, so it’s not as intense as it could be. Just yesterday they got sorted out to film a Heart To Heart episode, and had to scrap it midway because it was heavy, horrible, quiet. Their prompt was: Beach, and they couldn’t hold even a one minute conversation about it.

He got an email from Seo CEO in the morning: ‘Let’s all keep a serene work environment free of misunderstandings and intrigue’, he wrote, underlined and in bold.

Hanjae presses the cold bottle of energy drink against his face, the back of his neck – pure sweat after filming another music show performance. He’s by the vending machine, catching some air, seeing Idols come and go, staff hushing from one side to the other. Some of them bow their heads at him, and Hanjae greets them back with an enthusiasm he knows falls short.

There’s a small commotion in front of their dressing room when he gets there, and he could spot it from a distance. A girl group or at very least a group of around twelve girls, Beomseok and Seungsoo supporting their exposed arms on the doorframe when they talk to them, smiles warm and easy, so he knows exactly what it's all about.

Haruki’s the odd one out, in the middle of them, the center of all attention. He’s always been popular in the hallways, no stranger to little pieces of paper sneaked into his cafeteria orders, someone coming up to him and asking if they can take a selfie, if he’s got a minute – he’s known for dismissing all requests politely.

Hanjae tries to walk by them meekly, without touching anyone, just muttering polite ‘Excuse me’s until he’s allowed through; he isn’t allowed through. Haruki’s got one warm over his shoulder before he can get even a foot inside, before he can even process how, locking him in a clumsy armlock, turning him around, pushing him close.

“And what about him?” He asks the girls, and he’s close enough to press his cheek against Hanjae’s; they’re the exact same height, and their bones fall perfectly aligned. Someone laughs about it, someone woos. “What do we think of him?”

A girl, the closest to them, wearing the sparkliest makeup Hanjae’s ever seen says, joking, “Oh, him? Hmmmmmm, let’s see…”

At his back, Hanjae feels a lingering over and soon can hear Dylan say, a sharp whisper, “Haruki, stop that. Stop.”

Haruki ignores him. His hold on Hanjae’s neck gets tighter, turns into an one armed hug. “Hanjae’s very very shy, but he’s also very very nice. A proper gentleman.”

“Really?” Another girl asks – long curled hair, jet black, dimples showing. “I thought all gentlemen had gone extinct.”

“Noona, so did I! But not Hanjae. He’s proper old school.”

“If that’s true, then he’s cute,” she says, and comes boldly forward to pinch Hanjae’s cheek. Haruki watches her do so with an enthusiastic nod of approval, and Hanjae can feel his sharp sideways grin form in real time. “It makes him the cutest out of all of you.”

“It’s all true, trust me, trust me. He is the cutest out of all of us, yes. Can you believe he’s single? I think it’s so sad, how single he is, how alone he is all the time, always too lonely. We should solve that, no?”

The girl smiles back at him – amused, having fun, flirting with Hanjae, with Haruki, with the two of them at once in front of everyone when she says, “We really should.”

Around them, everyone’s gone into a frenzy over the situation. Seungsoo is slapping Haruki on his free shoulder, screeching ‘You’re so crazy today, Haruki, what’s gotten into you, you crazy man!’, and Hanjae can’t tell if he’s breathing. Then he can feel his lungs moving and nothing else. There’s a small turmoil under them, right where his heart should be, an agitation – fight or flight, and he fails both. He freezes, throat tight and dry.

And then: the enerved click of Junghwa’s heeled shoes, her voice loud when she says, exasperated, “No, no no no, out, out, out! All of you girls out of here right now, what is this?! Where are your managers?!”

The girls scatter in a hurry, all waving goodbye and giggling. Seungsoo puts his hand on his heart and makes a show out of sighing, looking sad, makes a couple of them laugh louder.

Door shut, Junghwa slaps him and Beomseok naked arms with her papers, half joking, half actually slapping them. “I leave for five minutes! Five minutes! What is wrong with you men!”

“We were filming Tiktoks! Innocent little Tiktoks!” Seungsoo says, but he’s laughing, proudly taking his beating. Beomseok simply steps out of her reach, shrugging.

Junghwa stags when she’s in front of Haruki, papers down. She looks for a long moment at his face, searching for something and Hanjae knows what it is: a sign of winter coming earlier.

She’s gentle with him in a different, more impersonal way. He’s the only one out of all of them Junghwa doesn’t call by the first name; she doesn’t use ‘kid’ or ‘boy’ or ‘son’ either.

‘Fukunaga-ssi’ is what she says now, asking if they can have a word in private, and Haruki complies, follows her out, mute.

Hanjae slides his earphones in and tries to not watch them – doesn’t want to look him in the eyes, and thinks he means it forever, feels like it’s a vow being made.

Everyone’s getting more or less undressed by the time he looks up again, falling back into their usual clothes, and the small glimpses of everyone’s torsos at the corner of his eyes are depressing, being back an old discomfort. He sinks into his seat, blinks something off his eyes, looks at the floor. Counts to ten, scratches at his marked hand.

Jiahang comes to sit by his side, gingerly tapping his face with a makeup wipe, a question on his frowned brow, a deep concern. He’s wearing one of Minwoo’s ancient black hoodies, the one with the falling apart NASA logo that fits him too short at the arms.

Hanjae has no idea why his mouth tastes so sour, seeing it; why the next breath he takes through his nose is so sharp.

Junghwa and Haruki come back soon enough, and he and Hanjae are the only ones left to change. She hurries everyone else out, says, “Boys, grab your things– and make sure you have all your things, please– Yes, Kim Haegon, I am talking directly to you, kiddo.”

In a blink there’s only a fan in a corner, making noise, and Haruki in pristine white performance clothes in front of Hanjae, wearing an overshirt with a cascade of thin chains on the back.

“We’re alone,” he says, suddenly, while staring at the floor. “If you want to you can–”

Hanjae stands quickly up, puts a wall and a door between them, turns the lock shut in the small bathroom attached to the room. He’s only sharing space with a shitter and a sink, a little mirror, and he doesn’t want to see even an inch of himself in it.

When he steps out, jeans and an white shirt, Haruki’s gone. His stage jacket lies abandoned on the floor, a tear on the shoulder, a loose chain on the opposite side of the room.

Hanjae staggers at the door, and sees himself walking back to pick it up without thinking. He’s very cautious when he folds it, very gentle when he tucks it under one arm.

[...]

On the ride home Hanjae lingers on the backseat, blearing some song loud enough to not think – pure instrumental, a booming bass.

When they stop in front of the dorm, he stays planted where he is; unties his seatbelt and then thinks better of it, clicks it back shut.

“I’ll go to the company,” he tells no one, just says it out loud, and no one bothers to object. He rides with Junghwa to the New Wave building, even quieter, almost one with the silence.

He doesn’t give her a chance to speak to him when they park, just hops off and goes straight through the reception to practice room #A2, the one with a bunch of old instruments tucked into the lockers, mostly hand-me-downs, some of them broke beyond repair.

He’s aiming for the one drum kit that’s probably around the same age Hanjae is, nothing fancy: it was some staff's son's, someone else’s teenage dream, and he said Hanjae could have it – it’s what his kid would want. It has million pieces of old stickers glued on it and Hanjae never felt like fully peeling them out.

His mind gets lost in the long choreography of setting it up piece by piece. When he finally sits behind the seat, his hands move on their own, just making noise.

And then he finds his way into a rock song through muscle memory. By the end of it, Haruki is a long silhouette in the corner of his eyes, dressed from head to toe in funeral black, and Hanjae almost loses the hold he has on his sticks.

Hanjae’s sweatier than before, breathing slightly through his mouth, still upset with him.

Haruki has a very firm walk when he comes deeper into the room. He stands a paper out in front of Hanjae, his face turned away.

“Phone number,” he explains, waving it even closer to Hanjae like a treat, a gift. “From the girl, earlier. The one that liked you.”

Hanjae lowers his drumsticks as he stares at it, letting his hands fall to his tights. He has no idea what his face is doing, but he knows that if he says I don’t want it, that won’t be all that he’ll say. He might cry; he might fail himself and cry from exhaustion, maybe. Probably something worse, uglier.

“It’s better if you start seeing someone, now. Really seeing someone. This whole thing, it’s so much bullshit. It’s bullshit, Hanjae, it’s like you said. So let’s end this here, like you asked,” Haruki says, and when Hanjae doesn’t move to take up his offer he shoves it in his pocket, walks away, goes to one of the side bars. He puts an extended leg there, a perfect stretch, as he keeps up, carrying an echo: “We’re not compatible, anyway. There was never anything really happening.”

Hanjae’s acting before he knows it. He puts the sticks on their case, tries to get the zipper shut with a hard push that doesn’t do anything. He tries again, harder, and the dent gets stuck on fabric, almost breaks.

“So don’t get sad, Hanhan,” Haruki concludes, turning around, crossing his arms in front of his chest, and his posture is perfect, fully straightened out – a wall again. “It’ll make me upset.”

Hanjae looks at him, as straight in the eyes as he can from a distance – keeps looking even when Haruki dips his chin down, offering only the top of his head.

“It was fun for a day, right? You had one fun day, got your dick sucked,” he says, and he sounds like he’s smiling, like he’s trying to make it sound light, to paint it as something funny. Trying to be intimate, a bit they did. “I don’t mind that we never really– It’s not important to me. I didn’t even want to have sex with you, so– who cares?”

Hanjae closes his eyes tight shut, tries to take a steading inhale. He hears Haruki say, as if from underwater, “But I did want to like you. That week, with all the kissing, all that– I tried to like you. ‘Just didn’t work. Didn’t work.”

“You tried,” Hanjae says, a breath. “You tried to like me.”

From the opposite corner of the room, Haruki puts his face back into view, and the smile he has grows more forced, more visibly sad. It reminds Hanjae of a chalk line drawn on a black board, crooked.

“I told you.”

“What? What did you tell me?”

“Hanjae,” Haruki warns him. “Let’s not make it awkward. I understand you had your ideas, all these expectations–”

“I didn’t. I didn’t have any expectations I didn’t tell you. Everything– I told you. I tried to be honest. At Deh noona’s. That was really all I had to say.”

“Sure,” Haruki says, with a tiny laugh, the hint of a sneer.

‘Sure’. Hanjae’s up from the seat, can’t no longer sit down, can’t barely stand being here.

Haruki keeps eying him like he’s expecting Hanjae to walk straight out of the door, and grows startled when he doesn’t, when he walks near him instead, at half an arm’s distance.

“Why do you think I didn’t mean it? That I was lying?” Hanjae asks the shrunken figure of him. “What sort of person do you think I am? What sort of person do you think being interested in you makes me?”

He’s close enough to see how tightly Haruki’s jaw sets when he looks away, at a nothing point on the far left. His hair falls on his eyes, a curtain. “What sort of question–”

“Every time,” Hanjae speaks over him, and it hurts to do so, because Haruki reacts badly to it, flinching. But someone has to say it; he has to say it, he can’t keep on not saying it. “Every time I wanted to talk to you, hyung, just talk to you, to make sure you were enjoying anything in any way, you looked at me like I disgusted you, like you hated me. Do you hate me? Why? What’s so wrong about all the things, all the things I've done? What’s not correct? I tried being close, and it didn't work. I tried to give you space, and it didn’t work. I still don’t understand, so can you tell me? Can you make it clear to me now?”

Hanjae’s out of air, when he closes his mouth shut. The whole room – sucked out of air.

Very quietly, Haruki says, “I asked for one thing, one thing, and you didn’t do the one thing–”

“You just said– You said you didn’t want to have sex with me. Then why? Why ask? Just because you could? You just asked because you could?”

“Stop,” Haruki tells him, voice rigid. His arms have unfolded and are now holding on to the side bar with all they have. “Stop with the whole why, why, why, just drop it. I’m not saying. Not saying.”

“You can say. I want to listen. I want the answer,” Hanjae says. “I still– I want to be your friend, now. I want you well. To think you’re not– To think you’re hurting, it’s painful. It’s painful.”

“Oh, you’re in pain– You’re in pain, you,” Haruki spits, and laughs, and sniffs, all at once. “Give me a fucking break! Go care about people that care about you, Hanjae, this is so pathetic, everything you always say is– Quit wasting your time with all of this, when you can get a nice girl, someone nice like you and have a nice, normal thing that’s not– Not this. You can choose to not have this, so I don’t understand, I don’t understand why– And you, you won’t understand why, so fuck off, just fuck off! That’s what I want, what I always wanted! For you to fuck off.”

It’s said like an ultimatum, and it sounds harsh enough for Hanjae to feel it more on his chest than on his ears. He tries to take another look at his face, to match the tone to an expression, but can’t – Haruki won’t let him, and Hanaje won’t insist. It’s not his place to insist, and it’s been made clear now.

He leaves him alone, carrying himself very tightly out the door, out the corridor, out the entryway.

Out on the outside world, it’s already close to being night, and Hanjae takes in the stale air, looking up. He sits on the New Wave front steps despite himself, and the concrete’s warmth is a faint discomfort about to leave him.

The drum was still set there, in the room. Hanjae had wanted it, and promised to care for it, and still: left it there. He’ll have to go back for it, be back and fix it, put it back in place.

He should clean it first, and the floor, maybe the mirrors – not all, just some of them, the ones that look worse. Everything that looks bad, everything not quite right.

When he walks back into the practice room, there’s no sound, no lights on, and Haruki is no longer anywhere to be found.

The drum set is back on the case, compact inside the locker, exactly where it should be, exactly what it should be – as if it had never been touched at all.

[…]

Food tastes bland during dinner, and Hanjae doesn’t have it in him to pretend to have an appetite for Taesong’s sake.

He's been testing out recipes lately. He wants to impress his mother in law because he knows he wants to marry Yunhee, now. Not even two years together and he knows he wants to be with her forever, is sure that it’s mutual, it’s certain they’re in love.

He wants to show it to everyone; he gets to show it to everyone.

“Are you okay, Hanjae?” Taesong asks, over and over again – at the dinner table, on the couch during a drama commercial break, while they’re sharing space in front of the bathroom sink, brushing their teeth.

And each time Hanjae answers “Yes”, a tight “Yes”, and none of them sounds convincing enough, not even one of them he can get right.

Later, in his room: Seungsoo out, Minwoo out, and Hanjae all alone. Typical. Routine. Things as they’ve always been; as they’ve never stopped being, not even once. Haruki’s voice rings on his head when he lays it on the pillow: so alone, all the time, so sad, all lonely.

He checks the time on his phone: 8:03PM. Too early. Hanjae drops it, closes his eyes for a long time, checks it again: 8:16PM, and the pop up notification of receiving two messages from Dylan six minutes ago.

[dylari]: r things w/ haruki done?

[dylari]: plz answer quick

[You]: What do you mean?

[dylari]: idk how else to read this

Chihoon sends him a cropped screenshot showing a single lengthy Kakao message. ‘i don t know whyy is so hard’, the first line reads, ‘f or anyone ti just on ce do what i avsk and n ot sometind ellse like hsnaje he is sp–’

Hanjae stops reading it. He enters his phone’s gallery and deletes it, goes back to the chat and Dylan’s text now shows up as a blurry gray square, only says ‘media not found’.

[You]: Did he send you this?

[dylari]: yeah

[dylari]: our chat is his diary ig

[dylari]: when talking irl gets hard he blows my phone

[dylari]: i thought you knew

[You]: I didnt know

[You]: Sorry to hear you have to deal with that

There’s a long pause from Dylan’s side. When he resumes typing, Hanjae has long deleted both messages, regretted them – is sitting up on the bed with a hand on his face, a hard press, and regretting that too.

[dylari]: dude i dont mind knowing

[dylari]: look dont worry hanjae this is fine

[dylari]: im his roomie im on it i can take care of this

[dylari]: ill keep an eye on him now

[dylari]: im sure you tried your best your own way so thank you

[dylari]: telling you that now because he wont say it even if he wants to say it he wont so let me do that for you

[dylari]: good job

[dylari]: go breath

Hanjae falls asleep with his phone held tight, tight to his chest: 11:49 PM. He dreams of it ringing, ringing, ringing, and not being surprised, just being afraid.

[...]

It’s way past 1AM when Hanjae’s mattress sinks to the weight of Haruki sitting at the far end corner, some few inches away from his feet.

He had heard him unlock the door and come in, Seungsoo with him, making the most amount of noise – slurring more than singing some old pop ballad.

Minwoo had jumped awake out of bed, angry; threw a pillow at them, and then a shoe, told them both to fuck off, and disappeared.

Seungsoo began snoring as soon as his body hit the bed, loudly, which only happens when he’s exhausted; they must have danced all night, must have club hopped all night, trying to be too shifty to get caught.

Haruki stayed for a long moment in the middle of the room after tucking him in, silent. And then he sat there, in Hanjae’s bed, not moving, not breathing, Hanjae even thought, until he took a long inhale through his nose just now.

Hanjae won’t look; he can’t look at him. He promised he wouldn’t.

“I’m gonna leave you alone, now,” Haruki tells him – tells him directly, because Hanjae can almost make out the shape of his stare on his back, right at the shoulder. He bit very close to there once and meant nothing by it, thought nothing of it. “You’ll never have to talk to me when we are away from a camera, Hanjae. I promise. You’re gonna look around and I’m not gonna be there. Not an inch of me. I’m not gonna be there.”

He sounds so clear when he says it – slow, but still sober in a way Hanjae doesn’t hear from him much. He keeps on looking ahead into the dark, a hand gripping this pillow; his eyes won’t close.

Haruki swallows, resumes: “The thing is, you’re too nice, Hanjae, so, so nice, you’ve been so nice, so it’s not– It’s not you, it’s not. It’s me. I can’t– I can’t have that. Doesn’t work. I know it, for a long time. So with you, I was just… Lying. To you, not to me. I know that’s wrong, and I know what’s wrong and I just, still– I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Hanjae, I’m sorry, I shouldn't have– I’m sorry. I’ll stop. I’ll stop, I promise, I’ll stop. I’ll stop everything, everything, so don’t cry, alright? Why are you crying? Don’t do that– Over me? Don’t do that. I’m sorry. Don’t cry, Hanjae, don’t cry, please, I’m sorry, I’m very sorry, I– I didn’t want to make you cry. I didn’t want–”

September 26th, 2023.

He can see Haruki clearly now, the stark shape of him. He’s still wearing the outfit intended for the airport – a sleeveless designer shirt, blue overcoat, and a wine purple trouser with an abstract David Bowie painted on the right leg.

Hanjae observes him from a small distance, catching his breath. He had run there, trying the piece the way back together from memory, growing a little desperate everytime he turned left and it wasn’t the right left; every time he saw an abandoned lot and it wasn’t the right lot.

But he was the one to find him in the end, sitting right on the floor, tense but not so small. He has a moment now to think of the right thing to say.

Hanjae wants to go with the essential: your sister’s at home, she’s looking for you, she wants to know you’re well. As does everyone; as does everything.

He opens his mouth: can’t make it. Opens his mouth again and takes another breath, a hissy breath, through the teeth.

Hanjae isn’t looking at the ground, this time, as he walks forward; he steps over a twig and it breaks loudly in half, disrupts his equilibrium lightly, and Haruki takes a slow look behind his shoulders. Their eyes meet then – and Haruki’s have grown tiny on his face, swollen. They quickly look down, at himself, to the ground.

“Someone found my spot,” he says hoarsely, with a single laugh. He picks one of the bottle pieces on the floor near him, raw glass, and throws it down the hill. It doesn’t make a sound. Hanjae keeps waiting for the glass to break and make a sound, and doesn’t hear it, never hears it. “They got rid of all my chairs– that sucks. That just sucks.”

It’s been a long, long year – 2023, that is. The oddest one yet, their busiest. Hanjae’s half an actor now, goes to TV and gives magazine interviews alone now, and Haruki models often, editorials and campaigns and a whole outdoor, once.

Hanjae squats near him, some inches behind; he’s still scared of how big the drop is. He waits, and waits, and waits more.

Haruki leans a bit on his back, tells him, “You can see his house from here. That's why I liked it, it’s why I came.”

Hanjae squints, looks ahead, trying to spot it even though he has no idea what to look for. He’s never been to Choi Sangwon’s. He knows some of the others have, back when they were Boy Of The Week trainees. Their reports were mixed: he had a big pitbull, a bathroom wall painted in a horrible shade of red, and all the carpets somehow smelled like they were brand new, like no one ever stepped on them.

Haruki laughs, meek, and points ahead; right at the only house with no light coming from the windows, empty.

“That one,” he says. “I had a key copy, front and back door. I had a floor mattress, mine. I got clothes there, still– mostly underwear, sleep clothes. And my favorite necklace pin, family heirloom, in a drawer, there.”

Hanjae gulps something acid down his throat. “I see,” he says. “I– I see it.”

Haruki turns his whole face at him, suddenly. Looks sad, and tries to not appear sad, smiles. All white teeth. “Are you happy, Hanhan? Like, ever? Are you well, most of the time? Is your girlfriend nice to you, lately? You’re so busy now. With your dramas and all. I hope she understands. I hope she’s watching them, that she likes to see you on them.”

“I’m well, hyung. I’m– Yoora and I, we–,” Hanjae swallows again, dry. The raw truth is: happiness creeps up on him and it’s a battle to let it linger, when he looks around himself. He tries to start over, tries to sound firmer. “And you?”

“Pfff. What do you think? I know you saw the whole,” Haruki makes a hand motion – mimics an explosion, a disaster. “I heard you. Through everything. And thank you, by the way, for not bringing an army with you. For not acting like I’m a princess– Like I’m a runaway princess.”

Hanjae nods, uses that to say ‘you’re welcome’, and doesn’t mean it much. He should have brought an army with him. Or just his sister maybe, whom Haruki adores; avoids but adores.

Hanjae clears his throat, says, “Furumi’s at home. She wants to see you– talk to you.”

Haruki lets out an airy laugh. “Right. The baby.”

“You asked,” Hanjae reminds him.

“I know,” Haruki says, and turns his face upfront; looks at the drop, looks at the house. “I know I asked.”

“Hyung,” Hanjae says. “Can you tell me what happened?”

He sees Haruki run a hand over his face, up his hair, leave it there. He soothes himself before he speaks, a whole damn breaking sort of thing;

“It was so– I was checking on what Monica sent me to wear at the airport, and when I saw Bowie my first thought somehow was, did my boyfriend get a funeral? He was afraid of that. Of dying without a ceremony. His only real fear, I think, the only fear I figured out,” Haruki trails off, for a moment; seems to dive deep into a memory, takes a moment more. He comes back with a sneer. “Why the fuck Bowie? He didn’t like old music, didn’t like rock. Nothing connects– it’s just two dead people, that’s all, that’s it. And Chihoon was right there, right behind me, but for a moment– For a moment, it didn’t look like it was him. It looked like, from this one angle– Fuck, I can’t even say his full name, now. My first boyfriend, a name I can’t say. How sad. How very sad…”

He sounds like he’s giving Hanjae a cue to laugh. Hanjae doesn’t, wouldn’t be able to remember how to do so even if he tried.

