#was because of my stupid vaping habit

[zooophagous]

like, because nicotine or because vapes? coz i vape weed a lot and never anything else but i thought that wasn't as bad

Specifically nicotine vapes. Weed vapes are probably not good for you either but THC doesn't match the pure addictive quality of nicotine. I have clients in my chair who get upset that they can't vape in my studio (legally they can't and I'd get in trouble with not only my landlord but the state)

It's to the point where they're so dependent on it It's actually annoying even beyond second hand smoke reasons. Their lives are so consumed by the need for their nicotine fix that they can't sit nicely in a 45 minute appointment without it.

Having seen first hand what an incurable nicotine habit does to people, I am incredibly worried for them. They know lung cancer is a thing, sure. But they don't know about vascular diseases that can make you an amputee.

They know about lung cancer but they don't appreciate that lung cancer can become brain cancer and literally leave them a brain damaged angry shell of their former selves living with constant nerve pain.

Some of the smartest people I know have become deranged and demented conspiracy theorists who only ever talk to their family to accuse them and insult them because of the damage cancer and chemo did to their brains, and it all started with a lung nodule that was born out of a decades long nicotine habit.

It's a rotten awful poison. We finally escaped the clutches of cigarettes everywhere and things were looking up and now every 16 year old is hooked on these stupid fucking vapes and I fucking hate it.

[renthony]

Tobacco users aren't dirty or stupid, and some of y'all are deeply poisoned by DARE-style propaganda.

Even from people who are supposedly "supportive" of addicts and users, I see so much hateful vitriol toward smokers, as if nicotine addiction is somehow The Worst Kind, and it's okay to target them as Terrible Monsters, even from people who should know better.

"But I have TRAUMA--" Trauma doesn't give you the right to be cruel to every single smoker in the world. It does not give you the right to assume the worst of every single smoker you meet.

"But they pollute my air--" Designated smoking spots in public areas have been a thing for decades now, and I have never met a single smoker who wasn't perfectly willing to move to another location to smoke, as long as they are asked respectfully and not treated like criminals or monsters just for smoking. If you approach a smoker and treat them like a criminal and act like they're intentionally trying to poison you, they have every right to get annoyed at you. And if an individual smoker is a dick about it? That's still the individual, not smokers as a whole.

"But it sets off my asthma--" This is what is known as a "competing access need." Smokers deserve space to smoke, because drug withdrawal is severe and is a legitimate medical issue. Non-smokers and those with respiratory issues deserve smoke-free air. Two things can be true at once, and the answer is not, "so we dehumanize smokers!" Also, y'all may be shocked to learn this, but there are asthmatic smokers. I know several. Using asthmatics as a gotcha against smokers is not productive or kind to either group.

"But tobacco companies--" Are not the individual smokers, and are not responsible for tobacco companies' actions. Blaming Joe Schmoe Smoker for the actions of Big Tobacco is the exact same as blaming someone for climate change because they bought a pack of Walmart-brand hamburgers. Not only is it not effective, it doesn't target the core issue, and it's a douchebag thing to do.

"But it's bad for you--" Suicide and self-harm are worse, and cigarettes are the only thing keeping some people alive. Blame the system, not the individual.

"But vaping is obnoxious and bad for kids--" Vaping originated as a way to help people stop smoking, and it is not the fault of individuals that vaping became another predatory industry. Removing access to vapes, which are commonly still used as a tool for addicts to help quit, is not the fucking answer.

Stop being cruel to smokers and pretending you're progressive for it. Unlearn the DARE propaganda, kill the cop in your head, and recognize that someone's humanity is not dependent on their drug habits.