Haruki says, “The thing is– The thing is, he made himself my life and then he died. He chose to die, picked a date and a place to die, and I can’t grieve, I shouldn’t want to grieve because it would be insane to feel– When I know he didn’t love me. He didn’t even fucking like me, treated that fucking dog better– Liked the dog better. It could kill me off, and he would say it was my fault. Everything about me made him so angry, all the time, all the time so angry when we were in private. My age, my face, my name, my accent. Everything. And everyone knows now. They all know, because I had to say– Because I can’t get a hold of it, lately. It’s always very cold in the winter, I always felt it, but now it’s the whole year. I feel very– very sad, cold, all year.”

“But they want this so bad, Hanjae,” Haruki tells him, quieter, holding in tears. “All of them. It’s not like you and me. We just landed here. To dance. To act. They live and breathe this thing, this Idol group thing, and it hit me then– It hit me that I can’t be like them, our members. That’s why I panicked, that’s why I couldn’t go to Fashion Week, why I had to come back here. I can’t do it like everyone else does it because it’s never been the same, my career– I don’t think I deserve these things. I didn’t even want them. I was in college, I came here to be in college. I wanted to dance, just dance, like my grandmother did– I wanted to do something for her memory, I wanted to be something she would be proud of, something anyone– anyone would look at and be proud of, and now no one fucking talks to me, anymore, my family doesn’t talk to me. I don’t know my mom’s new phone number– he didn’t even let me keep my mom’s new phone number. ‘Said I didn’t need it, said it didn’t matter.”

“I wish, back then–” Hanjae says, barely feeling his tongue moving. “That I did more. Anything.”

“You really wish that, don’t you? You mean it,” Haruki sounds like he’s marveling at it, that is a truly remarkable thing that Hanjae has said something and meant it. “You’re the nicest guy I’ve ever been with, Hanjae, really. The coolest, too. While I’m the worst one, right? Worst person you’ve ever been with. By miles. You can’t– Never again. No one like me. Never again.”

“Not like him again,” Hanjae tells him. “For you, not like him again.”

Haruki shows him an even sadder face, more wobbly, and shrugs. Just shrugs, looks away.

“I think no one,” he says, with a firm nod. “No one is better. It feels fitting to let that die, too. If I can’t get it right.”

“That’s not true,” Hanjae says, more with his clenched teeth than with his voice. “Not true. It’s not– Not better.”

“Oh, you don’t think so?” Haruki asks, and it’s just words. Just words being said to fill in silence, to cover up a strong sniff.

Hanjae can feel it again; the sharp line of disconnection rising, cutting the air in half, and he still doesn’t know how to stop it. He doesn’t know how to reach him.

He tries; he has to try. Hanjae licks his lips, forces some sound out of his throat: “You know– Haruki, you know, that all of us, everyone, will listen to anything you have to say. All the time.”

“I know that? Do I? And anything? That’s big. That’s really big. You shouldn’t let anyone say anything– no one should have to listen to just anything. Look at Chihoon now, Jiahang now. What good did knowing everything do?”

Hanjae’s at loss of words again, breathing around a lump on the middle of his throat. He’s too bad at this, too tired to think – just off a long action shoot. He still has his outside mask shoved into his jeans back pocket.

Somewhere in the distance, he can hear a dog haul; a coded hymn to the moon, maybe. Something about wanting life to stay still, wait a little longer. And then silence, a defeating one. A shuffling coming from Haruki in front of him.

“Can you, we– Ah, it’s so,” Haruki begins to say, shaking his head. “Can you hug me? If it’s not too hard or– bad for you. Just one time.”

Hanjae’s up on his feet before he’s even done talking. He stands his hand out, a timid invitation, and Haruki takes it, allowing Hanjae to help him up.

Haruki lays his forehead on his shoulder and stays there, being hugged, fully still until he takes a big shuddering breath. His arms stay glued to his sides, limp.

“I’ve never really– I never did just this,” he tells Hanjae; a shaky whisper, an old time secret. “It’s never been just this, before.”

Hanjae turns his face to the side and away so he can suck in air, so he can close his eyes shut, for a moment. He can’t think too much about it now. He taps at Haruki’s shoulder blades warmly, like a dad or a coach would – pat, pat, pat.

It gets an airy laugh out of him, a long and disbelieved one. “Bro hug!” Haruki exclaims when he steps away, whipping at his running nose, “You just gave me a bro hug. It’s really over now. We’re never going to fuck now. All that, over. What are we, if we’re bro hugging?”

“We’re a team. We’re friends,” Hanjae says, and thinks; you said so right here, once.

Haruki’s face makes too many things at once, hearing it. He looks down at himself again, accessing all the damage done to Monica Imano’s design. Bowie’s face has turned red with dust, and it looks even more smudged.

“VIANFINO is going to fire me,” he concludes with a dry chuckle. “They told me one more slip– the sponsoring, over.”

Hanjae bats an idle leaf off his shoulder and for once Haruki doesn’t flinch out of reach. He tries to give him a truthful close mouthed smile.

“Leave it to me– Leave them all with me,” Hanjae says, and leaves his hand there, a firm hold on him. “I’ll wash them.”

#&& ⠀ [ . . . ] hound on a hunt ⠀⸻ writing .#&& ⠀ [ . . . ] hound on a hunt ⠀⸻ haruki .#&& ⠀ [ . . . ] hound on a hunt ⠀⸻ hanjae .#&& ⠀ [ . . . ] hound on a hunt ⠀⸻ dylan .#fictional idol community #fake kpop group #kpop fanfic #kpop au #kpop oc #(maybe the Hanruki sex scene was the friends we made along the way?)

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omegasamwilson · 3 months ago

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Racism, Sleep, T*mmy, and the 9-1-1 Writers’ Room

Or why I hate how the 9-1-1 writers wrote Hen and T*mmy

TW: discussion of racial abuse in the workplace, particularly firefighting and the military, and PTSD from racial trauma

No because no one in the 9-1-1 writer’s room has actually faced the sort of racism that they put Hen and Chimney through in their Begins episodes and it shows.

So, fun fact about me, when I first watched 9-1-1 in May 2023, I skipped Hen and Chimney begins because that sort of racism in the workforce is so absolutely triggering for me that I didn’t want to watch them. I looked up the summary on Google, had my fears about the racism, misogyny, and homophobia confirmed and didn’t watch them. Eventually, with the emotional support of a friend of mine and the physical presence/support of my sister, I gritted my teeth through both episodes and HOLY FUCK!

I don’t doubt there are people in the 9-1-1 writer’s room who have experienced racism and other forms of prejudice. I don’t doubt that there are people in that team with lived experience in people causing them serious harm and racial abuse in the workplace.

I’m strongly doubt there is someone in the writer’s room that has been put in Chimney and Hen’s scenario but especially Hen’s.

I cannot stress enough how much horrific and terrifying racial abuse in the workplace becomes when you have to sleep next to the people racially abusing you.

Yes, we have police officers that come forward to talk about their abusive treatment. Yes, there’s EMS and people at Fortune 500 companies and doctors and lawyers and writers who experience racial abuse. But most of them did not have to sleep next to the people perpetuating their racial harm every shift. None of them have had to eat meals prepared by them every time they go to work. None of them have to trust the people racially abusing them with saving their lives in a situation where they could just as easily say it was “impossible” to save them (yes police sometimes but not at the frequency of firefighters). Most people in situations where they are being racially abused do not have to worry their colleagues will leave them to die.

There is a reason why firefighters are the least diverse racially and gender wise out of police, EMS, and the military, and it’s because of the elements where there is so much more proximity for serious, serious harm that makes joining up terrifying. Theres a reason most fire departments cluster marginalized group of people because it’s a safety issue. It’s an issue that marginalized folks in this situation are safer in groups than alone. Because the prejudice is unlike most workplace racial harm.

The best comparison I can give to being racially abused as a firefighter is when folks in the military experience racial abuse in boot camp/basic training. My dad experienced it in 1995 and in 2020, when he drove with my sister to her new house and they passed by the city he went to basic training in, my sister watched his head seem to take flight from his body as he talked about the racism and the fear. Twenty five years and four combat tours in the “war on terror”, and even being in the same city as the one he faced racist abuse in brought his body and brain to a screeching halt. Basic training was one of the most traumatizing things he’d been through in the military, because of racist leadership, because of racist fellow recruits, because of the people that did nothing because they weren’t allowed to. Because he had to sleep there, sleep amongst people that he was terrified of.

But back to firefighters, that fear is real and visceral. When you are forced to sleep next to the people that hate you, that wish you harm and pain. You have to sleep next to them when you know that if they hurt you, unless it’s serious, they won’t face consequences.

Go look up Raheem Hassan, the Muslim firefighter who sued the fire department of NYC and what his colleagues did to him while he slept and how the department responded to it.

I know everyone says that “there’s a reason no one’s says F the firefighters!” And that reason is because firefighters tend to turn all their racist harm on their colleagues. And when it’s bad, it’s bad.

There is a reason why most firefighters who complain about discrimination in their department have already transferred or end up transferring. When firefighters finally get to the point where they complain to the department or the city about their workplace, it’s not because it’s gotten mean or cruel or hostile, it’s because it’s gotten unsafe.

Because mean/cruel/hostile is the rule not the exception.

So watching Chimney and Hen Begins where they both, but Hen especially, experience the racism that makes their workplace unsafe, that should make them afraid to sleep, to bring their lunches from home, lock them in their lockers, and not let them out of their sight (because guess what? Firefighters have poisoned colleagues in these situations), makes them question their own personhood, and them seeming not to have lasting consequences from it? As though racial trauma of that magnitude wouldn’t cause PTSD and hypervigilance? As thought it wouldn’t cause skepticism of new firefighters and distance from every firefighter that did nothing but sit there as it happened for months?? Especially for Hen??? (Because anti-Blackness and especially misogynoir present themselves so differently in terrifying ways from other forms of prejudice.)

9-1-1 loves writing their actions without consequences or not thinking through the consequences.

The writers could sell me on Chimney forgiving Tommy, mostly because Chimney’s early experience was different. But Hen? Not only forgiving him and working alongside him? But inviting Tommy into her personal social life? Nope. No way. For nothing else than for the fact that I don’t know a single Black woman that is going to invite someone with that level of questionable safety into their personal life. There is no one, not a single person, that both perpetuated racial harm and sat there without saying a word while I was racially abused, that I’m inviting into my life for funsies. It is also out of character for who they portray Hen as, which makes it more confusing.

Even if Hen trusted him as a colleague, it is absurd to me that the writers think this would translate to Hen welcoming Tommy into her life outside of work or even being friendly outside of the settings where she’s required to. It doesn’t matter if he’s changed. Not only has he not actually demonstrated that change on screen (sorry y’all but yt gays can be horribly racist too.) We don’t get an on screen acknowledgment or apology.

And again, when you’ve experienced that level of racism in an environment where these people could seriously harm you or unalive you and likely face zero consequences, there’s no way you’re risking inviting someone that both sat there while it happened and participated in it into your personal lives. And holy fuck if your friend started dating them knowing what they did, you’d be having words.

The experiences you have when you’re experiencing racial abuse from people you have to sleep next to and eat meals with will imbed themselves in your psyche for years to come. Your heart will race try to fall asleep at work for decades afterward. You will question every meal prepared by a colleague, even when you trust them. You will regard new colleagues with suspicion. You will take naps in common areas. You sleep will rearrange itself to awaken you at the slightest sound and not because you need to be up for calls. It will take years to lose that hypervigilance, years that will not be undone in just a moment, when the big bad is fired, when the old guard leaves for new positions. In 24 years, when your kid asks you what that experience was like, your brain will disappear and your body will go respond m. You will still remember the faces and names of the ones who stayed silent (or took months to come forward) just as well as the perpetrators.

And you certainly would never consider inviting them to dinner.

#911 abc #911 fox #racism #misogynoir #hen wilson #chimney han #fandom racism #t has thoughts #i’m just tired #forgiving racists is for stereotypes and snide comments not for those that made you fear for your life and safety

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burnersideblogjustincase-ies · 1 year ago

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MY TIME HAS COME. IVE BEEN HERE TOO LONG AND SEEN TOO MUCH. Most of the hate I see Jess and Jason get publicly is for bad writing choices, but. Uh. THINGS RUN MUCH DEEPER THAN THAT! Here's a big compilation, of both serious and less serious things, that people have gripes with Jess and Jason for.

Disclaimer: A lot of this stuff is sourced from twitter, which I do not use. I am a MCD fan and have been here since MCD Season 1, I also am not a Mystreet/modern content fan. There could be stuff/context I'm missing for some things. I'm trying to keep this post to stuff I can provide links/sources for, in order to prevent that.

Tw for discussions of homophobia, racism, abusive workplace, uncomfortable IRL age-gaps, fatphobia, and depictions of abuse and incest. This post is long, be warned.

Homophobia:

Jessica is a fetishist of gay/mlm relationships. I feel this is pretty visible through her actions as a whole, but in case you don't believe me, here's her tweeting about being a Septiplier fan.

(Ship between Jacksepticeye and Markiplier. Yes. She really tweeted this. https://twitter.com/_Aphmau_/status/748004225305677828)

And this.

And the video she did where she publicly supported the "ship" of her IRL employees/coworkers (Mithzan and YourPalRoss), which she then publicly reblogged a clip of to her tumblr here: https://www.tumblr.com/aphmau/142601660059/mithross-ahaha-thank-you-so-much-for-this

AND back when they did fanfic readings/reenactments on the channel, one of these videos was devoted to Septiplier.

(This video has since been privated, but you can see someone's... uh.... ""reaction video"" to it? Here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jodpDmeqES0)

Yeah.

This fetishization does leak into the content Jessica creates. Jason himself has confirmed that the way Jess wrote Laurance and Garroth was intentionally written as queerbait.

The person he was replying to is no longer visible, but the tweets are still up here: (https://twitter.com/jasonbravura/status/802295131218984960)

Racism:

Yeah so remember how Jason said that they'd never have someone on the team make the skintones of characters to be lighter. Remember how he said that in those tweets above. Yeah well they did that they absolutely did that. They do it in the official poster merch, in the official music videos, thumbnails, and in the skins/ingame footage as well.

(Lots of the in-game whitewashing seems to be a side-effect of the shaders they are using, as they overexpose the footage and make everything lighter as a result. The difference in skintones is glaringly obvious, and definitely would've been tackled by the team by now if they cared about whitewashing as an issue.)

It took until Season 3 of MCD to have a single black character purposefully placed into the show. He had potential to be more than a side character, but the show was cancelled soon after his introduction. As far as I'm aware, Teony is still the only black character in all of Mystreet/Phoenix Drop High. She is a side character who is not included in the minigames or other modern content. Unless I'm misremembering, she doesn't appear in Mystreet in anything beyond Season 2.

Let's talk about Nana Ashida now. Or as she was known as up until late parts of Mystreet, "Kawaii-Chan." Good news! Jessica and crew realized that having an anime-obsessed neko-girl who works at a maid cafe and loves "shipping" and all things "Kawaii" was offensive, and changed her name as a result. Bad news! They confirmed this character to have Japanese heritage through changing her name, further enforcing every single stereotype she carried and more!

(Though it's not as if there was a very good out for this aside from acknowledging the stereotype, tearing out everything about her character, and rebuilding her from the ground up. Either you make your Japan stereotype Japanese, confirming she's a walking stereotype, or you make your Japan stereotype a white girl, and confirm that she the character is stereotyping Japanese people. Either way, they wrote an offensive stereotype and refuse to fix it, because the stereotype is intrinsically tied to her character, and all that is supposed to be appealing and likable about it.)

Fatphobia:

I don't even know what to say. Here is a roleplay video from 2018, where the sideplot is that Aphmau eats too many hamburgers, causing her to hiss at fruits and vegetables like a feral cat. She goes for a jog with aaron, where she fails miserably until being deceived that there is a... "wild hamburger" in the bushes. The video ends with her bursting into tears over turning down a cookie. Eating and food humor are common in this era of video from the Aphmau channel, and these topics are never handled well.

(https://youtu.be/PnOCMK1i-hQ)

Basically every character who is implied to like food (aside from Nana/Kawaii-Chan, because of course a Japanese stereotype Cutesy Icon™ can't be fat, because being fat is not appealing in the eyes of the writers) is implied to also be both unhealthy and overweight. Three out of Four of the trivia bullet-points for Betty (FCU character) are about her love of food, because she genuinely has no other memorable traits. If I have to tell you what is wrong with this, I can't help you.

(https://aphmau.fandom.com/wiki/Betty_(MyStreet))

Abusive Workplace Allegations:

Back while it was still known as BluJay, Catface Studios was reportedly not a good place to work. Here are some twitter testimonies from ex-employees, ranging from things such as PTSD, to possible legal threats for speaking out about working conditions/experiences. (Some of the text is very small, click through to read better.)

A lot of these tweets are, at this point, deleted. Especially the more negative/accusatory ones. Some of them can still be found online, search for them if you're curious.

(And context for people unaware, _Castr_ aka Castor is the same person as The Chicken Shaman in MCD. He used to work on/be a part of a lot of Jess' old content, and was a writer on various projects for her for a VERY long time. I believe he was involved in the writing of MCD since Season 1, but if anyone has a source on that so I know I'm not misremembering, feel free to let me know. His sudden release was VERY shocking to me personally, seeing as how long he's been a part of Jess and Jason's work.)

Jess and Jason have also pretty iconically had beef with Sebastian Todd, the voice of Laurance. This beef is why Laurance rarely appears in videos, and was written out of Mystreet. I personally don't really care for either of the involved parties, but here's what Mithzan has to say about Sebastian:

Child Labor (???):

I literally don't know how else to describe it. This tweet (and linked google doc) from 2015 is the source of this one:

(This tweet is still up and available at this link by the way: https://twitter.com/_Aphmau_/status/661051379234922497) The bit.ly link (http://bit.ly/1Q10LEA) leads to a google doc (https://docs.google.com/document/d/1yPd1dsY99sOwIl_fITmUryfH4s00zVgiSuwodfcNiK8/edit) describing what a body actor is and where to apply to work as one for Jess. In case you don't feel like clicking links, here's just the "terms and conditions" and all listed requirements:

Yep, that's right, kids as young as 13 were encouraged to apply for this! Or even 12, if your birthday was close enough to the application date. Though it mentions "promotion", there is no payment mentioned or listed anywhere on the document. Presumably promotion is referring to asking for more important jobs, such as writers or voice actors, though I don't know for certain. Despite the mention of "credit given to you as the body actor" I do not remember seeing body actors ever credited on Aphmau videos of this era. (If I'm wrong, feel free to correct me, but I checked a couple MCD S2 episodes that came out a couple months after this, and could only ever find VAs credited.)

I don't know how young anyone who applied or was accepted was, and I don't know what their working conditions were like. I personally doubt anyone accepted was paid for their time at all, though I have nothing to back that up.

(Also, I don't know if that email is still active. And don't plan on testing it. I'd encourage not sending anything, just in case.)

Aggression towards fans:

This is more a point towards Jason specifically, but multiple times he has spoken out very... I don't even know how to phrase it. Agitatedly? Blame-y? Against fans on twitter for seemingly minimal or nonissues.

These are some of my "favorites," and by favorites I mean "I cannot believe a grown man actually said these things to young fans on twitter, for the crime of... wanting to see more non-Aarmau ships with Aphmau ???"

(These tweets are ALSO still up: https://twitter.com/JasonBravura/status/866345911571562496)

I'm sorry, but "whoring Aphmau's character out" is an INSANE thing to say about your literal actual IRL wife.

(Also he went real jokercore this one time I still cannot believe this is real.)

This is less of a serious accusation in comparison to some of the others, but looking at it with the following in mind makes an interesting picture:

Jess and Jason's Relationship:

Hate that I have to make this a bullet point given how fetishistic and weird people online are about celebrities/internet personalities' IRL relationships, but unfortunately this is necessary. The summary is, Aphmau and Aaron's 4 year age gap (Freshman and Senior in highschool) displayed in Phoenix Drop High is based on Jessica and Jason's real life relationship. Here's a better post breaking this down: https://www.tumblr.com/dantes-gf/648264700307668992/jess-and-jason-a-disturbing-dating-history

As of making this post, I believe Jessica's IRL age is 33 and Jason's IRL age is 37. They met before Jessica was 18, seeing as she moved in with him when she turned 18, as stated by Jessica herself in her Draw My Life video. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ekOog6xKDMQ)

TLDR: Assuming the timeframe displayed in PDH is correct, their IRL ages suggest that Jessica was 14 and Jason was 18 when they started dating. This age gap is disturbing for obvious reasons.

Some fans have also found Jason controlling for things like this:

(I don't feel right commenting on this given the whole "This Is An IRL Relationship I Am Not A Part Of, And Thus Will Never Have As Much Insight Into As The People Who Are In It" thing, but here it is regardless. You can make your own judgements on it if you wish.)

Irresponsible Depictions of Abuse/Incest:

Ein is a character. He's certainly a character. If you don't know who he is, he appeared in Mystreet and Phoenix Drop High as a villain who wanted to romantically abuse and manipulate Aphmau. In some cases he succeeded. Towards the end of Mystreet Season 6, he was revealed to be Aphmau's sister. In contrast to his villainous persona in the main-story content, he appeared as friendly, teasing and even flirtatious in the mini-game and non-canon content. Many fans were upset to see him treated as a friendly member of the cast, instead of as the incestual abuser he is in canon.

Around mid-late 2018, many fans on tumblr were vocal about how they found Ein's story and character handled to be upsetting and uncomfortable. A voice actor for the channel (condescendingly) responded that depictions of bad things do not necessarily mean the writer is bad. This post was then reblogged by Aphmau's official tumblr account, without any commentary.(https://www.tumblr.com/aphmau/179882946599/hey-so)

Obviously writing about problematic things does not make you a bad person. You cannot have a story without conflict. What is concerning is writing about this content irresponsibly. Many fans around this time failed to understand that Ein should not be shipped romantically with Aphmau. This behavior was most alarmingly seen by (younger) fans who looked to the out-of-character minigame content of Ein for how he should be treated, and began shipping Aphmau and Ein without understanding the full force of their actions.

(Tumblr) Fans were then concerned about the responsibility involved in displaying this kind of content uncritically to younger audiences, especially since this time was when the mini-game videos became very clearly more aimed towards younger kids. This was Jessica's response, posted on tumblr: (https://www.tumblr.com/aphmau/179945128104/the-audience-of-my-channel)

It touches on the topic, but falsely identifies the main concern of fan backlash of mini-game and overall channel content becoming kid-friendly, instead of the real concern of irresponsibly exposing children to """friendly""" depictions of incest and abuse.

Making funny, silly content of abusers does not successfully condemn an abuser's actions. Making funny, silly content of an incestual relationship does not convey to the audience that the writer sees these actions as wrong. Without knowing that these text posts exist, the average fan would likely never even know they supposedly saw these things as an issue.

Not only has Catface never apologized for this, they later tried to retcon it out of existence:

This post sums it up pretty well. (https://www.tumblr.com/dantedeservedbetter/655931596641353728/oops-this-rant-was-longer-than-i-expected-but)

TLDR: Jessica/Catface has acknowledged that Ein was written to be Aphmau's sister multiple times, including a mini-game video in 2019 that directly referred to them as siblings in the title and thumbnail.

At some point after this comment was made, they changed the video title to be consistent with the "red herring" statement.

To spell it out, after defending their irresponsible portrayal of this abusive and incestual character for years, Catface quietly pretended like it was never an issue and erased all references to his sibling status, so that they did not have to keep trying to explain themselves or apologize.

If you need more proof, check out this tumblr post below where Jessica does not contest Ein's sibling status, which is directly mentioned and discussed in the ask prior! If it really was a red herring, then go on Jessica! Why not correct it here, when the sibling discussion is causing issues all the way back in 2018? That you yourself took credit for writing IN THIS POST! https://www.tumblr.com/aphmau/179877266199/i-think-jasons-a-really-good-guy-but-im-never

I think it's very clear why nothing about this was ever corrected earlier, and it's because they saw it as nothing needing correction. There is no red herring. Just a poorly-handled retcon.

Many characters are given this treatment in canon, where their poor writing was later friendly-ified or excused for little to no reason:

The treatment and attempted "redemption" of Derek, Aaron's abusive father in Phoenix Drop High/Mystreet, is another clear example of this poorly thought-out behavior.

As well as Travis and Katelyn's abusive relationship, which is initially handled seriously, then comically, then swept aside altogether.

As well as Ghost, the undead form of Emmalyn from Minecraft Diaries, who repeatedly forces herself upon Mystreet Zane, because she has confused Mystreet Zane and Minecraft Diaries Zane, and for some reason has also confused Minecraft Diaries Zane, the man who killed her husband... With her husband. Makes sense /s.

As well as.... whatever the hell is going on with Aphmau and Aaron's relationship in Mystreet altogether. Remember that time in Season 4 when Aphmau threw a rock at Aaron after he just got done freezing to death or whatever, because the person that helped him not die... was a girl...... ?????? and she was...... jealous ??????????? so she tried to hit him with a rock??????????????????? was this supposed to be cute??????????????????????????????????

Okay now here's the less serious stuff. Reasons people dont like Jessica and Jason beyond the horrible stuff.

Because the original asker was just asking why people are mad at Jess and Jason, and despite all of the above being very prevalent I mainly see people angry at them for the following:

Bad writing. It comes from both Jess and Jason. Stuff that isn't bad because it's offensive, but because it's just plain bad. In all produced rps, they frequently forget their own lore, characterizations, and write things that just plain make no sense. A lot of people get frustrated with that, understandably.

Stringing fans along. New MCD/Mystreet/Roleplay content is continuously promised and not followed up on. Seasons/series are left unfinished without warning, or rushed to completion in order to throw them in the bin and stop having to write them. Lots of fans have grown tired of hoping for new content for the things they originally followed for. The Aphmau Fantasy Stories channel is inactive for a reason.

Related to above, she mostly just does clickbait-cocomelon-styled videos targeted towards very young children now, which frustrates a lot of old or returning fans looking for more serious content.

Also related to above, retiring or benching main/beloved characters for seemingly no reason. This is most demonstrated by Laurance, but can also be seen in characters like Garroth, Daniel, Lucinda, and Vylad. (One commonality seems to be that this "benching" frequently happens when there are difficulties with employing the voice actor.)

Shipping. Yeah Aarmau is basically the only Aphmau ship featured anymore in all her content, and has been for a while. So people who don't ship that often don't like Jessica, Jason, or their modern content, since the characters are their self-inserts and it's basically their fault.

Content stealing. A lot of her work references other established works, such as making the wyvern dragon language in Minecraft Diaries just being the dragon shout language from Skyrim, taking the titles and sometimes names of the Divine Warriors from mythical figures featured in Final Fantasy, or, most egregiously, stealing the entire Mystreet Season 6 Finale from Fullmetal Alchemist. Yes, they really did do that. In my opinion, some of these seem like simple references to media she enjoys, while some of these (looking at you Mystreet Finale) just feel lazy at best and incredibly deceitful at worst.

The baby voices. All the VAs, including Aphmau, pitch their voices up to sound cartoony now. It's grating.

Jess learned the word "himbo" and now it is Garroth's only personality trait. It's grating.

The Fucklist, or sometimes referred to as The List, is a list Jessica made and posted on her tumblr of characters who, in a less child-friendly version of MCD, would have fucked. The sentence alone is upsetting enough. It's upsetting to read as well. And she didn't even include the canonical Aphmau and Aaron fucking, because it was spoilers at the time. Maybe this doesn't belong here, I don't know if this is the One Reason why a fan has turned on her. But it's probably been the straw that broke some poor camel's back out there.

Some Mystreet fans don't enjoy the more lore-heavy later seasons, and prefer the sillier slice-of-life first couple seasons that the series was originally written with the intention of following.

Similarly to above, some Mystreet fans don't enjoy the MCD crossover lore added late in Mystreet Season 6. Some MCD fans don't enjoy that the series now crosses over with Mystreet.

And more im probably not thinking of at the moment.

You cannot unlearn what you have learned here today.

Sorry.

#jessica bravura #jason bravura #long post #queerbaiting #queerbait #qlsur #racism #racism tw #fatphobia #fatphobia tw #abuse tw #incest tw #age gap tw #all images should have embedded image descriptions. let me know if one is missing and i will fix it.

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ofbrokendreams · 1 year ago

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Everything, Everywhere, All at Once. Part Three

Part three of Everything, Everywhere, All at Once.

Part One

Part Two

Hit up AO3 for the full fic.

TW: cursing, discussions of sex, discussions of abuse, discussions of mental health, discussions of drug use, discussion of suicide, depiction panic attack, pregnancy (let me know if I missed anything)

TEDDY BEARS AND MATRIMONY

Syd’s looking for a new place the next day. Bigger, nicer, two bedrooms, better neighborhood maybe. Close to The Bear but a train ride into work isn’t a problem.

Carmy let’s her do her thing. Just along for the ride at this point. Watching Syd handle this like she does their kitchen is incredible.

She handles this new change in their life and he handles their restaurant. He feels more focused than he ever has. He thought he’d been at the top of his game in New York, with a psychopath (sociopath?) in his ear, but he was wrong. Standing in his own place, plating his own food and Syd’s, working with people who want to be here, who want to create and serve, its different. It’s better and it pushes Carmy to be better. To live up to the way people gravitate to him, listen to him, follow his lead.

They move into their new place (two bedroom, five minute walk from her dad’s) on a Monday. With a bunch of staff helping pack and move and follow the U-Haul. And he’d feel bad about it but they’re a family, and he has some qualms about “we’re a family” workplaces. But as Tina directs the chefs on where stuff goes “Follow Sydney’s labels, puta. It’s so easy.”, Carmy thinks it might be okay. They might just be a family.

And nine months is such a long time.

But it goes by in the blink of an eye.

And he’s never been a huge picture guy but he can’t help it now. Taking pictures of Sydney almost every day. Some of them together. Some of himself, which is…which kills him..but-

He tries not to think about it, not to freak out, not to lose it. But his father fucked off. Her mother is dead. She never got to know her and Sydney’s got pictures and some videos and stories and that’s all. And it’s not enough but it’s all he can do.

So he takes pictures of Syd and himself and of himself usually at The Bear and videos of her too. And sometimes he just talks to his phone, voice memos in his notes app about all the shit in his head that he thinks might be important. That he’d like to know about his dad but doesn’t. Stupid shit like his favorite movie and why and if he has a favorite color and how he met his mom from his perspective.

And he takes pictures of Nat and Richie. Of Uncle Marcus and Aunt Tina and when Sydney’s friends visit he takes pictures of them too. Of the small dinner parties they host sometimes on Monday nights. Of the walk from home to grandpa’s place. Of their family and their life.

He wants to make sure if anything…if anything…their little Teddy Bear has something. Knows their mom and their dad.

It’s such a stupid nickname. Syd says it once, “They’re gonna be just a little teddy bear, Bear, just like you. Fucking softy,” she giggles and Carmy rolls his eyes almost out of his head but it sticks. It fucking sticks.

They decide not to find out the gender and everyone wants something to call the kid and it’s Teddy, sometimes Teddy Bear. And Marcus asks over and over if they’re going to name them Teddy…really?

Its cold, snowing when Syd rolls over one morning, belly getting bigger, Carmy does quick math in his head, badly, and it should be week nineteen he thinks. “We should get married.” Carmy says the second their eyes lock.

Sydney scoffs and rolls back over.

They close four weeks out on a Saturday.

Update their Instagram and put up a sign on the door. ‘Chefs are getting married, reopen tomorrow.’

They don’t mean for it to become a thing, but it does. They’re going to the courthouse then back to The Bear for a party with everyone. And it’s…it’s just family but then it’s Chef Terry and Luca’s coming in from Copenhagen cause he’s…important to Carmen and he’s…a friend (“Oh my god, yes, he’s your friend you are such a loser” Syd laughs at him when he asks if it’d be weird to invite him) and Sydney’s got friends, like real friends quite a few actually, and family, real family. And their building is to small for this but its okay because its still not to much.

He fights with Nat about Donna. He’s in a better place, he’s doing well, he can handle it, he wants her at the party. And Nat, of all people, is against her coming. She’s admit that Donna doesn’t come, and its Sugar and she gives Donna all the grace in the world but she won’t…she’s unwilling to let Donna ruin this day for Carmen and Sydney. So Carmy takes his big sister’s advice and doesn’t tell Donna until after they’re married on a brief and difficult phone call.

Bear: 9:38 am; you were right

Sugar: 9:40 am; I’m sorry Bear

Sugar: 9:41 am; I love you Bear

Bear: 9:42 am; I love you Sugar

Nat and Sydney spend a couple Mondays scouring thrift shops for wedding dresses before finding it. Its not a wedding dress, strictly speaking, but its white and it fits and its a little weird and lacy and pretty and when Sugar asks if Sydney feels like a princess, like a queen she nods and Sugar grins.

“The fuck is that?” Carmy asks one night when Sydney’s embroidering an SB into the corner of a new red scarf. The white thread stark against the silk wine color. Syd’s nose scrunches. “It’s my fucking initials, the fuck?” “That’s S-A, Syd.” She looks at him like he’s really stupid. And Carmy swallows. “Oh. Oh okay.”

More importantly, he didn’t think she’d want to like…Syd’s a modern woman and-and he’d assumed, like an ass.

He’d never thought she’d want his fucking cursed name. To be a Berzatto…like him. To share that with him. It’s so shocking that he’s still thinking about it hours later.

And that night when he wraps his arms around her waist, hand spread over her round belly he smiles into the skin of her neck. “Thank you Syd.” “Partners yeah?” “Yeah partners.” “Besides its a good name. I like it. And Sydney Berzatto sounds right. Sounds good.” “It’s-it sounds perfect.”

It’s just Sugar and Mr. Adamu at the courthouse. Sitting in the gallery. Sugar’s trying not to cry and Mr. Adamu’s not hiding his tears.

The Judge is nice and the whole thing is quick. They vow to each other: Carmen Anthony Berzatto taking Sydney Aisha Adamu as husband and wife.

Carmy’s never smiled this hard in his life. And Syd will make more fun of him for that then if he was a crying mess. And they kiss and they’re married.

In front of God and country and family they’re tied, for forever, for as long as she’ll have him.

She keeps her ring on its chain around her neck, at her heart, it’s easier for work. Carmy does the same with the golden band she gives him. (And a few months after she gives birth they’ll be side by side at that stupid tattoo parlor getting the date etched into the skin around their ring fingers.)

Carmen waits for the anxiety to kick in. But when it starts he tamps it down quickly. Terri’s voice in his ear, “You deserve happiness Carmen. So does Sydney and if you make her happy then why deny that for yourself?”

The party starts in the afternoon when they arrive back from the courthouse. There’s cheering and hugs and pats on the back. Cicero- Uncle Jimmy claps him so hard on the back that Carmy almost doubles over.

It’s all hugs from Marcus and Tina and Ebraheim and Sweeps and Angel and Manny. And the freshman and they probably shouldn’t call them that but they sometimes rotate out and there’s always someone new so-

Cousin’s got Eva, even though its Tiff’s day cause she somehow still likes Carmy, and she’s coloring with Mikey at a table and Carmy sits with them for a little while letting people come to him so he doesn’t get overwhelmed.

They eat the excellent food their staff prepared for them. And Syd calls Richie a fucking idiot when he says he forgot to get Syd a bottle of sparkling grape juice. So she toasts with seltzer and shoots Richie a stink eye.

Syd’s friends and family throw her a baby shower a few weeks before her due date. And it’s maybe the first time they’ve both been away from the restaurant on a Saturday. Even if it’s just for a few hours in the middle of the afternoon.

It’s teddy bear themed because of course it is.

Tina threatens to turn off her phone if he doesn’t stop texting her to ask how everything is going.

And then their home is filled with furniture boxes and baby clothes so small he can’t believe it, even though he’s held Mikey and changed his clothes before. And toys and books. And they spend a Monday painting the room butter yellow and it’s so happy and cheerful he wants to throw up. One wall is covered in photographs on the walls hanging from the ceiling on down to the floor, all the evidence of their life he’s taken waiting for his kid. And Sydney cries when he shows her the mural he’s been working on on the opposite wall of all the fruit he can think of. She curses him out for fucking with her hormones and they make love until the sun comes up.

#the bear #the bear fanfiction #the bear fanfic #the bear fic #carmy x sydney #syd x carmy #sydcarmy #carmen berzatto #sydney adamu

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dino-nugget7 · 1 year ago

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TW: This post is going to be about my experiences as a teacher. This is going to include discussions of covid, child abuse, workplace negligence, and sucidality.

Well, got back on this lovely little hellsite for the first time in about 2 years yesterday. I left here around the time that I had decided to leave teaching. I talked a bit back then about how horrifically oppressive the school system is to students (which is still something I'm pissed about) But I wasn't ready to talk about a lot of the other aspects of the system that disturbed me. I thought I had bipolar disorder because I went through a severe depression and the meds I was put on to cope with that put me through a manic episode which was in some ways scarier than the depressive episode. I haven't had an episode in either direction since leaving. I mention this so you understand how fucked my situation was even if you don't read any farther. I do hope someone reads farther though even though its gonna be a depressing read because I need people to know how horrific it is to work in education, especially rural education.

So here's an exhaustive list of every fucked up aspect of my time as a teacher:

1. Within the first few weeks of being a teacher, a student confided in me about being beaten at home. Of course, I reported it and a few days later the caseworker assigned to that student informed my colleagues and I that the state did find evidence of violence against the student but that it was leaving the student in the home "because the student was 17 and had a history of drug use so there would be no foster families willing to take him." The student was beaten again to the point of ending up in the hospital and the state locked up his stepfather for a few months but left him in the home again with his mother who had let said abuse happen. This is not the worst case of a student experiencing violence at home and not being removed after we reported it that I witnessed. Just the first. I was powerless to help any of them because the safety net they were supposed to have outside of us when horrific shit happens, just...wasn't there.

2. As discussed before I left, I realized that even though I happened to have liked school when I was in, its fucked up how micromanaged every second of the day is for students and how they have no say over what they are learning about. Its fucked up that they are trained to be blindly obedient and forced to stay in spaces and interact with people that cause them suffering.

3. This is pretty specific to the fact that I was in a student self-paced rural alternative school but I was the only science and health teacher both years, the math teacher my first year and the art teacher my second. In a class period with 16 students, it was common for students to be working on 7 different courses. Which would have been fine, I had experience in college running that class structure, but I had no textbooks, no lab materials unless I bought them, very few math and art supplies, and I had to make all of my lesson materials and all 20 curricula from scratch because the curricula I had been handed by my predecessor had been written in 1993 and never updated. Between teaching, meetings, grading, curricula building, classroom upkeep and lab setup I was there every day from 5 am to 7pm at least and often also came in for a few hours on Saturdays.

4. When Covid hit and we all went remote, I spent every day staring at my own face on a webcam for 7 hours because none of the students showed up at all to any of their classes despite us calling the parents we could reach every day and sending emails every day. A few students completed a couple of assignments early on over email but even that didn't happen after a while. I didn't blame them, I know a lot of them were trapped in hell being stuck at home and the rest considered school hell but it fucks with your psyche to spend 35 hours a week forced to stare at yourself on a screen on the slimmest chance someone will show up for 2 months straight.

5. On the last day of school my first year, a parent called and yelled at me about her daughter not getting a science credit and having a 10% in my class. She claimed I never reached out. I pointed out that her daughter refused to do work in my class long before lockdown despite every effort on my part, which she(the parent) knew about based on previous conferences we'd had about this very behavior and forwarded her every email I sent her over the course of lockdown with work she could have done and links to my class zoom meeting if she'd wanted face-to-face help and pointed out every phone call we made. She went to my principal to demand an extension for her daughter into the summer which my principal granted so I got to spend Even More Time staring at my own face because Surprise surprise, her daughter still didn't show up or complete any assignments but I didn't recieve further berating from that parent about it at least.

6. When we went back to in person teaching I was the only adult in the building who took the mask mandate seriously so my classroom was the only one where students were wearing masks at all and I had to fight them tooth and nail about it because my roommate's son was immunocompromised and could not afford to get sick but because I was the only teacher fighting that battle, it got harder and harder instead of easier and a lot of students I had built good relationships with the previous year started to hate me for being so strict and I had to go get that test where they shoved a swab all the way up into your sinus cavity every single week until the vaccine came out. When I opened up to my colleagues about the stress this was causing me and why I cared so much (which I really didn't feel like I should have had to justify in the first place), they told me to "relax about it, kids aren't even the ones dying," entirely ignoring that I was in direct contact with a kid who could have, in fact, died from it. This was the straw that caused me to put in my resignation.

7. All of the above put me in a mental state where I had to call a suicide hotline and take an emergency few days off work because I couldn't physically get myself out of bed. I got put on those meds that made me manic but they take a few weeks to kick in at all and I contractually could not take that long off and couldn't have afforded to do so anyways so still in full-blown suicidal depression, my first day back was Parent Teacher Conference Night, which is exhausting and terrible at the best of times. My principal knew I was mentally unwell and had told me if I needed any accommodation as I readjusted to let her know so I asked if I could sit out conferences or at the very least have someone else in the room with me since the school was so small that every teacher had every student. She said no, that it was a privacy issue (which was untrue because we did whole-staff parent meetings All The Time for students with particularly concerning behaviors and because again we all taught everyone and had daily staff meetings about student progress and concerns so we all knew everything about everyone but even so she could have been the one to sit with me) I pointed all of this out and she told me, "Well being a teacher isn't about you, you have to put the students above yourself." When I had been doing that nonstop for two years to the point that I was in the mental hole I was in. I was in such a fucked up place that a lot of the parents noticed it and tried to check in on me as I started falling asleep or forgot what I was saying midsentence.

8. When I did my exit interview at the end of the year my principal told me that I was a great teacher and she hoped I'd return to the field someday even if it was in a different setting because students deserved someone who was constantly the voice in the room advocating for them even when their own parents and other teachers stopped doing so. This was the first meeting I ever had where I was told I was a good teacher rather than being constantly told what i should be improving on as I drowned trying to even lay a foundation for myself.

Despite everything it still breaks my heart to realize it will never be healthy for me to go back to teaching even if I was in a district with better supports because of how much trauma I've been left with and because of how jaded about the entire system i am. I loved the teaching part of my job. I loved those moments where students showed me projects they were proud of and when they finally understood concepts that had them stuck. I loved empowering students to make positive decisions and to come out of their shells in my class. I loved when I managed to create lessons that hit that learn something-have fun sweet spot. I loved when I was able to let students incorporate their real interests into what we were learning or even let them be the experts on a topic. I still have art students gave me. I know despite it grinding me down to a husk of myself, I was good teacher and I could have eventually been an excellent one. Its true that Teaching is more than a job, its a calling. But I'm no use to anyone dead.