[wormboytrav]

my headcanons for spirit albarn because i can't stop thinking about my pathetic wife

absolutely needs to feel needed. will sabotage a relationship just so he can get to comfort the person later.

partially because of this, really loves animals, though he never had any pets growing up. definitely gets a cat or something to keep him company after the divorce.

also loves animals because he feels dehumanized a lot from being a demon weapon, especially holding the title as death's personal weapon. i mean he started going by an object's name instead of his own

sometimes sleeps on the couch out of habit

trying to quit smoking and failing miserably. tries to vape instead but maka makes fun of him for liking the stupid flavors like cotton candy and shit 😔

grew up in a family that didn't communicate well and never learned how to on his own. has no idea how to handle conflict so he just ignores it

tells people his love language is physical touch but it's actually words of affirmation (he does not know this)

in a similar vein he has no idea how to show love to other people. relies on giving gifts but beyond that he's clueless

starting wearing makeup (mostly foundation) once he became a public figure and never stopped because he cares way too much about how people see him

has a dad sneeze

used to snore a lot until one day he mysteriously stopped (stein gave him a tonsillectomy in his sleep)

there's so much more but that's all for now anyway friendly reminder that he's a dogboy

thank you for your time

[jeankirsteinsgrlfrnd]

the attack on titan characters and vaping

modern au

a/n: most of this is according to my fanfic :)

eren jaeger is sooo clutching a cool mint disposable vape. it’s always in his pocket. he’s the accusatory type when he loses it, always claiming someone has it but in reality he’s just sitting on it. swears he’s not addicted but runs to get another one when it dies.

armin arlert is too cool to vape or smoke cigarettes. he does use a dab pen because of the convenience and how it doesn’t leave a smell. he occasionally lectures eren on his use but knows it’s a useless battle.

mikasa ackerman goes through different phases. she’ll vape for a long time, and then quit, and then start again. her flavor of choice is anything cherry flavored. she knows it’s bad for her so she tries to stop but since eren does it, she always falls back into the habit.

connie springer wishes he could vape. he just can’t get into it. it’s too harsh for his throat and it leaves him a coughing mess. if anything, he’ll have a shitty box mod with very low levels of nicotine. he just likes to call himself a vape god when he does very mediocre tricks.

jean kirstein thinks vaping is incredibly stupid. he tried it once and was immediately put off by it. he smokes cigarettes like a ‘real man.’ i wouldn’t call him a smoker smoker, but maybe he smokes one or two a day. he plans to quit.

sasha braus neither vapes nor smokes habitually. she tried to hit eren’s vape once and it burned her throat so bad her eyes watered and she couldn’t stop coughing. however, when she gets really, really drunk, she’ll be found having a drunk cigarette.

marco bodt has never touched a vape or a cigarette. he sees how easily his friends became addicted and honestly, he doesn’t want that for himself. he hates when jean smokes.

reiner braun doesn’t vape. he doesn’t smoke, either. he’s a big gym bro and takes his health pretty seriously. his body is a temple and he treats it as such. he also makes a big deal when someone smokes near him.

bertholdt hoover hits the occasional vape if he’s with his friends but he’s never bought one for himself. he’s not addicted either so he only hits it if he’s offered. he enjoys the head buzz but knows starting a serious habit wouldn’t be good for him.

annie leonhardt smoked cigarettes first and then tried to get into vaping. she decided it wasn’t for her and switched back to cigarettes. she thinks if you’re going to vape, you might as well just smoke. it’s more romantic, she thinks. she’s tried to calm it down since dating armin, though.

hange zoe insists that she vapes but she never has one of her own. she also coughs up a storm when she hits anyone else’s.

levi ackerman wouldn’t be caught dead vaping. he thinks it’s stupid and it’s for kids who are too much of a coward to smoke a real cigarette. he doesn’t smoke cigarettes either but he’s tried them before in the past. he might have one if he’s really, really stressed but he tries not to indulge.

erwin smith doesn’t like smoking. he doesn’t like when it’s done around him, either. he’s kind of uptight about it and no one’s really sure why.