#i had a therapist during all of this and she didnt even have any advice #she just kept being like yeah thats a fucked up situation and being Not Okay is the normal reaction to being in the middle of all that #also i lied this list wasnt exhaustive #i didnt even talk about the bomb threat that happened or the fuckery I learned about on the district level #and this of course also doesnt touch on the gender dysphoria and family rejection i was facing for being trans #or the fact that i was living in a homophobic antiatheist town as a gay atheist

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darabbitholes · 4 months ago

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ocs infopost (last updated 8/15/24)

ok hi my name is spade and you can find my main at @spadefriend. this is my oc blog and even if my main is 15+ i'm putting a 16+ limit here. please do not follow if you are under 16. below the cut you'll find a summary of most of the ocs i'll be posting about here and anything else you need to know.

this also includes a full list of the content warnings for this blog. i'll be tagging all my posts so if the subject matter of any one ocverse is too much for you to handle you can mute those specific tags. i will also be supplying tws for the heavy stuff however; i will be tagging these as "#tw [subject]", or "#tw [subject] mention" if the subject is mentioned but not discussed in depth.

feel free 2 send me asks about any of these guys i love questions :3333333333333333

also read more about these guys on my toyhou.se!

the graveyard shift

set in 2011 in the usa's hidden magical underbelly, mostly the town of sonderwood, north dakota. focuses on a massive necromancy-based criminal organization known as the graveyard and the characters who end up wrapped in its decade-old conspiracies in their attempts to either escape it or go further in. current fav <333333 but also heavily in development

main characters:

daniella (she/her): forensic analyst who starts independently investigating the graveyard after a corpse gets stolen from her workplace

vanya (she/her): 10 year old girl & graveyard trainee (THERE ARE GOOD IN-UNIVERSE REASONS FOR THIS) who starts going to a therapist in hopes she can magically fix her anger issues

galen (he/him): the therapist in question & an aspiring poet. absolutely mediocre at his job. has a bunch of other Normal Stuff going on don't even worry about it. current #1 fav <33333333

pyrite (she/her): high-ranking member of the sonderwood branch looking to climb higher in the ranks, has a deal with daniella to give her information on the graveyard

blythe (aka tourmaline) (she/they): member of the sonderwood branch and sibling to its regent/boss, lucian (aka vivianite) (they/them). extremely strained relationship with their sibling.

rattenkönig (he/him): late governor's son and boss of the milstone branch. kindly sad old man :) totally not responsible for half the fucking content warnings [eye twitch] also the tag for this guy is gonna be just rattenkonig without the accent bc i am not copy pasting every single time i write his name sorry chat

donnie (they/them): head of a semi-organization focused on sheltering criminals. decades-long beef with rattenkönig for reasons unknown.

jackrabbit (???, referred to with they/them for the time being): lol

content warnings:

non-sexual/romantic grooming (specifically grooming into criminal activity, eg murder) (occurs to both adult and child parties) (though sexual abuse is not covered in the graveyard shift, and this form of grooming is explicitly non-sexual and non-romantic, grooming utilizes very similar tactics no matter what form it is in. depictions/discussion may still be triggering to people who have undergone sexual or romantic grooming (or any other form). please proceed with caution.)

emotional abuse & manipulation

organizational abuse

familial abuse

child abuse, neglect, abandonment, etc.

victim-blaming (including by wider public audiences. it takes a long time for some victims to get happy endings and others don't get that at all.)

cover-ups of abuse and other violent crimes. there are abusers who get away with their actions for a very very long time and potentially instances of some who never get outed at all.

transphobia (not a running theme but there is at least one instance of this and characters are frequently affected by internalized transphobia)

graphic violence, death, murder, physical assault, etc. (par for the course for a story focused on the mafia)

kidnapping & hostage situations

suicide & suicidal ideation, possibly self-harm (undecided)

unhealthy coping mechanisms

toxic relationships

adoption-related trauma

in-depth depictions of PTSD & other traumagenic disorders

body horror (in relation to re-animated corpses)

additionally, as this story is heavily centric around abuse & cycles of abuse/violence, there will be heavy examination of abusive characters. abusers are not one-dimensional villains and will not be treated as such. depictions of abusers as being complex or having positive traits, or hell even bettering themselves, do not excuse or absolve them from their actions even slightly. some characters who do horrendous things (while, again, not absolved of their actions) will be getting "redemption arcs" as self-improvement & rehabilitation is one of the story's major themes.

the death spiral

set after a magical apocalypse that wiped out society, creating a supercontinent where creatures with anomalous abilities called harbingers run amok. the capitalist country at the center of the continent, muezihia, is haunted by an ancient prophecy that speaks of a prophecy hero who will save society by bringing some form of mass collapse or upheaval and, later, rebirth. the only problem: the prophecy keeps repeating no matter how many times it's supposedly fulfilled.

main characters:

kit (she/her): suspiciously early prophecy hero candidate who's spent her life concealing that candidacy in hopes of leading a normal life for a while. i'm sure you can guess how that goes

foxtrot (she/her): another prophecy hero candidate, the first known half-human half-harbinger and raised to be a celebrity from birth

dr. blake (he/him (act I), he/they (act II), he/she/they (act III)): disgruntled scientist at symbiosa, the Definitely Ethical megacorp that studies harbingers & the prophecy

jaidre (he/him): former hero and ceo/overseer of symbiosa cursed to become a huge spider a century ago now hes moping in a cave in an alternate dimension LMFAOOOOO

gwyneth (she/her): most recent hero before kit. ex-symbiosa scientist who supposedly created foxtrot in her awesome hidden lab and mysteriously disappeared

content warnings:

workplace abuse/exploitation (psychological & physical if we're counting murder)

animal abuse/experimentation

body horror/transformation

medical horror

violence, death, murder, etc.

queerphobia (specifically against non-binary & aromantic/asexual characters) (internalized & systemic)

insects & heavy bug theming

child abandonment & mistreatment (possibly emotional abuse; unsure but keep in mind)

imagery around decomposition, rotting, anything in a similar vein

elements of cosmic horror

apocalyptic/post-apocalyptic setting

nemesis antivirus

this one i am not going to discuss in detail bc the subject matter isnt something id like to cover here 👍 know it's about a 13-year-old girl who downloads a half-cybersecurity edutainment game half-antivirus and realizes her game avatar has become sentient and is up to some shenanigans like being her cool new friend and also murder

main characters:

liz (she/her (during the entire story at least bc there is no way she's not an egg)): the 13-year-old girl in question. horrifically isolated irl and going thru some shit online (aka the place she considers her only safe haven); downloads nemesis antivirus out of desparation

nellie (she/they/it): liz's sentient game avatar who is strangely fine-tuned to be a perfect friend for her. fiercely protective and takes her job as an eliminator of online threats extremely seriously.

content warnings:

again i'm not going to go super in-depth on this bc the subject matter is too heavy but know it's generally about online abuse and contains a lot of deconstruction of revenge fantasies/the idea of revenge and the responsibility that abuse victims may have towards preventing abuse and protecting people like them 👍

the consumption of lotus institute

super wip but it's about a silly facility full of animal people, the staff who manage the facility and the ai who runs the whole show. again hopefully this is gonna end up a larger universe so not much of an overarching plot yet but the current main story branch is about the aftermath of an incident where adult humans are kidnapped from the surface by rogue staff and fed to the ai to be experimented on.

main characters (for the current story branch):

minerva madigan (she/they): "lead caretaker" of the facility, aka she's the head of the department managing the animal people & their wellbeing. prioritizes keeping the peace & keeping people happy at any cost. she's trying her best but ooooh god girl........

conan (she/her): survivor of the adult experiments; half-grey wolf. reluctantly took the facility's offer to live a life of luxury with them as an apology though she's got a bunch of weird feelings about the handling of the situation that she's pretending aren't there.

pallas (she/her): only other survivor of the adult experiments and minerva's ex before all that shit happened. EXTREMELY pissed at the staff for their poor handling of the whole experiment situation. disappeared into the depths of the facility where the ai inhabits.

the ai (temporary name) (it/its): sentient but non-sapient. this thing is an animals. driven solely by its own curiosities. has to be constantly babysat by the staff

content warnings:

human experimentation (including major complications such as death or being locked in a comatose state)

medical horror

body horror

kidnapping

violence, death, murder, etc etc

mass cover-ups of situations involving the above

ok i think that's mostly all of them but i also have some ocs for fandoms and such (mainly warrior cats) that i am going to put here later probably <333

will be updated as time goes on ofc

#pinned #long post #the death spiral #the graveyard shift #nemesis antivirus #the consumption of lotus institute #ocs

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bambazzle · 3 years ago

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LGBT+ Fantasy/Fiction Books and TWs

-In the case that a book on the list is the first of a series, TWs will include warnings for the entire series-

IDNS means “I Do Not Support the Author”- reasons will be listed and linked! if you are interested in this author’s book, try to buy second hand!

I have removed some books that were on here, I know! I removed them specifically for problematic content- this book list was not just books I loved, but books I had yet to read and hoped to love. Books that misrepresent or fetishize our community don’t deserve to be supported and spread even more. I have replaced these books with ones that don’t perpetuate harmful stereotypes, so we can all enjoy our escapes!

1. Carry On by Rainbow Rowell (Trilogy)-

(Fantasy, Witches, Vampires, kind of Harry Potter-y, MLM Romance, TW for suicidal ideation, self-destructiveness, abandonment, foster care, neglect, bullying, major character death, racism, murder and attempted murder, violence, gun violence and relationship issues. It has some heavy topics but is written in a pretty light tone.)

(DNS author: Racism/stereotyping/fetishization of Asian community)

2. Red White and Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston-

(MLM “Enemies” to lovers, about the son of the President and the Prince of England getting into a fight, they have to fake a friendship to fix their PR situation, TW for being publicly outed, semi-graphic sex scenes, politically charged discussions, addiction, underage alcohol use, blackmail, parental death (mentioned), homophobia, panic attacks, sexual abuse/harrassment (mentioned), racism, parental neglect )

3. Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller-

(MLM but not explicitly romance, Ancient Greece, demigods, exile, TW for abduction, abandonment, war, violence, ableism, child abuse, death, human sacrifice, human trafficking, murder, plague (mentioned), sexual assault (mentioned), self-harm, slavery, torture)

4. The Foxhole Court by Nora Sakavic (Trilogy)-

(MLM, very slow burn. Demisexual MC. Mafia mixed with kids with broken homes mixed with a kid who has a dream of being a pro at a fictional sport. The focus is NOT on the relationship, it is the subplot. TW for ableism, verbal and physical abuse, abuse within a psychiatric facility, alcoholism, underage alcohol use, physical assault, sexual assault, conversion therapy (mention), death of an animal, parental death, drug abuse, drug use, drug overdose, drug misrepresentation, violence, gun violence, knife violence, homophobia, hate crime, murder, panic attacks, rehab, self harm, suicide (mentioned), graphic torture, manipulation, police intervention, organized crime/mafia, graphic description of burns. It is a great series but it has heavy content and is not light reading if you go in unprepared.)

5. The House on the Cerulean Sea by TJ Klune -

(MLM (WLW side characters), fantasy, found family, heartwarming romance, magical creatures, TW for abuse(mentioned), trauma-related anxiety, bigotry, body shaming, bullying, child abuse (backstory), internalized fatphobia, homophobia, microaggresions, violence, violence against children)

6. Heartstopper by Alice Oseman (Series)-

(MLM, graphic novel, slow burn, coming out, TW for emotionally abusive relationship, anorexia, self harm, suicidal ideation, bullying(mentioned), psychiatric facility, trauma discussion, homophobia)

7. The Raven Boys by Maggie Stiefvater (Series)-

(MLM, Fantasy, about a secret private school, slow burn, found family, TW for underage alcohol use, drug use, suicide(mentioned), homophobia, domestic abuse, child abuse(mentioned), murder and attempted murder, burglary, car crash, fire related death(non-graphic), kidnapping, terminal illness, sick parent, ritual sacrifice, suicide, violence, gore, gun violence, knife violence, panic attack, PTSD, workplace harrassment)

8. They Both Die at the End by Adam Silvera-

(MLM, Bisexual Latino characters, whole story takes place in 24 hours because at about midnight- aka the start of the book- they get a phone call saying they’re going to die, TW for death, animal death, child death, drowning, violence, gang violence, gun violence, homophobia, panic attack, parental suicide, suicidal ideation, sick parent, police intervention, and foster care)

9. Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo (Series)-

(Queer characters, but no romance in the first book, fantasy, found family, slow burn, TW for graphic depictions of violence, addiction, genocide/fantasy racism, gambling, drug use, withdrawal, ableism, abuse(mentioned), sexual slavery(mentioned/backstory), sexual assault(mentioned/backstory), imprisonment, murder and attempted murder, death, death threats, loss of loved one, prosecution, torture, violence, gore)

10. The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue by Mackenzi Lee-

(MLM Historical Fiction Romance, Travel/Journey, Best Friends to lovers, TW for abuse, homophobia, adoption, alcoholism, breakups, death(mentioned), epilepsy/seizures, prison, robbery)

(DNS author: transphobia/biphobia)

11. In Deeper Waters by FT Lukens-

(MLM, High fantasy, “A young prince must rely on a mysterious stranger to save him when he is kidnapped during his coming of age tour”, TW for kidnapping, violence, abuse, war(mentioned))

12. Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe by Benjamin Alire Sáenz (Duology)-

(MLM Latino coming of age story, TW for violence, surgery, transmisogyny, sexism, homophobia, hate crime, PTSD, hospitalization, alcohol use, drug use, animal death, car crash, death(non-graphic))

14. We Contain Multitudes by Sarah Henstra-

(MLM, coming of age, friendship and romance, TW for bullying, homophobia, abuse, underage alcohol use, drug use)

15. Beneath the Citadel by Destiny Soria-

(Asexual/Bisexual representation, fantasy, ragtag team goes on a quest, TW for death, abduction/kidnapping, blackmail, branding, child abuse(mentioned), coma, amnesia, execution, murder, addiction, violence)

16. More Happy than Not by Adam Silvera-

(MLM main character, YA, “it's about a boy who is considering a memory-alteration procedure to forget he's gay because leading a life as a straight teen would probably be way easier for him. It's about science versus nature, friendship, sexuality, and a quest for happiness.” About the happy ending and how even bad moments lead to good. Hopeful but despairing. TW for attempted suicide, suicide, domestic abuse, medical procedure to erase sexuality, internalized homophobia, homophobia, depression)

17. I Wish You All the Best by Mason Deaver-

(Nonbinary main character, nonbinary muslim side character, romance/love and building a family out of people you care about. About finding your voice. TW for bad coming out, misgendering, transphobia, family rejection/struggle, anxiety(detailed), child abuse, gender dysphoria, homophobia, disownment, panic attacks, suicidal thoughts, suicidal ideation, underage alcohol use)

18. We Are Okay by Nina LaCour-

(WLW, moving out and coming of age, self-discovery and childhood romance, TW for loss of a loved one, depression, loneliness(detailed), chronic illness, death, drowning(mentioned), suicide)

19. The Rest of Us Just Live Here by Patrick Ness-

(Contemporary, about the normal people’s lives while living among Chosen Ones. Family/coming of age/acceptance story. TW for monsters, apocalypse, violence/explosions, death, anorexia, relapse, panic attacks, anxiety attacks, unrequited romance)

20. Lizard Radio by Pat Schmatz-

(Dystopian story about a teenager struggling with their gender identity, TW for abandonment, oppressive government, outlawed homosexuality, hate crime, homophobia, transphobia, violence)

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intoloopin-archive · 8 months ago

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A CHAPTER: THE SHARP AND THE BLUNT (PART 1/2).

tw(s): panic attack. dubious consent (haruki is very weird and forward about initiating sex!). alcohol abuse & alcoholism. semi-smut? (there is making out). miscommunication (a warning because I personally think it's constant and frustrating). insinuation and direct discussions of sexual trauma, abuse by a past partner, abuse of workplace power and stalking. internalized homophobia (in part one, a hint). If I missed anything, please tell me! starring: Lee Hanjae. Fukunaga Haruki. featuring: Dylan Hwang / Hwang Chihoon. Their fellow LOOPiN members (old OT10, no Gyujin, a lot of Beomseok). Delilah Franco. Oh Sunyoung. Choi Sangwon. Blonde Bob Piss Girl (a serious character).

timeline: quick flashback to 2018 | early to the end of mid 2022.

word count: 13,405 words. author's notes: welcome everyone to hanruki fuckery part 1 a.k.a the most frustrating and life draining four months in Hanjae's whole entire life a.k.a big sadness, the piece split into two. this one is over 23K long, and was originally intended to be read in one go but! It Got Too Big. The conclusion will be coming out later this week! prepare for a Haruki all in par with the one in the prologue, which falls in between this mess on the timeline. this is a work of a whole month, but it's also a work of two years: a whole central plot, planned and done. title's from this song! give it a listen once you get trought the bigger picture, maybe, for catharsis purposes. stay safe! remember you deserve to be safe, always!

November 12, 2018.

Hanjae had vowed not to cry anymore when he got this job – in the same vehement way he had promised at twelve that he would no longer make a sound if he wailed after school, face buried under piles and piles of unfinished homework, to medium success, just the right amount of it to call it success.

He could still tear up once in a while, if things got though, and that was it; a clause added after his first exhausting week as a trainee. The number escalated to once every two business days after he was shoved to debut on LOOPiN, out of all the upcoming boy groups there were.

There was a story taunting the New Wave Music corridors back then. Someone did something unspeakable to someone else, and it caused an expulsion, followed by the immediate need for a new rapper, a new dancer. And there was Hanjae; a BBC trainee for three months, far removed from the Boy Of The Week gossip, who couldn’t exactly sing but had great enunciation, and had been dancing before he was even walking…

He cried now, openly, defeated. It had been an awful day for LOOPiN 2on1.

Their short lived promotions had played out like a sunset: a big golden start – so much press, so much momentum, so many views on the ‘Baby Don’t Stop’ dance practice video, where he and Haruki were using plain shirts and even plainer jeans – quickly diluting into the darkest of times – the controversies, LOOPiN first ones, and exclusively about them.

A resurrected Facebook photo of Hanjae on his graduation with a bandage around his hand, matched with the lingering traces of his poorly removed tattoo there painted him as a school delinquent; Haruki’s drop out stories reintroduced him as the big drunken failure of KArts’s international program.

They were going to stop going to music shows, the company had decided that day, and Sangwon told them on the drive back that they had just done their last one. They had gone up on stage as a duo for the last last time.

With a strong sniff, Hanjae unburied his face from in between his knees and looked at his hand, at the faint shape of a badly drawn rose on his skin. His dad had been adamant about getting it out the moment he took a look at it, still involved in protective plastic. He used the little money off his college safe to arrange a laser session that Hanjae skipped. A year later, Hanjae managed to schedule another one with the partial sponsor of MBN, the company he was stuck on before BBC. He had to do it in a shady place, at a bigger cost: bad skin scarring.

His mom had been relieved to see it fade even more nonetheless, up until the black tattoo turned into something that almost looked like a peculiar and old scar, if you didn’t give it a second glance; and no one was ever giving Hanjae a second glance.

“Let that be a lesson,” she told him, nose turned up and away from him. “Don’t jump head on into things again, Lee Hanjae. That’s no way to live. Watch yourself, watch your company. You’re not a kid anymore. Do you have no goals? Do you want nothing for yourself? Are you that selfish? Can’t you think, for once, about something that isn’t–”

Haruki was the one who found him, sitting on the floor, small and tense against the laundry machine, waiting for everyone’s clothes to be cleaned – the member’s, Sangwon’s, the cleaning auntie's aprons she had forgotten on top of the dinner table last week. Cleaning was always his scapegoat way of attending to something, even if very small.

Maybe if the company decided to drop him, he thought, Hanjae could still be around as the dorm’s janitor.

“So you’re not from Seoul,” Haruki said, leaning against the door frame with an air of mischief around him, something light on his step despite it all.

It was a statement, not an ask, because he knew this. It was one of the few trivia points they had exchanged during pauses on music shows or water breaks in between choreography practice – ‘What’s your age? What’s your blood type? How many siblings? Oh, none? You’re so lucky, Hanjae, so lucky. All siblings are demons. You aren’t missing a thing.’

Hanjae didn’t even startle; Haruki often popped up at places like that, picking up conversations from days, weeks ago like they were merely put on pause.

Without uttering a word and barely looking up, he still nodded his head no.

Haruki nodded back, a pacifying smile showing up on his face, said, “Cool. Great. How about I show you a place?”

‘The place’, he informed Hanjae, was not all that nice, or clean, and he really shouldn’t wear nice shoes or nice clothes tonight, but at least it wasn’t far, at least they had permission.

“Who’s permission?” Hanjae asked, taking the pile of clothes to the dryer, smoothing wrinkles off them just for something to do.

Haruki waved manager Choi’s front keys in his hand, and Sangwon’s horrendous keychains clanked against each other: a green pine tree and a colorful ball. “The one that matters. What do you say, uh? You’re in? Can I count you in?”

He could count Hanjae in.

[...]

They stopped by a convenience store on the way, some couple of blocks down the dorm, and by then night had already conquered all of Seoul. Inside, the middle aged lady behind the counter rushed to give Haruki a hug, a paper bag and a discount.

“He’s a street cat I found,” she leaned in to explain when she caught Hanjae anxiously looking at him going straight to the back of the store, near the freezers, near the alcohol, with the ease of someone who could do so with his eyes shut. “He’s a good foreign friend.”

“I’m not!” Haruki shouted back, but he was grinning. “Are you not watching the news?”

The noona playfully rolled her eyes, joked back, “What news? You’re not on the news!”

She hushed Hanjae to go catch up with him with an enerved wave, told him to take a look around. “It’s on the house,” she winked. “You’re both so skinny, and you must be working hard, so just take something tasty and leave quickly.”

Trailing a couple feet behind Haruki on the aisle, Hanjae picked up a package of noodles and a modest four-set of Terra cans to accompany his endless Heineken bottles, light green on light green. While Hanjae bagged everything with caution, Haruki slipped a red won note on the balcony when the owner stopped paying attention to them, and off they went again.

Haruki made them walk ten more minutes to the left, and the left, the left again, coming to an abrupt stop in front of an abandoned lot, pure dirt and weeds, the sort that seemed to have turned into an open dump for the neighborhood. It looked no different or less disgusting than the million of others around less central Jungnang; it didn’t look like it could be a spot.

Yet Haruki kept braving straight through the grass without stopping, guiding Hanjae behind him to only step where he was stepping, to keep his eyes glued to the floor and watch out for broken glass. He settled when they were deep into the lot, mere feet away from a big hill. There was a clean view of an uneven street if you looked down, he said, filled with houses that were almost all pretty. Hanjae chose to just trust Haruki’s word on that; he couldn’t dare to come close enough to the drop to peek and see.

Haruki standed the bag of drinks for him to hold, and Hanjae had to do so with both hands. From a spot behind them, he pushed two retriable chairs out of a bulk set against a moldy tree, the metal in them corrupted by rust on the edges, and set them up, sat down, tapped at the other seat with his foot in invitation.

Hanjae took a long and anxious moment to comply. Under him, the chair dangled sideways even if he stayed very, very still.

With the convenience bag back in his domain, Haruki cracked three beers open, and handed Hanjae one, kept the other two: one in each hand, a Heineken and a Terra.

“Never had this one. I heard they’re the same thing,” he said, taking a sip from each and frowning, analyzing them. Hanjae stayed quiet.

He had only drank with his dad and uncles one time, at last year’s Chuseok, and hadn’t been much of a fan of anything. Still, he took a sip of beer.

Haruki at least had grace enough to let him swallow and contain a grimace before asking, with a strange edge to it, “So are you? A bully. A problem child. Part of a gang.”

“No,” Hanjae said, too quickly, too eager. He cleared his throat. “I’m really not, hyung, no.”

“How did it get there, then?” Haruki's look was razor sharp on Hanjae’s once tattooed hand, hard enough to make him freeze. “And why did you remove it? Just to be a trainee?”

Hanjae opened his mouth, but only to take a shaky breath in, swallow a bit more of bitter alcohol. In front of his fleeting eyes, Haruki eased just as quickly as he had hardened.

“Hanjae, we’re teammates now,” he told him. “I showed you my good spot. You can’t give me one word sentences anymore. You can’t lie.”

Hanjae considered this, and considered him from the corner of his eyes. Haruki was the LOOPiN member that Hanjae had come to know best, mostly because they didn’t have a choice, but still, he made an effort, he talked to him; he didn’t let Hanjae fall adrift. And he could have easily turned into an island: from the moment he had been transferred to New Wave, he had been an outsider, a last minute solution to a problem no one would explain to him – who left? Why? Was he worse than them? Was he better?

“You’re better,” Haruki had said, when Hanjae brought it up, late at night while they had dinner alone, in the practice room, sweating and panting – a week until their debut happened. He was the only one who had bothered to tell him so. He sounded like he meant it, too. Hanjae remembers catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror over his shoulder, hair bright brown and unfamiliar, thinking even for a fleeting moment: I’m doing enough.

It was fair for him to be the first to know – the first for Hanjae to disappoint.

“I got it removed before,” he heard himself say. It was a secret, so it came out like one: whispered, slow. “Before I wanted to train. I got it with friends– my dance crew friends. It was our logo, or at least, it was going to be, one day. But I… I did a bad thing, and it stopped making sense. It didn’t fit. I didn’t fit, so. It had to go.”

The vagueness did nothing but pique Haruki’s interest. He seated more properly, then less properly; ended up putting his feet on the seat of the chair, slouching with his head supported on his knee, the exact body language of, ‘Tell me, tell me, tell me.’

“My friend– my best friend, from childhood, our team captain. He used to have a girlfriend. A girl from our class, a dancer too, someone he had been in love with forever. Later she became part of the group, and we got close, we turned into friends, and then not. Not quite that. They broke up and one hour later we got together, on the same day. We got caught. It was a mess. Everyone thought it was a shitty thing to do, that it was cheating, cheating on everyone. But I just wanted her to be my girlfriend, back then– Back then, I wanted a girlfriend more than I wanted anything...”

Hanjae felt it coming, again: the desire to recoil a bit more on himself in shame. How pathetic he had been, then; how miserable, how sad, how lonely.

He took a timid peek to the side, ready to see an irk of dismay on Haruki’s face, some justified disgust, and was surprised to not see any of that. Haruki had grown passionate and invested in the whole story, something new in his eyes, a third bottle halfway drained in his hand.

He moved his chin up, as if saying, ‘Go on’, but Hanjae couldn’t. He drained the rest of the beer.

Haruki clicked his tongue like that wouldn’t do. He shoved his chair a few inches closer so he could grab at Hanjae's arm and said, all at once, “We can not– Hanjae, look, listen, we can not be blamed for all the things, the crazy things we do when love…!” He didn't finish the sentence, just amended it into another one: “You were a teenager, you both were, and very, very brave. Very brave to tell her and date her and keep dating her even if. They were just– bad friends. Just bad friends.”

They weren’t bad friends, Hanjae knew; they weren’t the ones in the wrong. But it hurted to say it out loud, to admit what he knew was still true: how easily he burned bridges for attention, for affection, so he never did. He just knew – looked at his reflection on surfaces and knew.

He rolled and rolled the tap of the Terra until it fell off, into the can. “Did you really quit college, hyung?” Was what he asked the wind.

Haruki shifted on his seat; Hanjae could only tell because of the way it creaked. “More like college quit me,” he said, with a sad huff of air that might have been a laugh, and dropped Hanjae’s arm, drank from his bottle too.

Sadness fell over them like a veil from then on. The Terras ended and Haruki didn’t mind sharing all the other stuff he had, and the longer it went on the less shy Hanjae felt about asking. At some point Haruki said, “I guess we really fucked up, uh – with 2on1,” and Hanjae, whipping a foam mustache off his face, “Minwoo’s not talking to me,” and Haruki, almost falling over with laugher, “Oh, my, I bet not! Ha. I bet not…”, and turned reticent, fell quiet.

His eyes, Hanjae had noticed, kept darting to a spot ahead in between conversation, beyond the drop of the hill, dazed. He violently shook his head sideways everytime he caught himself drifting too far away, and ran a hand over his face, rubbing at it in a way that made Hanjae look at him in worry.

Haruki found it hilarious each time. “What is it,” he eventually said, slower than normal, harder to understand, “With you, your face?”

He got up from his chair, a sudden move that sent it falling to the floor, a loud squeak, and walked even closer.

In front of Hanjae, right in front of him, he leaned forward until he got both his hands on his face, and said, pushing the corners of his mouth up, “The mood is so– Bad! So bad! Smile! Big smile! C’mon, give me a big smile!”

There had been dirt on Haruki’s hand, and Hanjae could vaguely taste it, with how close to his lips he was pressing. He still wore his inner braces back then; he kept cutting his tongue on the same spot, never healing, never telling, and he could feel the inside of his cheeks pressing onto that sharp place, about to be pierced through.

For a moment, they stayed quiet, looking at each other head on. Hanjae was not smiling. His heart had picked up a quick pace inside his chest, was drumming – Haruki was so close, and he was so beautiful, a true magazine type beauty, all symmetry, and Hanjae knew this, but not with this much conviction, not with so much emotion.

“Ah, you know what? I like you. I decided. I do like you, now…” Haruki said, and then he grinned, bringing his face even nearer. He took a breath and Hanjae felt it on his own nose, and didn’t know what to do about it; his mind, for a moment, went static. “Nothing will happen to you, friend. I promise it. ‘Will not let it.”

Hanjae’s held breath was a painful thing to let out of his chest. “Was something– Was something going to…?”

Haruki huffed a laugh and gave his cheeks two playful taps, said, with a new found determination, “Handsome guy. Do not get sad. I will fix this for you,” and let Hanjae’s face go.

He straightened his back up and swayed slightly to the side, running a hand over his hair, fixing his bangs back into place. Haruki told him, “Late. No booze. Night over”, and extended that same hand for Hanjae to take – Hanjae who still felt like his face had gone numb, blood rushing to it.

He took the hand, and they made their way back to the dorm that way, hanging close; Like magnets, Hanjae remembers thinking, idly, and then not idly at all. Haruki’s hands were leaving behind a pressure everywhere they touched, a heat that Hanjae couldn’t shake off – he just couldn’t shake it off.

Later, when Hanjae layed in bed, sheet drawn over his entire body, he could still feel it. When he woke up the morning after, nauseated but still in the group, still safe, he could still feel it.

If he closes his eyes now, right now, he can still feel it – the sad sort of burn of a premonition misread.

January 13, 2022.

Los Angeles is sunny in a way Haegon would love to see and pretend to hate – a saddening thought Hanjae had since they landed, and that comes back to haunt him while he looks at the city passing by on the van’s window, sidewalks all golden.

Haegon’s not a loud person in his eyes, but his absence is a loud thing, pouring the life out of everyone, mostly because of the way it had been forced on them.

It had been a horrifying way to open the year: having to come forward right on the first day of 2022 to the press, headlining Haegon’s mugging and the accident, his follow up hiatus and excuse out of their ‘We Do’ promotions in the USA. And then there was having to deal with Haegon in private, angry and disappointed, not wanting to take his pain medicine, shoving his room’s door in everyone's faces, dismissing every checkup attempt with an annoyed, “It’s just a minor concussion, what the Hell! I’m not fucking dying! Get the fuck off me, I’m fine, get off, just fuck off already to the States without me! Go on! Just– just leave me already!”

They’re driving out of some media company studio around the center of Los Angeles, where they filmed two twenty minute videos in a roll, more embarrassing games than actual interviews, and Hanjae has already spent all of his ability to mend English words together.

It could have been more fun, one of their staff said, but they had to pass on the puppy interview format because of Taesong’s allergies, and Jiahang’s been dead set on pretending to be sad about it during the entire ride back to the hotel; crocodile tears and all.

Hanjae has to deal with him from the last seat on the far opposite side of the van, resting his fried blonde head against his shoulder, sighing loudly, because Dylan is also not here to amuse him – he took a bus home to Santa Monica and will stay home until they leave in two days time.

Hanjae doesn’t like provoking Taesong, doesn’t like to spoil Jiahang, but that means very little in the grand escape of the group, that goes about poking fun of Taeng like it’s a sport, that’s stuck in a position where they really can’t say no to J.J, who owns company shares; he shoots the meek figure of Taesong an apologetic look as Jiahang’s act carries on, trying to tell him: ‘I’m not a part of this, I just don’t know how to stop it.’

Thankfully, the hotel isn’t that far away, and it’s a quick torture – up until things takes a turn for the worse.

As they park and start to step out, Beomseok’s long arm blocks the door before he and Jiahang can put a single leg outside of the car.

“Stop,” he tells J.J, harsh enough to make Hanjae stumble a step back. Beomseok points a finger right at Jiahang’s face, and inch from touching his nose, says, “Stop being a fucking problem. Stop.”

It makes Jiahang livid, turns his ears bright red. He takes long stomps to the elevator, and Hanjae has to jog to keep up with him – Jiahang really has the longest legs Hanjae has ever seen on a person.

“He’s got such a stick up his ass!” He keeps on saying, barging into the room they’re both sharing with Dylan and Zhiming – angrily tossing his bag into his ‘cheap dollar store bed with the cheap dollar store sheets’ that made him go into a very similar rant last night. “He thinks he’s the only one who cares about Gon, the only one who can bother. He’s so wrong. I’m fucking worried too! I’m calling him too! I miss him! I’m more of a friend to him than that weirdo is. He’s so weird. He thinks he owns Haegon and everyone and everything, just because he’s older, just because he trained for like, one billion years! Like it’s my fault Starship thought he was too ugly to join NO.MERCY!”

“You were being annoying, Jiahang,” O.z deadpans from the corner he’s tucked in, without looking up from his manhwa.

Jiahang grunts louder. “Yeah, that was the point. Taesong knows I’m just joking around! Everyone knows!”

Zhiming lowers the comic from his face, flipping a page. His eyes have deep dark circles behind his thick glasses, marks that never go away. “Unnecessary.”

Jiahang rolls his eyes, putting his hair up on an ugly bun. He turns his back to Zhiming’s bed and mouths at Hanjae, mocking, ‘Unnecessary’.

Hanjae shrugs at him, and that annoys J.J too. He angrily puts on a movie on the tiny TV, gets a hold of his bed’s pillow and wraps himself around it, mumbling something under his breath still. The tags on the streaming app read comedy, musical. He chews on a poor nail while humming along the first song, and Hanjae tries to humor him with a tiny, “Is that Ariana Grande sunbaenim?”

It doesn’t work. Jiahang shoves his face into his pillow and says, miserable and muffled, “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t hang around with you, you’re so lame. I miss Dylan so much.”

“He invited you to go with him,” Hanjae says, helplessly. “You said you didn’t want to.”

“Of course I didn’t want to! I would have to sleep on the floor. In a bag, on the floor. And I don’t think his grandma would like me – I don’t think anyone in his family would like me,” he turns his face around, off the pillow. Hanjae can hear clearly when he says, “He needs time alone with them. For the anxieties.”

“The anxieties?” Hanjae asks him, very slowly.

Jiahang presses his mouth shut tight, straights himself up again. He undoes his ponytail, tosses his long, long hair from one side to the other, behind his ears.

He takes a quick look at Zhiming, and Hanjae does too, and they go by uncaught; O.z’s got his big headphones in now, eyes glued to his comic book.

Jiahang is still careful to whisper, “The rest of you don’t get what it's like, when you’re away from your home every day, when you know all the people you’re going to see aren’t all the ones you know – when you got family that’s like, old, and you know that time’s passing. You’re losing days with them. It gets scary, after a while. Dylan’s grandad will be 82 this year, hyung – that’s a terrifying number, that’s a maybe. That’s the anxiety. Mine, his– Zhiming’s, too. Foreign member anxiety.”

Hanjae nods, sharp. Jiahang makes a face at him, brighter – smiles, says like a tease, “Not Haruki’s, though. Haruki doesn’t miss Japan at all, if that’s what you’re wondering. He’s not anxious about that.”

Hanjae blinks. Opens his mouth, closes it, blinks again. “I wasn’t going to ask–”

“Sure thing. Suuuuure,” J.J says slyly, and goes back to watching TV, and Hanjae does too. Gulps, keeps looking at the movie, tries to pay attention.

Jiahang put on korean subtitles for him, yet he keeps talking – explaining everything. It’s a nice enough movie, he says. Good songs, nice enough movie.

They’re reaching the end of it, seeing every main character gather in a protest around town, when Haruki barges into their room.

“Are any of you not gonna rot inside this hotel?” He asks, loudly, quickly. “Is anyone going to do anything? Catch some sun?”

“Hanjae’s supposed to be going out,” Zhiming tells him. He’s also watching the movie now, has Jiahang by his side, explaining to him what he missed.

“Oh?” Haruki says, and looks around the room, eyes a little clouded, until they land on Hanjae. He smiles, and it stretches across his face quick and big, like he’s actually glad to see him, like the effect is instantaneous. Hanjae can’t for the life of him look at it head on. “Perfect. That’s just perfect, I’m going with you, Hanhan, just wait for me to get changed!”

“Okay,” Hanjae says, and hops off the bed too quickly, sits back down. “I– Waiting.”

Immediately after Haruki leaves Jiahang gives him a long look over Zhiming’s shoulder, and Hanjae pretends not to see it.

“You’re too easy,” he says, with a disapproving nod of his head, and Hanjae pretends he doesn’t hear it, pretends it doesn’t sting.

It’s humiliating, being reminded that people know – that they look at him and know, and he’s reminded of it constantly.

“Hanjae’s sad, sad bisexual awakening,” was how Jiahang put it, sing-a-song in the studio, while making this very single they’re promoting now. “Worse, worse than Minwoo’s– Is that a verse? Can we put that on a song, on the album?”

Minwoo said, for the two of them, “Fuck you.”

And there that one time, the one he remembers clearly, when Seo CEO said he wanted to sit down to watch them practicing ‘Love Me Right’ before the big release, and Taesong pushed Hanjae aside, told him, “Hanjae, you– if you need to check the choreo, please look at the instruction video. Don’t look at Haruki like that, there’s no need to look like you–”

There had to be a separation, he realized; he had to get it under control.

So Hanjae made friends with the people Haruki seemed to not stand, which sometimes meant everyone, but mostly meant J.J and Beomseok – two extremes of very opposite lines. He’s built a line of separation, wrapped himself up in Haruki repellent, and he tries to live by it.

It’s a frail line, a shitty line, and it comes crashing down all the time, with the little moments; single minutes where things feel kind between them, different. A bottle of water and a perfectly folded towel passed to him backstage, a group conversation where Haruki eventually says, like clockwork, “And you, Hanjae? What do you think?”; no one else says that. There’s this lingering nearness coming from him, like there's always something Haruki wants to say or do but can’t, something he wants to check.

It makes Hanjae wonder – makes him come back to that one friendly night, hang on to it. The way Haruki had been so near, his exact tone of voice when he said that he liked him, considered him a friend, thought he was handsome, was going to fix whatever was wrong.

[...]

“So what are we doing?” Haruki asks when they step onto the sidewalk.

“Just filming my Loop Log,” Hanjae responds. “Deadline’s tonight.”

“Shit, that,” Haruki groans, taking his cap off to push hair out of his eyes, putting it on again. “I forgot all about that. ‘Haven’t filmed mine either. ‘Think I lost my camera.”

“I can help you look,” Hanjae offers. “When we get home.”

“Well, thank you,” Haruki says, and steps closer, slides an arm over Hanjae’s shoulder, tells him, “For now, I guess we’ll just have to stick tight. LOOPiN 2on1, reunited in L.A…!”

At Hanjae’s timid request, Chihoon made him a list of what he should get to ‘live his best tourist life’, what the fans might want to see him try: pancakes, bacon and eggs, ice cream, anything in the menu that looks like it could have come off a cartoon, any ‘house specials’.

They go into the nearest place listed with the camera on hand, and have to explain with their Frankenstein English that they want to make a vlog, can they make a vlog? They can, a waiter says, but only in a specific area; they get taken there.

Hanjae orders the house special, and it's a crazy looking Banana Split. Haruki settles for waffles, and they decide to start filming when the food arrives.

Any chance of small talk between them goes fully stall when Hanjae asks, right at their waiter steps away, as the opening topic: “Have you talked to Haegon?”

Haruki’s dangling hand on the table stills. He smiles weird, notices it looks weird, drops it: “Ah, no. No…” and goes silent, makes Hanjae go silent too.

The food comes, they start filming. Hanjae’s meticulously trying to extract a tiny piece of strawberry from a block of ice cream, all while only looking through the camera’s lens, when Haruki’s phone jumps to life, ringing.

He takes it out of his pocket, places it screen flat on the table without looking at the receiver once, mutes it with one hand, adds a mountain of maple syrup to his food with the other.

“Not important,” Haruki reassures Hanjae when he catches him looking at the buzzing phone, an inch away from falling off the edge. He forks the food and stands his hand across the table, says, with his Idol voice, “Wanna try?”

It’s good sweet food, all of it. The camera goes back and forth between them, hand to hand. Haruki makes him pretend they’re shooting a commercial, at some point, makes him do a different pose with every bite, and Hanjae tries to not lose control of his face with all the wooing, all the praise.

It’s fanservice, and Haruki’s good at it. It makes for good content. Everything: good.

Outside, bill paid, they take shelter from the sun and check the recording; thirty raw minutes of footage.

“Hanjae,” Haruki says, looking up after skimming the video, solemn. Hanjae leans a bit forward, eyes a little wide.“The Log will turn out very boring if this is all we do.”

It is, indeed, not the best vlog Hanjae’s ever made. Not that he’s ever been any good at them, or at anything on the media side of the job outside of music covers or choreography making. He’s seen the views on his solo variety content, Sangwon walked him through them all last month, said: nothing special.

They barely talked in 30 minutes – Hanjae didn't initiate a single conversation with him.

Quickly, Haruki’s eyes narrow as he scans the area around them, and Hanjae tries to keep up. He looks for a long moment at the barracks of food, at a man selling balloons, and finally lands far ahead, on a group of kids running on the sand. The leading one trips on air and falls face first on the ground, immediately wails, and they let out matching startled, horrified laughs.

Haruki jogs until he’s in front of him, and turns to walk backwards, closer to where the sidewalk gives into the beach.

“You wanna do that?” He arches a perfect eyebrow. “Run around on the beach with me. Like we’re in a movie.”

Hanjae steps on a stone, lands his other feet on the ground wrong. “I– No.”

“No? Well, I’m doing it! It’s what the vlog’s missing! Trust me, if we do this, it’ll fix everything,” he says, and before Hanjae can even think of what to reply, turns around and starts running on the sand, straight ahead.

Haruki’s already bent over near the ocean when Hanjae catches up with him, folding his jeans until they stop at his knees, barefoot. He insists: “Let’s go, let’s do it, you’re already here, it’s going to be fun, the fans will like it, let’s do it, let’s do it!”

With a resigned sigh, Hanjae unties his sneakers.

Haruki approaches a family nearby and asks for a beach chair, gets a yes. They place the camera cautiously on it, set it with a big zoom ahead. Haruki leaves his phone there, too, with a careless toss, and Hanjae can hear it announcing another call as he steps away, trailing exactly behind him – footprint over footprint, back near the ocean and then on the ocean.

“I thought– Hyung, I thought we were going to just walk,” Hanjae says, stopping. The salt water is a chill foam around his foot.

“Yeah,” Haruki flashes him a smile over his shoulder. He’s about to be knees deep, is taking his Hawaiian shirt off, Hanjae realizes now, with a flush. “We’re walking. Into the water.”

Hanjae catches the shirt when he throws it over his shoulder, looks at it, up at him. He takes a step closer. “Manager Choi’s– Haruki, he’s going to complain!”

“Fuck him!” Haruki tells him with a laugh. He says, with meaning: “Fuck him, fuck New Wave, let them complain, I’m going for a dive and no one can stop me!”

And then he dives, swims, disappears under the water for a long moment. Hanjae stays planted where he is, at a loss of words. When Haruki reemerges, pushing a curtain off black hair off his eyes, and walks back splashing water at him. By the time they’re side by side again, it looks like Hanjae took a dive, too.

“Are you…” He starts to say, eyeing Haruki worryingly, but then the family from before calls back to them, says they’re leaving, they need the chair back, and Haruki claps him on the shoulder, smiles widely, races him to reach them.

“Look,” Haruki says when they’re checking the footage, back on the sidewalk, showing Hanjae a clip: the two of them, a little blurry, walking. “We even got your good smile.”

“My good smile?” Hanjae echoes.

“Not to imply you have a bad one, because you don’t have a bad one,” Haruki says, and bumps their shoulders together. He has just put his shirt back on, is wearing it unbuttoned. “You just have one that’s relaxed, easy. A rare one.”

“Hm,” Hanjae responds, looking away, rolling a rock under his feet.

The walk back to the hotel is calm, windy. The sky’s cotton candy pink and it all looks like a movie, Hanjae thinks. He looks down, and their hands are loose, hanging close, like it would be in a movie.

The end credits roll when they get in the hotel’s lobby, and find Sangwon there – just right there. He catches sight of them immediately, like an alert dog; a quick jump off his seat, a stall near.

He seems to consider them like an equation, frowning: he takes in their wet hair, the wet clothes, the leftover traces of sand, solves it, fumes.

“Do you have any idea,” he says, and he’s struggling to look at the two of them, to not just gawk at Haruki – to not bare his teeth to Haruki only. “Any idea, you two, of how irresponsible this whole stunt was? You’re out on a foreign land. You know no one – no one. When I– The company, if the company calls, you pick your phone. It’s how it works. Pick your phone, immediately.”

Hanjae checks his own phone, a quick glance: no calls.

“Choi-nim,” he says, not looking directly at him, because he lost the ability over the years. Sangwon’s gaze now makes him incredibly anxious. He takes the camera out of where its hanging around his neck, stands it. “I notified– On the calendar, I added– We were just filming–”

“No need to explain, Hanjae,” Haruki interrupts, and puts a hand on Hanjae’s shoulder, steps in front of him, puts himself between him and Sangwon. “Go up. You did nothing wrong. It’s okay. Hyung’s going to solve this with the manager.” He turns straight to Choi-nim and bows, so pristine, so polite: “I take full responsibility for today. It was all me. I’m really sorry if I caused you stress.”

Sangwon considers him for a long moment, taking in the bend of his elbows, like he’s trying to measure his sincerity – there’s almost none of it, Hanjae can tell. He sighs, and then he adjusts his shirt, picks at the cufflinks of his uniform, breaths – his nostrils taking over his entire face.

“You’re dismissed,” Sangwon tells Hanjae, icely, with a corner of the eye glance.

“Sir, I–”

“Dismissed.”

“Go on,” Haruki encourages him, giving Hanjae’s shoulder a firm tap. And then he runs a hand over Hanjae’s hair, messes it up until his wet bangs are glued to his forehead, which he’s never done before; not with him, not with anyone, as far as Hanjae’s aware.

Hesitantly, Hanjae steps away, goes to take the elevator. He keeps looking at them over his shoulder, watching them trail away with growing uneasiness. Haruki keeps looking back at him until he can’t: Sangwon gets the door of the hotel open, shoves him by the shoulder out.

Up in his hotel room, Hanjae showers for a long time. There’s sand on a spot on his elbow where Haruki gave him a tap, and it takes him a while to notice.

He comes off the shower and goes straight to laying down. Zhiming, who had been awake when he came in, is also in his bed now, fully still.

He turns over once, and then again, goes back on his side. “Zhiming hyung?” Hanjae whispers. “You’re awake?”

When Zhiming finally responds, it’s with a minimal grunt, a tiny quick of his socked foot. “What.”

“Do you,” Hanjae chews on the words, “Do you think I have a good smile?”

A pause, a loud sigh. “You’re an Idol. You should hope so.”

“Okay. Okay, so what about– What about me do you think, what looks bad?”

Slowly, very slowly, Zhiming raises his upper body on his elbows. His air is a mess, recently dyed from gray to black too quickly. Without his glasses, he’s forced to squint at Hanjae, even this close, with their beds separated by a very narrow space.

“What the fuck are you even talking about?”

Hanjae takes in a sharp breath, and nods – puts a hand over his eyes, nods again. Stupid, so stupid.

“Nothing,” He says. “Nothing, just– Forget it. I’m sorry, just– Sorry.”

Zhiming goes back to laying down with a loud ‘oof’. He says, a crude whisper, “Don’t go out alone with him if it’ll make you come back like that.”

And with that Hanjae decides he must sleep, immediately, and end this day already.

It was just a day, he tells himself, rubbing at the scarred spot on his hand; a flower in eternal bloom, once. Just one good day. Drop it, forget it, erase it.

February 15, 2022.

“C’mon, you guys, c’moooon! On a scale of one to ten–”

“Na Seungsoo,” Minwoo’s voice rings out like a warning; an elastic pulled far above its limit, about to snap back into place, hard. “Shut your goddamn mouth.”

“She’s right there,” Haegon adds, equally as ultraged. “Are you dumb? Do you want to die?”

“Light up, you two. We’re just talking hypotheticals. I’m not actually gonna fuck our mananger,” Seungsoo says, crossing his arms, raising his chin high – his posture the embodiment of a practical joke about to take action. “That would be desperate and unprofessional, and I am none of these things.”

“You’re extremely unprofessional,” Jiahang laughs at him, a little mean – all his laughs have something a little mean about them, Hanjae can’t help but notice, when Seungsoo’s involved. “And extremely desperate. You just fucked our sound assistant. We no longer have a sound assistant, because you fucked her.”

“So did Jimin!”

“A fluke,” Zhiming defends himself. “Not happening again.”

“It’s never a fluke with you, Seungsoo. You’re such a man whore. A man whore for staff. Even Sangwon could have pulled you when he was around if he had a pair of tits,” Haegon notes, and Seungsoo gasps, mutters, scandalized, ‘You bastard!’, raises a fist up as if he’s going to hit him, and everyone’s laughing. Hanjae contributes with a grimace. “You’re that gross, you’re really that disgusting, all it would take–”

Behind them, Dylan begins to violently choke on a bite out of his granola bar, hard enough for the whole photo studio to freeze.

Taesong stands up immediately to check on him, and so does Jungwha, their three day old manager, Choi Sangwon’s definitive substitute and the topic of Seungsoo’s most recent infatuation: she rushes forward to aid alongside an assistant, a cup of water materialized out of thin air on her hand, like a trained lifeguard.

It’s too early for any of them to get a good read on her, but Hanjae has working eyes, so he will admit Junghwa is good looking in a mature sort of way, a bit above the ‘K-Pop staff adequate’. She’s not far from Seungsoo’s type, given the fact that he pretty much doesn’t have one. Hanjae has seen him flirt with Seo CEO’s third ex-wife, the second ex-wife, all of Minwoo’s half sisters and, in a disastrous attempt, Dylan’s mom. ("She's just so young, Chihoon! I thought she was your cousin!"

"I don't have a single cousin and you know that! You went for my mom, you animal, the least you can do is own it!")

“Holy shit, Chihoon,” Seungsoo says, tapping him on the back with one hand, fanning him with the other. “You’re alright?”

“My bad– False alarm, guys, my bad–!”, Dylan mutters, still coughing, watery eyes quick in their attempt to scan the room for something, someone.

Hanjae follows their frantic trail until they land on the quiet figure of Haruki by the coffee machine, his back to them, shoulders rigid and on display – wearing the same suit outfit Hanjae has been put on, his in a shade more close to purple than blue.

It fits Haruki splendidly, as must things do.

“Alright, boys, hey, boys!” Jungwha calls out when Dylan’s lungs go back to normal, clapping her hands one loud time. “Break’s over! It’s the real deal, now! So let’s try to have a good day at work today! Fighting!”

They’re set to scatter in trios and duos, the old unit formations, except for Haegon, who’s still on hiatus, still has stitches all over the crown of his head. He only made it because Haruki insisted, and he’s always insisting, lately: “How can we do well without our cheerleader,” he told Haegon in the morning, “Our cute, adorable cheerleader, my very favorite little brother–!”

“Hi,” Hanjae mutters, tapping Haruki gently in the shoulder. Haruki jumps, catching his breath, and Hanjae drops his hand, shoves it behind his own back. “Ah, sorry, if I– I was just going to say we should–”

But Haruki is turning and splinting in front of him before all the words are out, growing out of earshot, out of hold, entering a hallway on the left.

Hanjae, embarrassed, follows.

They’re supposed to go to room 4, but Haruki walks right past it. Hanjae calls back to him from the door, says, “Hyung, that’s not the–”, and then his voice falters, dies out.

Haruki’s already quick pace has grown even quicker, and he’s now running towards the door at the end of the corridor, the one with a red sign written ‘TERRACE’ over it – really running, to the point his body almost slams against the metal when he stops. The door handle makes a loud noise as he tries to push it open, can’t make it, tries again, harder – manages to step out with a strong shove. Hanjae goes after him, frowning, worried.

Outside, the terrace is a gray space, almost the same tone as the sky – rain’s a strong promise on the horizon, a reasonable fear.

Haruki’s standing right at the center. He tries to take in a big and loud gulp of air, can’t, makes a choking sound, lets out a hiss. Hanjae can feel the acute panic coming off him like electricity, gluing itself to his very own skin. He reminds himself to breathe.

Haruki stands an arm out and that’s the distance between them, that’s the nearest he’ll let Hanjae get.

“What’s– What’s happening, what’s wrong, what–?”

“Just,” he’s trembling bad. “Leave, I need– Leave.”

“Now?” Hanjae asks, and he’s making himself bite down on the trail of: ‘But the shoot’, ‘But the gig’, ‘But the job’ so hard, he’s actually got his teeth sinking on his lip.

Haruki nods, sharp and final, and Hanjae feels himself nodding back, frenetic. “Okay, stay– stay here, okay, you’ll leave– we’re leaving, just stay here.”

Hanjae walks back into the building with his head very low, tries to not walk too quickly to bring attention to himself, feels like he’s falling; feels like the whole world is looking at him. He holds his breath while sneaking back into the room they’re using as a closet, picks his and Haruki’s things like a thief: pushing everything into their bags without folding, eyes anxiously looking behind his back, flinching at every outside noise coming through the door.

Haruki’s phone is the last thing he grabs. He only becomes aware of it because it starts ringing. He looks at the screen, a quick run of his eyes. The contact name reads: ‘Don’t Answer Don’t Answer Don’t Answer.’

On the roof, Haruki’s sitting on the floor, resting his forehead against the wall. The back half of an air conditioner hangs close to him, and the leftover water pools near his feet, turning the hem of his pants dark.

They put on the yellow raincoats, plastic hood all the way up, and make a clumsy escape out the studio; Hanjae babbles something at the receptionist about there being equipment in the van, and the woman gives them a distracted ‘go ahead’ nod, an empty courtesy smile.

They walk without a plan, enter on the first bus that stops close: Haruki on the lead, completely reticent, Hanjae only following. There’s still a trail of glitter going down his neck, shiny with sweat, red from stress, Hanjae notices when they sit down. He’s still crying, still whipping at his runny nose with the expensive fabric of his shirt.

Hanjae looks down at his own clothes, the suit vest with no shirt under, a design piece New Wave doesn’t own – he’s wearing eyeliner, a strong smokey eye. They look expensive, and to an outsider, probably peculiar, weird. They don’t even have masks on…

Maybe, Hanjae hopes, trying to hold on to any trail of optimism possible, they could pass as very dedicated cover dancers, maybe–

The sound of Hanjae’s phone ringing makes them both jump in their seats. Haruki comes out of his state of anxious inertia to put a hand on his knee, pressing on it to get his attention. He says, through his teeth, “Do not– Hanjae, do not.”

Hanjae lets the phone ring out. He looks at the receiver: Uhm Junghwa (Manager).

Haruki’s peeking at it too. “Off,” he says, and it’s off.

It’s raining when they step out of the bus. They get maybe five feet down the sidewalk when a phone rings again – this time, Haruki’s. He comes to a sudden halt, and Hanjae bumps into his back and gets a close view of how, in an act of blind rage, he throws it hard on the floor.

“Fuck!” Haruki says, and steps on it once, twice, cracks the screen then the whole device in half. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Hanjae looks at him, wide eyed, mouth hanging open, and watches him pace around, a tense moment, until he loses all steam, goes sit by the closest wall.

Haruki stays for a long time there, one hand gripping the fence, the other pressing over his face, being rained on. Cautiously, Hanjae slides his raincoat off, squats down, close to him, and stands it over both their heads. Rain drips directly into his shoulder, makes a cold path down his neck.

“I hope your–,” a hiccup, a sniff, a faint and unconvincing attempt from Haruki of laughing them both off, “your fantasy’s still– still up.”

“My…?”

“Can you not,” Haruki says, a hiss, “Not look.”

Hanjae complies, doesn’t look. Behind them, a car runs close to the sidewalk, splashes a wave of rainwater on their backs.

“Sasaeng?” Hanjae tries, “Is it a sasaeng, or…”

Haruki lets out a bitter snort. “Imja,” he says, and it makes more sense that he means ‘owner’ rather than ‘marriage partner’; Hanjae can’t hear anything else, can’t connect anything else to something he knows and decode it.

His throat has gone dry, sandy. He clears it, and still, his voice comes off clipped. “Your…? Ah. Ah, I didn’t know– Didn’t know you have someone you were–”

“You know him,” Haruki says. “For years. You– you’ve known him. He gave you your job– Made your job happen.”

It takes a long moment for it to click, for the shape of manager Choi to come to Hanjae’s mind. Haruki’s looking at him like he’s expecting Hanjae to do something horrible: mouth set for a fight, eyes so red they look like they’ve been painted over.

“Hyung,” Hanjae breathes. His voice is an even quieter thing, afraid. “Do you mean– Are you being serious?”

“Am I! Am I serious?!”

He’s up again, quick – Hanjae loses his equilibrium and falls back on the street. Haruki doesn’t wait for him to get up to resume stomping.

It takes two street turns for Hanjae to understand they’re detouring from the dorms.

They sit on another bus stop bench, hop on another bus. A quiet and tense drive, this one. Haruki’s no longer crying, just grinding his teeth.

They go to the front gates of a tiny building, their final destination, and Haruki tells the security guard an apartment number, wais to be buzzed in. He does soon, and Hanjae, yet to be told to leave, goes up with him on the stairs.

Delilah gets the door he bangs on, and Hanjae’s stuck blinking at the sight of her, who shouldn’t still be in Korea. Haruki barges into her place like a hurricane: shoes still on, pushing her a little back, closer to the wall.

They both stare at the spot he occupied on the corridor a second ago, a held breath.

She recovers much quicker than he does. Deh tucks a long lock of her caramel hair behind her ear, greets him with an awkward, “Hanjae, hi. Hi...”, and Hanjae gets overwhelmed by too many things at once; how glad he is to see her, the shame of how they had parted. Her sad face when she told everyone she couldn’t stand to work with them anymore.

“You’re back.”

“I am! I am back!” Deh says. “How could I not! Europe’s too gray for me. The food’s too bad, and...” She sucks air through her teeth, takes an anxious look behind her, back inside. “... And all that.”

Hanjae shakes his head, agrees – agrees to all that even though he has no idea what all that is. There’s a pool of spit on his mouth, and he has to concentrate on gulping it down, has to try more than once.

“Hanjae, baby, look– I’ll send him on his way later. Maybe tonight. Or tomorrow morning. Just…” She trials off. “Please don’t tell the others we met, okay? I don’t want Seungsoo looking for me or asking around. I don’t want to see him again, ever.”

Fair, Hanjae thinks. After everything, fair.

Deh flashes him a final grim before closing the door, still awkward, and it doesn’t last. She drops it for a split second, fully drops it, looks instead concerned, anxious.

Hanjae waits a moment, then moves before he knows it. He presses his ear against the shut door, closes his eyes and hopes to catch anything. A creek of wood. A vacuum cleaner being turned off. The sound of someone channel surfing. Deh saying what might be, “Haruki, what do you want me to do? I can’t know, love. I can’t know if you don’t tell me.”

Another sound drowns everything, nearer. Someone from the apartment on the left starts to unlock their door, it’s about to walk out, and it leaves Hanjae panicking, it makes him jog all the way out of the building, nonstop.

He makes the inverse way back home, alone. His own phone is a hot thing in his back pocket. When he gets to the dorm, Chihoon is the first person he bumps into, planted right beside the shoe rack. Hanjae’s seen him in this set of clothes, short shorts and a knockoff Pokemon shirt, more than he’s seen his own dad’s face these last few years.

Dylan grabs at Hanjae when he notices it’s him, pushes him back out quickly. He puts a finger in front of his mouth – quiet.

“I’ve given you some cover,” he whispers. They’re circling the house, Hanjae realizes, going to the backyard. “Said you were not feeling well. It won’t fly with Minwoo or Taesong, so think of something. And you're not gonna get paid this month, because of the clothes. Neither of you will.” He looks around, eyes sharp in a way Hanjae didn’t think they could be. “Where is he?”

“Deh’s,” Hanjae blurts out, and remembers he promised not to speak of her, grows meek.

He’s tired, deep in the bones tired, from all the walking, all the running. The socks inside his sneakers are still wet, his fingers have gone cold.

“Good,” Dylan says, remarkably unsurprised. “That’s good enough.”

There’s a moment of silence between them. In Hanjae’s head, a pinned image every time he blinks: Haruki’s eyes, red like a bruise.

“Chihoon hyung, I think– I think there’s something wrong with–”

Dylan’s grip on his arm is steady, but no longer comforting when he says, “Hanjae, listen, yes. Yes. Something’s wrong. Too many things–” He shakes his head, clicks his tongue once, and again. “No need for you to worry about it, because there’s nothing you can really do, okay? It’s been too long, now. The time for anyone to really do anything, over.”

He looks like he doesn’t want to be saying it, like all those words taste bitter, bad.

“So just keep being nice,” Dylan concludes, and his voice breaks at the end. “Be nice with him right now, alright? And patient, and normal, just like always, and…”

Dylan doesn’t say what else. He looks down, and Hanjae follows. Near their feet, a trail of black nicotine ash and tiny bits of paper; someone’s worry, someone’s wait.Kind, maybe, Hanjae concludes on his own. Maybe kind was what he was going to say.

March 12th & a Bit Of 13th, 2022.

Sunyoung immediately strikes Hanjae as someone who’s never held a small house party before, and it’s a bit painful to see her try.

She greets them at the door, a little overdressed: Chanel earrings, Chanel bag. “Is that everyone?”, she asks, craning her neck to peek behind them, and when they mumble ‘yes’ she visibly withers.

Taesong steps in front of them to give her a gift – a flower vase so yellow Zhiming had to look away from it, rubbing at his eyes.

She stares at it for a minute, frowns hard, then composes herself, says, “Ah! Thank you so much, oppa! This is so– Yeah, thanks! But you didn’t have to! Gon, baby! I said they didn’t have to!”

“I told you they don’t listen to me,” Haegon mutters. There’s a dark cloud over his face and Sunyoung seems to not mind it. She squeezes his arm when he passes her by, smiles at him prettily.

She checks the corridor one more time, and for a moment Hanjae thinks she looks sad; that she looks angry.

The party is a housewarming party for the brand new double storey apartment in Nine One Hannam she’s sharing with her BombShell leader Yoorim, who strongly opposed herself to throwing anything. Hanjae catches a glimpse of her looking displeased and bothered behind the kitchen aisle, and bows his head a little – she rolls her eyes, turns her back on him, disappears behind a small group of people.

Beomseok refused to come, decided to take the afternoon to go grocery shopping, the night to visit family he can’t take Haegon to see; the side that calls him a parasite. It had been a clear jab, right at Haegon’s face. Even Minwoo thought it was insensitive, and his response to the invite had been nothing but a disgusted face that spelled out ‘no’.

Hanjae watches him move through the living room, greeting some people. Haegon’s been here yesterday, and the day before that, and if Hanjae’s not cautious, he’ll stay over despite their early shooting tomorrow.

“That old man put you on babysitting duty, eh, Hanhan?” Seungsoo leans in to whisper to him, somehow with a drink in hand – white wine. The smell of his cologne is already stuck to the collar of Hanjae’s bottom up by osmosis.

“He’s just concerned. It makes sense to be concerned.”

On their first day back from L.A, Haegon had announced over dinner that he now had a girlfriend: they met last week, and had been dating for three days. The situation had driven Beomseok crazy. Haegon asked if him if wanted to meet her every day for two weeks straight, and he said: no. He eventually got around to meet her and said with even more conviction: no, break up, now.

It’s an age gap, even if very small, but she’s about five years his industry senior, he told Hanjae. And Sunyoung’s from YG Entertainment, the face of too many brands. She’s going to eat him alive, spit him out, leave him heartbroken and Beomseok is going to have to deal with it, and he doesn’t want to have to deal with it.

“She can just like him. People can just like him,” Taesong tried to intervene, high pitched, and Beomseok cutted him off right away, said, “No. No, there’s something– Be serious, Taesong. No.”

The front door dings again, and it takes a long minute for Haegon to untangle his arms from Sunyoung’s waist and let her go get it. Hanjae watches her walk across the house, a firm walk of a supermodel, of someone important, and gets embarrassed with how bad he is at this, how obvious.

Another glimpse her way, and the person with their two feet planted on the ‘welcome home’ carpet is Haruki. He also said he wouldn’t come but gave no excuse, yet: here, dressed nicely. He’s got the same convenience store from years ago under one arm, the one from a memory.

They talk, talk, talk, and he still won’t leave the entrance. Haruki makes her laugh, the most genuine thing Hanjae’s seen Sunyoung do all night. He sees her look at him, look around, then lean closer again: point upstairs and give Haruki a thumbs up as he finally makes his way in, into the stairs and out of sight.

Sunyoung’s back on the couch, to Haegon, and Hanjae makes himself look. They’re fine, they appear very fine, holding hands, he doesn’t have to watch them all night, there’s no need to watch them at all, and–

Hanjae goes up the stairs, which he knows it’s technically off limits. He tries to not let his eyes wander to the photos on the walls, the books on the shelves tucked next to an award behind protective glass, a big shiny plaque framed above it.

There’s only one door with light peeking through, right at the end of the corridor. He taps at it three times, and waits. Another three taps, slightly stronger.

“Occupied,” a voice says from the inside – a tone he knows. “All night.”

Hanjae can’t think of what to say: can’t think of anything at all, for a second. He gives the door another hopeful tap, waits more, and he lets out a sigh of relief when it creeks open. He goes in, closes it quietly behind him, and looks down.

The room’s a bathroom, straight out of a home decoration magazine, all black and white. Haruki seems to be setting up an improv bar on the floor, in the big space between the bathtub and the sink. There’s a bottle of something Hanjae can’t read, blue and half empty, tucked in between his legs like a treasure.

“Ah, you,” he waves at Hanjae’s vague direction, not looking up. “Hello, you. I’m just– Don’t mind the mess. Someone made me something once. ‘Trying to put it together.”

Hanjae hums. He can’t make his hand ease its grip on the doorknob.

It’s been weeks since they abandoned the shoot, and since then Haruki’s been avoiding him constantly. Looks at him from across rooms and seems pained, constantly, and Hanjae hasn’t had the heart to come near.

“What is happening?” Haruki asks, suddenly, and tries to land a smile. He blinks a lot and then not enough looking up at Hanjae. “Down. Down there.”

“Nothing much.”

“How is he?”

“Haegon?” Hanjae asks, and Haruki nods at him loosely, mouths the name without making a sound: ‘Haegon’. “He– Uh, he seems alright.”

“Great couple, yes or no? For our maknae, is she great?”

“I– I don’t know.”

Disappointment flashes vividly through Haruki’s face, and it lands on a sad shagrin. “You don’t know,” he says, to himself, and goes back to emptying his bag with a slouch to his shoulders.

‘Be normal’, Dylan had said that day, his only instructions: ‘Be nice.’

Hanjae lets go of the door and goes to sit in front of him, legs crossed like his are. “What’s it supposed to taste like? The drink.”

There’s no humor in Haruki when he says, “Acid.”

He offers a thermo bottle to Hanjae filled with the failed replica. Hanjae takes a tiny sip and can’t swallow it, feels like his tongue is on fire, and it makes Haruki huff a laugh. “More disgusting than that.”

He makes more combinations that demand more tasting, and Hanjae at times struggles, at times doesn’t – Haruki empties a Soju bottle and refills it with Somaek, calls it ‘Hanjae’s palette cleanser’. He also makes Hanjae go downstairs to grab things they don’t have: more cups, ice and fruit juice, if Sunyoung has any, which she does – too many options.

Hanjae comes back from the trip and sets all his findings at Haruki’s feet, then feels weird about it, exposed about it, and pushes some of it closer to himself.

The bottle opener, they notice a minute later, has disappeared. Hanjae thinks he took it with him to the kitchen and abandoned it on the counter. Worry not, Haruki says; worry not!, because he knows how to open them with his front teeth. It’s a hidden skill, a secret talent.

Haruki asks him to hold a bottle close to his face so he can prove it, and Hanjae does so, but it’s a frail grip, not good. Haruki puts a hand over his to make it steadier, makes it worse. Another hand, a shove closer until their knees are touching. Hanjae adds his free hand into the pile, the lonely hand, and Haruki looks straight at him – looks like he’s saying, ‘Bet?’

It takes a second, really. A pop and the lid comes off in the company of an enormous foam eruption. Haruki gets both his hands away, does a smiley flourish: ‘ta-da!’

“But you shook it! Too much, you–!’ He laughs, and can’t stop laughing. Hanjae’s still holding the bottle and tries to hand it to him, but Haruki shakes his head ‘no’. “For you. It is for you.”

It’s bland beer, he takes notice when he drinks it, but somehow it tastes sweeter.

From the corner of his eyes he catches a glimpse of metal in a corner, and it’s Haruki’s new phone, exiled.

Hanjae is surprised to hear himself ask him, “Are the calls– the calls still coming? The ones from–”

“Always,” Haruki responds, eerily nonchalant. “Always will.”

“It’s not over, then? You still–”

“It is. It is over. It is over the way it can be over.”

“What wouldhe,” Hanjae closes his eyes, reiterates, “If it’s over, what would he still want with you?”

“What do you think,” Haruki asks, staring fixedly at the alcohol going from one bottle to the other. A bit of it it’s running straight to the floor. “What do you think people want with me?”

It’s said– weird. Something in his uncaring tone makes a lump of sadness form in Hanjae’s throat.

“Hyung, you know that, if you everneed to talk to anyone about anything. Me and the guys, we all– We all listen. We would listen.”

“Anything?” Haruki pretends to be impressed. “Big. That is big.”

“Seriously. I’m being serious.”

Haruki looks up at him. Even more alcohol spills to the floor.

“Okay. Okay, anything. Anything…” he hums, dropping the bottles, mimicking being in thought with an obnoxious pout. His mouth is now a purple dot, and his eyes a shiny brown daze...

Hanjae often catches himself wondering if he just knows. If he looks into a mirror and just knows that he’s beautiful in a way that looks hand drawn, that looks meticulously planned: a subject of equal envy and admiration. If Sangwon ever told him that, and if so, how many times, had it come close to enough, had he used the right words to say it, did Haruki believe him when he said it, or if he didn’t – what did it make him feel? What exactly did he make him feel?

Hanjae always thought he was so mean, so bitter. He can’t remember ever hearing him say anything nice to anyone about anything.

Hanjae’s staring, he’s realized, and his eyes hurt. He makes them look down to where Haruki’s got a firm hold around the slim of a bottleneck, tapping a weird rhythm into it, impossible to decipher. He has long fingers with hard skin on them, which isn’t something you would expect. He used to paint, used to do calligraphy; used to go to a prestigious arts academy during high school, all boys.

Hanjae’s still starring, and he’s too close to drunk to properly command himself to stop. He hears Haruki huffs an unheard laugh, suddenly, short and maybe frustrated, maybe not that, and Hanjae’s head snaps up to his face to meet it.

He’s being stared at, too – is being analyzed, too.

“I thought of something. Something I want to say, a thing,” Haruki announces. The grin on his face suddenly looks very, very sharp, like there’s something tugging the corners of his mouth up. “I will whisper to you. On your ear. ‘Gimme your ear and I will tell.”

And with that he comes forward, a sudden and ungracious movement, and doesn’t stop when they’re front to front, an inch apart. He climbs Hanjae up – actually climbs him up, his legs around the middle of his body, cageing him in.

Haruki grims again and it’s lazily, in slow motion. He puts a hand on Hanjae’s chin, tips it high, says, “Not your ear.”

He turns his head to the side. His nose rovers near Hanjae’s head, and Hanjae tries to escape it in reflex, but they’re all too slow, drowned in alcohol.

Into his ear, lips touching skin, Haruki says, “I know you like me. For a very long time. Since that one time. Ever since we went out, we got drunk, that one time.”

“Sorry,” Hanjae mutters, hushed.

“‘Sorry’,” Haruki laughs again, like that’s the funniest word there is, like it’s the meanest. It rings so loud, it has an echo. “Now you sorry?”

Hanjae sinks more into the floor, almost laying down, and Haruki follows, saying, “Are you going away? This close? I am this close, and you going away?”

They’re kissing before Hanjae fully processes how, and it’s a weird kiss at a weird angle; Haruki won’t bend his body all the way down, and Hanjae has to keep craning his neck to meet him midway, his elbows pressing against the tiles, hurting.

He feels a hand slide up his shirt almost immediately, and Hanjae understands, with drunken horror, that he’s being undressed – quickly.

“Ah, wait–” He says, and then can’t get out anything else: Haruki shoved a thumb inside his mouth, in between his teeth, as he goes for the spot where Hanjae’s shoulder and neck meet.

“You smell like home here,” he says, a goosebump. He buries his face there, opens his mouth above it, bites and sucks hard enough to make Hanjae jump – for him to know it’ll leave a pinkish mark, evidence–

It’s exactly then and there that someone bursts in through the door, says a curse loudly, startles the two of them slightly apart, knocks the air out of their lungs.

“Close your eyes! I need to pee right now, right now, close your eyes!”

It’s a tall woman, this one – Hanjae sees her quick rush to the toilet and closes his eyes tight shut.

“If any of you try to act funny and take a single peek, I’ll fucking castrate you both– Hey! Hey, you, back on the floor, don’t come near, I’m fucking serious, I’ll kill you, you fucking–!”

The door clicks shut, and it takes Hanjae a moment to take in the lack of heat above and around him, to correlate the two: Haruki’s gone, walked out, left him.

From the side, he hears an instrident, “Can you at least cover your fucking boner, dude?!”

Hanjae rolls to his side, facing the opposite wall to where the toilet is; he pushes his knuckles into his shut eyes, for good measure. He waits for the girl to finish peeing, and tries not to have an anxiety attack or a heart attack or a nerve attack about everything that happened in the last ten minutes: Haruki on top of him, Haruki no longer on top of him, having to hear a stranger peeing.

“I’m done,” she announces, and he turns back to the same position as before.

There’s little dots of light in his vision, dancing. The girl’s using the sink now, and she has a blonde bob, so blonde and so short. It follows the shape of her mouth and up, even shorter at the back.

“Not a word from you, ever,” she warns, drying her hands on her skirt, pushing it down more, back in place. She gives him a pointed glare that makes Hanjae look down at the state he’s in, at his busted open shirt, a single button in the middle holding it all together. “Not a word from me. Now get the fuck out, please. People need to use the bathroom.”

And she gets going too, without closing the door all the way. The hum of the party downstairs carries over.

Hanjae inhales, looking at the bright ceiling light. His fingers have gone pruney where they were holding him.

[…]

Eventually Hanjae has to get out of the suite, and do a walk of shame back to the housewarming party. He takes down with him all the glass and cups he can manage, not a lot of them, goes straight to the kitchen sink, and begins to wash them, it’s done with them, goes for all of Sunyoung and Yoorim’s dishes.

Around him, the kitchen has emptied out – on the front the living room, mostly emptied out, too, except for little clicks. He spots J.J right in the center of the one installed in the couch, gesticulating enthusiastically, telling someone some story until they make eye contact. He stops, excuses himself, rushes near.

Up close, Jiahang looks at him, up and down, bug eyed, and Hanjae understands he didn’t do a good job of piecing himself back together.

He got a glimpse of his face in the mirror before walking out: lips glossy, bangs far apart and sticking up, somehow, not all the buttons of his shirt tucked in the right cases.

“Hanjae, oh my God. Dylan, Dylan, look!” He calls out, and Hanjae sees Chihoon appear on his left, face slightly dazed. “Oh my God, Dylan! Hanjae!”

“You fucking animal!” Seungsoo, coming out of nowhere, slaps him on the chest hard. “Who? Who who who who?”

They’re all too close, too soon, and Hanjae can’t look anyone in the eyes for too long– he just can’t.

He catches a glimpse of Blonde Bob Piss Girl in a corner, looking bored, on her phone, and stares at her for a moment too long. Everyone follows, looks at her too, and his bandmates erupt into enthusiastic ‘Eeeeeeh!’s. Someone, proprably Seungsoo still, raises his soupy arm up so he can be given high fives, and Hanjae doesn’t know what to do – to let the lie linger or to kill it. What can he even say? What can he say if not that–

Hanjae finds himself grabbing Dylan’s sleeve and tugging at it, leaving behind a damp. He feels like a little kid that broke something, suddenly – overwhelmingly so. “Where ‘d Haruki go?”

“Dude, I didn’t see him. You sure?” Chihoon asks, and Hanjae’s not; he’s not sure.

“Whaaaaat? Haruki came? Haruki’s here?”

“Great. Another one to hunt down. We’re never gonna leave this fucking place in time,” Jiahang whines. “Yoorim noona’s going to delete my number.”

Hanjae asks all of them at once, “We’re leaving?”

“Yeah, you didn’t hear? Sunyoung and Haegon ditched,” Seungsoo says, and Hanjae’s stomach drops. “It’s her house and they ditched, disappeared, poof! Yoorim’s pissed, told everyone to leave. And Taeng’s freaking out! Someone broke his little vase, someone spilled something on him. I think he’s gonna snap. We need to get that freak home.”

“Shit.”

“Yes, Hanjae,” Seungsoo laughs. “Old man was right, after all… Shit.”

[...]

They do a small search around the apartment, the balcony, and conclude: no Haruki anywhere, so they group everyone they have to leave, go wait to be picked up on the sidewalk in front of the Nine One Hannam gates.

“You just dreamed him up, Hanhan! Wouldn’t be the first time,” Seungsoo jokes. It’s a bad joke. O.z shoves him in the chest hard about it, tells him, “Quiet.”

Hanjae looks straight ahead, not at them. In front of him J.J keeps bouncing on the wheel of his feet, saying, ‘I’m going in the front, I’m passenger seat, forget it, it’s me me me me,’ even though no one’s putting up a fight about it.

Minwoo pulls up soon enough on the curve in one of the two black company vans, and downs the window just to give them all an open scowl, then a frown. “I’m only seeing seven of you.”

J.J circles the car to get to the front door, struggles a little to get it open. “Hyung, you’re not gonna believe.”

“I don’t wanna hear it, Jiahang.”

“Shut up, you do. You really really really really do. You were–,” and then he becomes aware of the slouched figure of Hanjae trailing behind him, turns and frowns. “What did I just say!”

“No, I’m…” Hanjae looks at Minwoo looking at him, one eyebrow raised, says, “Sorry.”

Minwoo pinches at his nose, hard. “Just get in the goddamn car, Hanjae, Jesus Christ.”

Hanjae thinks, out of everyone who has a driver’s license, Minwoo drives the shittiest. He needs glasses, he never wears them, he grumbles curses at every slow driver and every rush driver and every driver, in general.

On the way home, he stops the van only once, by popular demand. Taesong steps out to vomit, and spends the rest of the ride jittery about it, cracking his knuckles even when they make no sound.

“We’re so fucked,” Chihoon says when they park inside the dorm’s garage, rubbing his eyes. “It’s 3AM. We’re so fucked.”

While everyone rushes to their rooms to piece pajamas together and form a long row to shower, Hanjae’s elbow to elbow with Dylan, going up the stairs to the second floor as quietly as they can.

He and Haruki have, by far, the best room in the whole house: spacious, with a nice window. It used to be Haruki and Sangwon’s up until he got fired – some excuse about rooming with the manager to learn Korean quicker, about making sure Haruki wouldn’t sneak beer into his room. It makes Hanjae sick now, seeing it, standing so close to it.

Dylan tries the handle once, and the door doesn’t budge, only makes a stubborn click – locked.

Hanjae dries his hand on his jeans, still wet, somehow, asks him, “Is he– He’s in there? Or…?”

Chihoon rests his head against the mahogany and sort of sighs, sort of laughs. “Yeah, definitely home. He’s the only one with the key to lock me out. Classic. Just classic.”

“Get my bed,” Hanjae says – implores. “Use mine, you can– mine, I’ll couch.”

“You’ll couch?” Chihoon looks at him with the trembling smile of someone who’s about to laugh. It falls off his face quickly when he takes in the guilt Hanjae knows he’s wearing openly on his face.

“Hyung, I–” It’s out of his mouth before Hanjae even knows it. “Tonight, something – Something has happened, and I think, think I should– say.”

Dylan’s giving him an analytical once over, and he stops at his moving hands, on his marked neck, looks at the door again – locked.

“Hanjae,” he says his name like it’s an insult, and for a moment Hanjae feels like it really is – his name, an insult.

He crumbles. “I’m sorry, so, so sorry, we just– I didn’t mean to– It was just, just a kiss, I think, and I– I–”

“You kissed him?! ‘You think’? What does that mean? What do you mean ‘you think’?!”

Hanjae looks around and then down, behind him. “Dylan…” he manages, airy, and doesn’t know what he wants the rest of the phrase to be, where he’s trying to take it.

Chihoon’s mouth hangs open, a painful disbelief, and then slowly shuts.

“You know what,” he says harshly, but not angrily – he sounds more disappointed than anything, more tired than anything. “I don’t want to know. Not now. I’ll know, just– Not now. But fucking Hell, Hanjae, you. You just had to, didn’t you? You saw an opportunity and you just had to.”

Hanjae’s breath catches. Dylan is a figure in his eyes, growing blurry.

“I’m taking your bed,” he announces. ”Eveytime he kicks me out from this day on, I’m sleeping on your bed.”

He storms off, his bare feet on the floor a sound until it isn’t anymore.

Hanjae knocks on the door, a small tap. Nothing.

He thinks of saying it again: sorry. But no one’s around to hear it, no one’s around to accept it. There’s no point.

#fictional idol community #fake kpop group #kpop au #kpop fanfic #kpop oc #&& ⠀ [ . . . ] hound on a hunt ⠀⸻ writing .#&& ⠀ [ . . . ] hound on a hunt ⠀⸻ haruki .#&& ⠀ [ . . . ] hound on a hunt ⠀⸻ hanjae .#&& ⠀ [ . . . ] hound on a hunt ⠀⸻ dylan .

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bookishlilcorner · 3 years ago

Text

Agents of Night and Starlight - Chapter 2

A Nessian, Gwynriel and Elucien centric fanfic (with Emorie on the side).

Modern Fantasy!AU, Fantasy action, Fluff, Angst, Comedy.

TW(s): mentions of stalking, dating violence, sexual violence and abuse. Violence, blood and swearing.

Word Count: 6.2k

Tag list: @airam101 @faeriebambula @acloudyskyy @strawberry-lemondade (feel free to tell me if you want to be on the tag list.)

I planned to get this out last week, but I failed hahaha. Anyways, here is chapter two. I hope you enjoy it :)

Sypnosis: In another universe where ACOTAR is set in a modern fantasy world, the Valkyries are an independent group of secret agents composed of Agent Silver, Agent Ghost, Agent Nymph and Agent Ivy walking the streets of Velaris with one goal in mind: to take down the biggest criminals corrupting the City of Starlight. One night, a particularly dark mission causes them to encounter four members of a unit called the IC working under the High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court. Despite being at each other’s throats, the rulers of Night decide to make them work together in order to stop a death lord from raising an army of the undead and launching what could become the bloodiest war in Prythian history. With trainings, missions, secrets revealed, friendships and love at the rendez-vous, they will have to work hard to bring down the death lord threatening the fragile peace in Prythian, that is if they don’t tear each other apart first.

SERIES: Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

______________________________________________________________

A sigh left Lucien’s lips as he crossed one leg on the other, snapping his fingers. At each snap, a small flame flickered less than an inch above his thumb for a brief second before disappearing and reappearing at the next snap. He gazed at his friendly coworkers sitting around the round table discussing the previous night’s meeting with a grim expression displayed onto their faces. On his right, Mor was toying with a parchment paper with a dark burgundy seal clinging at the end. It was the same one she found in the house on the hill’s basement, minutes before it ended up in flames and embers.

Memories of that night cloaked his mind. The mission ended up a dead end with Azriel injured. He glanced at the Illyrian sitting next to Cassian, at the white bandage wrapped around his shoulder under his black tank top loosely. Fortunately, the burn was not too severe and paired with the Fae’s fast healing, it should be okay and completely gone by the end of the week.

Deep in his thoughts, he recalled yesterday’s meeting with their bosses.

“Lucien, why do you think it was a false report? It could’ve possibly be that our enemy got his hands on the object first.” The tall black haired man asked, his deep hypnotic voice echoed in the room, his violet eyes shrouded with curiosity.

Sitting beside Cassian, Lucien merely stood up and marched in front of the table of monitors, keyboards and other technologically advanced equipment. His hacking workplace. He typed on his keyboard in a quick, fast pace before swiftly tracing an invisible line between the monitor and the center of the round table. Lights turned off in the headquarters instantly, quickly followed by flashes of green, blue and pink lights as a holographic image emerged from thin air.

Lucien spread out his thumb and index fingers in an attempt to expand the hologram, which portrayed the house on the hill in both normal and infrared imaging. Swiping his finger in the void like he would on a cellphone screen, more images of different parts of the house showed up one by one.

“Magical objects have different components than usual ones. They are created from natural tangible magic such as pixies’ enchanted woods, unicorns’ silky hairs and many other forms that I don’t think is necessary to name. They usually have heightened luminosity, and in our case, have a stronger, longer lasting heat radiation that can affect its surrounding area days after it’s gone.”

“Your point?” Cassian retorted.

Lucien rolled his eyes. “As you can see in these pictures, there is no magically induced heat radiation remaining anywhere. Not under the floors, in the walls, in the drawers, nowhere. It’s as if it has never been there to begin with.”

“It doesn’t mean anything. The enemies could have found it a long time ago, long enough for the radiation to have subdued.” An enchanting, soft spoken feminine voice said.

He turned to his second boss sitting beside the tall man with violet eyes. Her golden brown hair was held up in an effortless messy ponytail, her curtain bangs cascading softly on her temples as her piercing blue gray eyes stared at him.

Azriel’s voice echoed in the room. “I have been watching the place since we got word of it. No one got in or out. And considering that our enemy got word of its supposed location around the same time, I doubt he got his hands on it.”

However, the doubt was still latched on his face. On everyone’s faces.

“We might not be a hundred percent certain, but it is highly unlikely that they got it.” Lucien added.

“Stop that. It’s getting annoying.” Mor’s captivating voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

She stared at his hand, a flame dancing above as if it was mocking her. Her long blonde hair was put in a high ponytail, the ends resting on top of her emerald turtleneck top, her arms bare.

She wore an irritated look on her face. Lucien’s lips tilted into a smirk, bringing out his handsome features. As if to prove a point, he snapped his long fingers once more, annoying her further. She rolled her eyes and grabbed his hand with more gentleness than expected, putting it on the table while muttering about what a gigantic asshole he was. He bit his bottom lip to stop himself from laughing.

“So, anything new?” Cassian’s voice echoed in the empty room.

He was no longer at Azriel’s side. Instead, he was pacing back and forth in front of them.

“Still an empty piece of paper.” Mor answered, shaking the parchment before placing it on the pristine table in a rough thud. “Maybe I should’ve left it there. I don’t know why I kept it.”

“You said the seal was familiar to you. You might’ve seen it somewhere. Maybe it could be something linked to your family?”

“Probably.” She said tightly.

The bright light in her eyes dimmed, and Cassian cursed himself a fool.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve-”

She shook her head. “No. It’s alright. You brought up a fair point. Azriel, what about that picture?”

The shadowsinger looked at the painting in the parchment paper, staring at the uncanny woman in gold and blue for a few seconds before turning away. He couldn’t stand it. The picture. The woman. Every time he glanced at it, at her, an unmistakable panic surged inside him and he didn’t know why, except that she radiated one of the most corrupted energy he had ever felt.

He turned the paper around, gazing at the words written.

In death reigns no stillness, only torment remains.

“I’m as clueless as you are.” He said, frustrated. “Outside of that dark energy I’m sensing, there’s nothing much. It gives me a headache.”

Lucien tossed a mug to him. “Here. That will help.”

He took a sip of the yellow and white stripped mug, his lips turning up and his eyebrows scrunching down as he swallowed difficultly. “What in the hell is this shit?”

Cassian snickered while the redhead tried to contain himself. “Lavender and lion lilies tea. Oh, and I added ginger and silver tongued snake skin. A delicacy in the Autumn Court.”

“No shit you left.”

A bubble of laugh escaped their lips.

“I’m joking. Cassian put salt in it while I was brewing it. Here is the actual one.” He gave him another mug, pure white. “Lemon and lavender tea. No tricks, except a sprinkle of pixie dust to speed up the relief.”

Tentatively, the shadowsinger took another sip, then another one, and yet another one. When he was finally satisfied with his drink, he put it down and looked at the picture again. Lucien rolled his eyes at him and went back to his snapping fingers and fire.

“Maybe it has to do with demons and hell? The whole death and torment seem to lead to that. It would also explain the dark energy you’re feeling.” Mor tentatively said.

The Illyrian shook his head. “It’s not just dark energy. It’s corrupted, but not in an inherently evil way. It’s as if it was changed.”

A pause resonated before he continued, “All the rage and anger I felt that night had a substantial amount of sadness, grief and guilt behind it. An array of emotions with no beginning and no ending. Just a bottomless sea of complexity.”

“What else did you feel?” Lucien asked.

“Not feel – heard. I heard screaming and roaring, cracking flames. They sounded like they were dying.”

Silence once again reigned in the room. Heavy and somber.

Cassian was the first to break it. “This medium spiritual shit you’ve got has to be one of the weirdest things I’ve ever encountered. Remind me why we’re friends again?”

“You love weird shit.”

The taller Illyrian scoffed. “And that alone granted me access to the scariest stuffs I’ve ever seen.”

“Scarier than Bryaxis?” Mor teased.

He gave her an incredulous look. “Now, don’t be ridiculous.”

She laughed in response. Lucien’s lips tilted upside positively at their exchange.

“Maybe the words have to do with dying. You did hear sounds of people dying. Perhaps these souls are condemned to that house in torment, unable to rest in peace.” Cassian said, staring down at the paper Azriel was holding.

“You’re right. It does make sense.” Azriel added.

Lucien shook his head. “No, hold on. You heard screaming and fire blasting, but it doesn’t explain how those ancient paintings survived the fire.”

They hummed at his words, nodding their heads as silence yet again echoed painfully. Bored from the lack of conversation, Cassian stepped out into the vast opposite side of the room behind the monitors and lowered himself into a plank position, starting a round of push ups.

Mor gazed into the blank parchment paper in her hand, growing significantly frustrated the longer she tried to figure it out. To no avail. Sighing loudly, she pushed it angrily to Lucien’s way, rubbing her temples. “This paper is getting on my fucking nerves. There’s nothing on it, and yet I can’t shake the feeling there’s more to it. My powers are useless for this.”

“Why are you giving it to me?”

“You’ve got some spell breaking magic. Maybe there’s an enchantment that is hiding something on it. If that is the case, only you could break it.”

He pushed it back to her. “I checked it yesterday. There’s no trace of an enchantment. No scent, no pull, nothing.”

“And your eye didn’t catch anything?”

He felt self-conscious under the curious eyes of the woman in front of him watching his other eye. The brutal scars around the socket seemingly itched under the sudden attention. Brown to metal gold. A slight gleam of light ignited from within the gold. Memories threatened to rise from the depths of his mind, therefore he closed his eyes, mentally pushing them back down.

“No.” He said nonchalantly as if nothing happened.

She groaned, hitting her forehead on the wood as she laid down on the clean beige table. Lucien resumed his usual fire trick. Each snapping sound and fire cracking in the void increased the frustration inside the blonde High Fae like the incessant sound of a bee passing by.

Turning her head to face Lucien, paper in hand, she exclaimed, “Cauldron, for fuck’s sake, Lucien! Stop- Oh what the...”

The timber of her voice increased, catching the attention of the half-sleeping short haired Illyrian and Cassian, who stopped his workout to march back to the round table. Lucien’s eyes widened, his golden metal eye lighting up in a faint, golden white hue as he took in the phenomenon happening before his eyes.

A slow, but consistent emergence of ink appeared, forming dots, lines and drawings on the paper. Roads appeared, followed by buildings, street names, and lanterns. Black ink spread out in the once blank parchment under the glowing amber hue of Lucien’s fire, revealing a map.

“It’s your flame.” Azriel’s deep voice echoed. He sounded closer, and indeed he was. The shadowsinger was standing right next to the redhead. “It looks like it’s written from heat activated ink.”

Mor made a sound of realization. “That’s why our powers didn’t work. We couldn’t smell any magic or enchantment because it was never enchanted in the first place. It’s invisible ink from the human lands. Why didn’t we think of that?”

They inspected the paper, Lucien’s flame dancing above them. The map showed a certain area of Velaris. A neighborhood they were all accustomed to. An X mark emerged on top of a particular building..

A well known building.

“That’s the Heavenly.” Mor said. “That’s the club I own.”

Above the X, an inscription appeared, displaying the following words.

La luciole de l’au delà.

Cassian repeated the words, voice thick from attempting to pronounce the foreign words. “It sounds like a language from the continent. It means the firefly of beyond.”

Three shocked faces swiftly turned at him.

“What? I actually do the work for my job. You should do the same, you lazy asses.”

“Luciole de l’au delà. That’s the word I came across when I was researching about the magical orb. It seems to be its name. I shouldn’t have ignored it. The meaning’s not quite firefly of beyond, more like firefly of the afterlife.” Lucien observed.

Cassian shrugged. “Both means the same thing. Beyond is just a poetic way of saying afterlife.”

“That’s where the orb is located.” Mor exclaimed. “It was never supposed to be in the house on the hill, just the paper for its location.”

Her mood grew better as the realization sunk in. They didn’t get false reports, not really. It just wasn’t what they thought it was. Relief dawned upon them as they sighed, content that their mission was not a failure. The enemy didn’t get their hands on the object. Not yet at least.

More words revealed themselves on the paper.

May 14th, 11:15 PM.

“Fuck.” Azriel swore, rubbing his hand on his well kept, trimmed beard in thoughts. “It’s his. He surely sent someone to leave it in the house for his allies in town to retrieve it. Look, it’s the seal of the never-ending lake. His seal. It’s an old one. One he stopped using years ago, but it’s his nevertheless.”

He pointed at the burgundy wax at the end of the paper. And realization hit them in full force.

“That’s probably why it felt familiar yet couldn’t remember.” Mor said. “But why didn’t they just take it?”

“We probably got to it first.”

They turned their heads back to the map, staring into the ink in thought. Lucien’s flame soon dimmed out, and the black ink began fading slowly until the parchment was once again blank.

“They probably got tipped off that we were going there. That would explain the bomb.”

Lucien added to the shadowsinger’s words, “Since he suspected we’d get there and find the map, he probably used another way to get the message across. They are planning to infiltrate your club on that specific date. They’re most likely gathering their forces as we speak.”

Cassian smirked, crossing his muscular arms on his chest. “So we stop them.”

The gleam in his eyes was a telltale sign that he had a great idea.

“What’s the plan?” Mor asked.

They all looked at Cassian. The strategist. The one who knew the art of war like an old friend. He began sharing what was on his mind, and they discussed the best strategy for the upcoming night.

They had no intentions of letting the magical relic fall into his evil hands.

May 14th was in three days, and they strived for nothing less than triumph.

The orb was theirs.

“So what have I missed?”

Gwyn, Emerie and Elain turned around to see Nesta closing the glass door behind her as she made her entry in the Twilight Zone.

The place was grandiose, yet still kept a touch of coziness. A vast bookshelf covered the entirety of the windowless right wall, its shelves filled with books of various sizes and genres. The warm brown chairs had soft cushions for comfort and surrounded rectangular tables of the same color. Small bouquets of white gardenias and pink carnations hanged from the walls and a delicious aroma of coffee and sweets filled the whole space. The left wall, on the other hand, had glass windows peering into the streets of Velaris with diverse flowers displayed on the window boxes outside. The back was undeniably the register and work area as evidenced by the coffee machines, golden sink and the display refrigerator containing sandwiches, bottled drinks and desserts. A grand chandelier stood in the middle of the café under the never ending ceiling. An enchantment was casted to make it look like the night sky, as if staring up to the massive universe. Faerie lights gleamed in cerulean, emerald, violet and pink like stars. The rays of the sun setting passed through the glass windows, transforming the whole café into the perfect crossroad of day and night.

It was all owned by Emerie and Gwyn. They came up with the idea to open an enchanted library café a few years back and since then, received a wonderful success.

They were sitting on a table near the register. Elain was on her rose gold laptop, her eyebrows scrunched in concentration with messy, curled hairs framing her beautiful face. Her long brown hair styled in a loose side braid rested on her silk muted yellow blouse. Gwyn and Emerie had their hair in ponytails and a navy blue apron with the words Twilight Zone café in gold.

A wide smile brightened the redhead’s face as she said warmly, “Oh, hey Nesta. We’ve just discovered something in Silas’s files. Come take a sit.” She patted the empty seat next to her.

Nesta crossed the room to the golden brown chair, sitting down gracefully and crossing her jeans cladded long legs. She had her hair in her usual bun, strands of hair framing her face. She casted a quick glance at Elain and Emerie seated in front of her before asking, “Why did you enchant the ceiling so early? Night has not yet fallen.”

Emerie shrugged her shoulders, turning her attention away from the screen, “It’s about to anyways. Plus, we wanted a nice atmosphere while we were discussing.”

“No clients?”

“We had some ten minutes ago. It’s not the rush hour anyways.” Gwyn retorted, stretching her long arms, “Anyways, look what Elain found.”

She nodded at Elain, who turned her laptop towards her sister. The screen showed a digital map of a neighborhood in Velaris. Names were written on top of buildings, national parks and open air spaces. Nesta opened her mouth in an attempt to say something when she noticed one particular block depicted differently than others. It was glowing slightly. A big red X marked the Heavenly night club. It was quite reputed for being the best one in town. The words May 14th, 11:15 PM and La luciole de l’au delà were written as well.

“What does that mean?” Nesta asked.

Her sister shrugged her shoulders, turning her device back to her and typing quickly on her keyboard, “It translates to firefly of beyond in a foreign language I can’t pronounce. I’m unsure of what it could be.”

Gwyn played with her bracelet, “It’s certainly not just a firefly. It wouldn’t make sense. It probably has a deeper, figurative meaning.”

“I’m searching through the data bases. Something should come up.”

“It’s the Heavenly. It’s the best night club in the city for various reasons, including being lesser faeries’ favorite. What do you think it means?” Emerie said, arching her perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

Gwyn scrunched her eyebrows, wide eyed, and exclaimed, “You mean there’s another machine? Elain and I searched through Silas’ company mainframe three times to make sure there wasn’t another one. The one at the charity event was supposed to be a unique prototype.”

“It is a unique prototype.” Elain says, shaking her head, “But I don’t think it has anything to do with this. Or even Silas. It doesn’t feel right.”

They shared a look, an air of understanding hovering over them in a loud stillness.

“Is it the same feeling as the other night during game night?” Gwyn asked, a faint concern shining in those teal eyes. “Is your power...?”

The brown haired High Fae sighed, “Not... exactly. It does feel like my power, but it’s not like the last time. It just feels like it’s crucial. Deadly important.”

Nesta watched Elain with concern and curiosity, knowing better than to take her sister’s words with a grain of salt, especially when she had this haunting expression in her dark brown eyes. They all did, aware of her uncanny ability. Elain possessed a strange, rare power, one as ancient as the old legends. She had the ability to see events that have not yet happened. Events that will unfold in the future. Humans called it clairvoyance, Faes called it seer. One of the few magical capabilities that delve into the realm of the unseen. No one knew how or why it chooses certain individuals to bear it, but Elain was one of them.

That other night after the mission ended with Elain lying on the floor, game cards falling from her hand. Her eyes clouded in white gray that seemed to move around, churning and twisting and covering her irises. Her power usually comes to her in the form of visions, and if not, then in the form gut feelings that often made her feel nauseous. And that night, her vision showed a house burning down and people burning alive. Therefore, Nesta, Gwyn and Emerie winnowed to the location to save them from that fate, far enough to not be caught.

The visions came without warning and were uncontrollable, but she had learned that she could master some of it through her gut feelings and that she had to learn how to trigger the visions herself if they didn’t come naturally. Elain remembered the first time she had one in front of her friends. She opened up about her power, and she was relieved to find out she was not the only one with strange abilities.

“So,” Emerie cut the reigning silence, “Let’s check through the data bases.”

Elain looked at the beautiful Illyrian smiling at her and nodded.

Suddenly, the bell chimed, alerting them of the entrance of new customers.

Gwyn stood up, raising her hand in the universal stop signal to Emerie, who began to move. “No need. I’ll take care of them this time. You worked the whole day. Stay with Nesta and Elain.”

Her friend and coworker smiled and rested her back on the chair. Gwyn fixed her apron properly and walked behind the counter to greet the arriving clients, “Good evening! Welcome to the Twilight Zone. How can I help you?”

She looked at the two clients, a man and a woman. The woman looked High Fae and was strikingly beautiful. She wore a dark red long sleeved shirt that had a cut above her chest, revealing a slight cleavage and leather pants. Her blonde hair was up in a neat ponytail and her eyes were glancing up at the menu above. She looked like royalty. Noticing Gwyn, a beautiful smile stretched her red lips as she greeted her back before talking to the man beside her. She smiled before turning her attention to the other customer, and she almost lost the ability the breathe.

To say he was handsome was underwhelming. It didn’t do him justice. His beauty was almost painful. He was gorgeous beyond reason. His short black hair fell in silky waves on his head, his hazel eyes like ambers as he stared at the menu in thoughtfulness. He had sharp, angular features. Sharp nose, sharp jawline under his neatly trimmed beard and cold, unflinching eyes. Dressed in all black, he stood tall in the café. He scratched his neck, his skin a beautiful golden brown before reaching in the pockets of his pants to retrieve what seemed to be a wallet. She noticed he had wings, wide and black bat like wings just like Emerie’s. It didn’t take her a second to realize he was an Illyrian.

He looked like he was made of ice and lightning, carved from the earth itself.

“I’ll pay this time.” His voice was deep, almost cold, before looking at Gwyn. He almost stopped moving, his eyes never leaving hers for a moment before walking toward the counter.

Gwyn shook her head, willing her senses to calm down. So what if he was beyond handsome? It’s not like she never saw handsome men before.

However, she knew no man has ever had that big of an impact on her. No man ever made her feel so breathless before, and it almost irritated her.

She could feel her friends’ gazes on them as they approached her. Keeping a smile on her face, she asked, “So what would you like to order?”

“One iced Americano...” He began.

She nodded, tapping his order on her screen. “And what would your lover have?”

Their speechless, distraught expression on their faces almost made her laugh. The woman shook her head, making a swift motion with her hand at his direction, resulting in her friend rolling his eyes half heartedly.

“Oh no, we are not together. Definitely not. And besides, I don’t particularly swing that… way.” Her brown eyes went up and down at her with a smile, a certain expression in her eyes that Gwyn quickly caught onto.

“Oh. Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend-”

They shook their heads.

“It’s okay,” the Illyrian man said, “You did not offend us.”

Gwyn nodded before looking back down on her tablet, “One Iced Americano and…”

“A strawberry and peach refresher with three pumps of moon lily syrup and lemonade.” He added, “To go.”

She quickly tapped that in and revealed the total amount. He quickly paid with his card before thanking her. She felt a faint blush rising and quickly turned around to prepare their drinks.

Emerie watched the entire exchange with a smirk on her face. She briefly locked eyes with Nesta and Elain, immediately understanding that they all noticed their friend’s blushing at the sight of the Illyrian man. Turning back towards the customers, she stared at the blonde High Fae and sighed.

She was indeed very beautiful. She looked like the dawn rising after dark, and Emerie felt a warm feeling moving inside her like a wave. She unconsciously bit her bottom lip. The High Fae’s warm brown eyes gleamed under the light of the chandelier and her full mouth started moving, her voice captivating and as clear as crystal

“I’ll wait for you by the motorbike.” She said to her friend before turning around.

As she was walking back towards the exit, her eyes caught Emerie staring at her. The Illyrian woman felt a blush creeping up as the blonde haired woman made eye contact with her. Noticing how much she affected her, the customer smirked and winked at her before pushing the glass door open, walking toward a large, matte black motorbike.

Nesta couldn’t help but laugh at her. “Look who‘s blushing now. She tickled your fancy?”

The Illyrian looked at her unamused, “Shut up.”

“And she is into women, according to her obvious statement earlier.” Elain added on, crossing her arms on her chest.

They both gloated at the sight of Emerie looking so flustered and at loss for words. Frustrated, she ran a hand through her thick hair. It was embarrassing enough that they caught her admiring the blonde woman, but it was another, much worse thing to be teased about it.

But then again, she would do it to them in a heartbeat given the chance.

She turned toward the register in time to see Gwyn giving the drinks to the Illyrian, and his fingers lightly brushed against hers. Startled by the sudden contact, she swiftly moved her hands away. The customer apologized, to which she shook her head and said something along the lines of no worries before wishing him a good evening.

The redhead walked back toward the table they were seated and sat down next to Nesta, looking at the two customers discussing in front of their motorbike.

“Gorgeous, aren’t they?” Nesta asked, a teasing smirk on her face. “You can’t seem to take your eyes off him.”

Gwyn swiftly tapped her shoulder, “So what? He’s handsome, that’s all.”

“That’s all? If I were you, I’d give him my number so that we could meet and have some fun time. You know what I mean. He’s almost regal. Tall, dark, almost lethal.”

Gwyn rolled her eyes, cursing the faint blush making her cheeks warm as a deliciously wild image appeared in her mind.

“Shut up.”

“To be fair, Emerie was just as affected as you were by the woman with him.” Elain added on with a smile and knowing glance at the dark beauty beside her.

Emerie sighed, shaking her head. She pointedly ignored her and asked the redhead, “What did they order?”

“An iced Americano and a strawberry peach refresher.”

“He has such basic taste.” Elain rolled her eyes dramatically.

They looked at the customers as they climbed on the motorbike, the man at the front. He paused on putting his helmet, taking a sip of-

“Oh, nevermind what I said.”

“The strawberry and peach refresher was for him?” Nesta exclaimed before laughing. “Okay, I know I shouldn’t laugh, but come on! It’s still funny. The dark beefy bike guy likes his drink pink and fruity.”

Gwyn bit her bottom lip to contain herself from laughing as well. She watched as they drove away before a sound from the laptop resonated.

“Oh, found something.” Elain says, her focus back on the task at hand. “I found an image. It seems like the luciol — firefly whatever — is an ancient pixie relic.” She squinted her eyes at the small paragraph below the spherical orb before adding on, “It is an ancient object made to enhance spiritual rituals, particularly efficient to make a contact with the dead.”

“And Silas, or whoever sent that to him at least, wants that object.” Nesta said with serious expression on her beautiful face, “That can’t be any good.”

“We should go get it.” Elain started before voices interrupted her.

They echoed from the laptop, and Elain opened another page of what seemed like the media. News of Silas’ arrest were spreading on every news outlets.

“— formed a corporation with the intentions of wiping off the lesser faeries’ population in Velaris. An anonymous group found his plan and managed to single handedly stop him. Now, a word from our High Lord and High Lady.”

The rulers of Night appeared, standing next to each other as camera flashes flickered. The High Lord was handsome, no doubts in that, with his short blue black hair neatly styled. His violet eyes expressed anger and disappointment as he spoke. He wore a deep black and navy blue suit that complimented his brown skin. On his side stood the High Lady. She was younger than him and wore a light blue dress with golden brown hair cascading down her waist. She had freckles splattered on her pale cheeks and gorgeous blue gray eyes. Her expression mirrored her husband’s.

She added to her husband’s words, “As well intentioned as they were, vigilante activities are not tolerated legally. However, considering that no major breaches of the law happened, they were heroes that night, saving a third of the population —“

“The High Lady is such a beautiful, respectful leader. Twenty-three years old and yet she successfully adapted to her role as ruler. I’m twenty-seven and yet still live with roommates.” Gwyn exclaimed, crossing her arms on her chest.

Emerie kicked her leg under the table, resulting in Gwyn yelping halfheartedly. As they started a fake argument, they missed the pointed look Nesta and Elain shared, who suddenly went very quiet.

Another news outlet started speaking about the new upcoming Sellyn Drake romance novel. Nesta, Emerie and Gwyn discussed passionately about it and how they must pre-order a few copies for their library. Elain, however, didn’t pay any attention to them. She was staring at the window, or more specifically, at the window box full of flowers. A certain one caught her attention, its petals a soft peachy pink and its shape like bells going downwards. A sign underneath read Poisonous to humans. Do not touch.

“Do you like it?” Gwyn asked, “We got it from your shop. Cerridwen came to help us plant it. I forgot its name, it was quite intriguing. It was… uhm… fla — no, it was named f-”

“Foxglove.” The brunette’s voice was calm.

“Ah yes, foxglove. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Elain stayed silent.

Desperate to change the conversation, she said, “We should find that object. I keep having the sensation that terrible things will happen if we don’t intervene.”

“What things?” Her sister asked, stopping her previous argument about romance novels.

An idea came in her mind. It was risky, but could be totally worth it.

“Maybe I can trigger a vision? If I concentrate hard enough.”

They all shared a glance.

“I’m not sure…” Gwyn started.

“Not that we don’t believe in you and your abilities.” Emerie added quickly when she saw her friend furrowing her eyebrows, “We’re just worried you’ll end up like the other night. Or that more damage happens to you.”

Nesta nodded, “Last time, you bit your lip pretty badly and hit your head on the floor.”

“I know,” she started, “but I want to make sure that my gut feeling’s right. It’s nauseating. You can hold me if I start shaking.”

Closing her eyes, she made a mental review of all the things she had learned about triggering visions. The resources were scarce, but she fortunately managed to find some. She took a deep breathe, willing her mind to stay still and void, before focusing solely on the growing sensation in her stomach. She felt hands holding her arms, grounding her in case her body would start convulsing.

Ten minutes passed by and nothing happened. The women all looked at each other. Maybe it didn’t work. Gwyn was about to call it quit when Elain opened her eyes.

They were fully white.

The cloudy white fumes covered her entire irises, twisting and moving around. She stared at the emptiness and her head suddenly tilted up to the ceiling. Fortunately, her body was still, no shaking in sight. They didn’t want to risk calling her name, not in that state, fearing some damage could happen to her brain. Gwyn swiftly enchanted the windows, tinting them deep enough that outsiders can’t see inside the café.

Elain was deep in her vision, but couldn’t see anything else other than darkness. All she could feel was scorching heat. Then, the pure darkness seemed to move, revealing burned trees followed by buildings collapsing. A bright orange moon lighted up the dark reddish sky as buildings crashed down. Confused, she tried to see further, but the vision stayed unchanged, as uncontrollable as tempests. Deep throaty voices sounding like they came from the depths of the earth chanted some hymn in a foreign language. The once burning air soon transformed into a scent so putrid and rotten that she gagged. Horrified, she saw corpses everywhere. Some cut and burned so badly they were indecipherable, others half eaten and horribly dismembered. And in between those rotting corpse, the orb was there, glowing a faint purple hue. All of a sudden, a male face appeared inside. He looked demonic, unreal, and his obsidian eyes stared directly at her.

That was at this moment that she started shaking. Nesta and Emerie, noticing the quick change, immediately held her down, trying to stabilize her as much as they could. Gwyn held her hands, eyes full of worry and concern. She noticed blood coming out of her mouth and started to panic.

“We should get her out of her mind.”

“Are you insane? It could damage her.” Nesta exclaimed.

“What else do you proposed? She’s getting hurt regardless.”

Tears started to fall down her white eyes. Nesta panicked, wrapping her arms around her sister in an attempt to stabilize and comfort her. Emerie held her tighter as well. They had no idea what she could be seeing.They knew there was nothing they could do to help, and this knowledge left them shudder in worry. The next few minutes that passed by felt like hours when she stopped moving all at once.

The white in her eyes had disappeared, revealing her beautiful dark brown eyes again. She raised her hand at her temple, her face twisting in pain before saying, “I have a massive headache. And did I bite my tongue?”

Her voice sounded rough.

Gwyn left to the counter to get her a glass of water. Nesta stayed by her side, moving strands of hair stuck on her sweaty forehead. “Are you alright, Elain? Are you hurt?”

“Outside of a headache and swelling tongue? Yeah, I’m fine.”

She quickly downed the water the nymph gave her, thanking her friend.

“What did you see?” Emerie asked tentatively.

Elain shivered as the memory of the vision flashed in her mind, but willed herself to stay steady. “A burning city. Dismembered rotting corpses. And the orb was there on the ground, through it stared — I don’t know what he was —but his obsidian eyes stared at me. Then, a trail of images moved quickly, and I saw masked men take the orb and give it to him, until all of a sudden I saw…”

The girls waited patiently for her to finish. Their eyes, full of concern and curiosity, were focused on her.

She swallowed, wiping her tears. “An army of the undead. The orb can bring back to life a whole army from the other world, and if it falls under his hands, an apocalypse will follow. No one will survive.”

She added, “We have to stop this. We have to get the orb before they do. Whoever they are, they are with him. They’re planning to give it to him.“

“And Silas certainly worked for him. That would explain why he has the map.” Emerie said.

Elain nodded, taking deep breaths.

Nesta stood up. “Then we know what to do. Let’s get the orb before them.”

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