zeke jaeger vapes. he totally would be the type to have a necklace to attach to it so he’d never lose it. he spends an unreasonable amount of time in the vape shop looking at all the flavors. i feel like he’d also have a fancy vape, like something with a weird fancy mouth piece.

ymir’s been sneaking cigs for years. obviously,she’s old enough now and the habit of smoking has stuck. she has a pack on her all the time. she’ll vape here and there if it’s presented but she’s a classic girl and prefers her cigarettes.

historia reiss doesn’t vape. she says she doesn’t smoke either but she partakes in it from time to time. usually when she starts ranting on about something, ymir will hand her a cigarette and hit it without really realizing it. it makes ymir laugh everytime.

porco galliard is a vaper. he loves his lil vape. he ‘accidentally’ got addicted after pieck made him try it. he also swears he doesn’t have a problem but he does!!

pieck finger has a fruity little girl vape. it’s definitely pink lemonade flavored. i feel like she’s always got in her hand and she’s also always offering it to people. she’s like a god damn chimney when she drinks, always puffing it.

my jean fanfic

[wholoveseggs]

Mikaelsons & Marijuana

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

420 Followers

Hello my loves, I have reached the (very important) milestone of 420 followers! So I thought it would be a fun (& very stupid) idea to do some silly little headcanons about what kind of stoner each of the Mikaelsons would be...

♡♡ Ps. This is definitely the dumbest thing I've ever written, and I didn't tag anyone because I respect your time ~ lol ~ ♡♡

1k words - Warnings: drugs use

~☮~ Klaus ~☮~

- He smoked a lot of weed in the 18th century, mostly to just pass the time. It's not something he likes to make a habit of, because it makes him feel very human and that unsettles him.

- It somehow makes him more paranoid, but about stupid things, like, what if the reason he can't find a matching sock is because Kol is trying to make him think he's going crazy? Turn the family against him? Does Elijah really know what's in his shampoo?

- He will start a new painting every time he gets high, but never finishes it because he starts a new one when he's high again, and that one looks so much better, why would he finish this one when there's such a great one he can work on?

- He also gets really fascinated by the moon, he will just lay out on the roof or in the garden and just stare at it for hours. Wondering if he could survive the vacuum of space. Everyone ignores him when he gets like this, because they are afraid if he is even slightly encouraged, he’ll do it. Imagine him in charge of the ISS?? Terrifying.

~☮~ Rebekah ~☮~

- Her fav way to get high is through edibles. She will make a whole day out of it, baking the best treats and doing lots of self-care. It makes her very giggly and snuggly.

- She loves to take long baths when she's high, they make her feel like she's floating. She uses bath bombs, candles, rose petals, soft music, etc. Creating a relaxing environment for herself.

- She prefers to be alone, treats it a lot like meditation and will get a little annoyed if someone disturbs her.

- After all of the self-care she will put on her softest pajamas and sleep for at least a whole day.

~☮~ Kol ~☮~

- Kol is a bit of a scientist, always finding a new way to consume. He will try any form; smoking, vaping, edibles, drinks, dabs, tincture. You name it.

- He prefers to just smoke it, because it has the most powerful and immediate effect. He likes to see what it will do to his brain, or make him do. It makes him a very curious boy, he will test his own limits.

- As a witch, he will get his room all smoky and do stupid spells that will cause a light show. Sometimes the spells will even backfire on him and make him lose control of his limbs, or start levitating. It's pretty funny.

- As a vampire he gets incredibly horny and hungry, and often needs to be watched over so he won't go completely off the rails.

~☮~ Davina ~☮~

- Gets frightened and doesn't like the paranoia and lack of control. But sometimes she will try it with Kol and they will just cuddle and watch her favorite movies. He never pressures her to try it and always makes her feel safe.

~☮~ Elijah ~☮~

- Always refined, he will only smoke the best hydroponics mixed with the finest tobacco. It has to be premium and it has to be a very special occasion. He has to feel like he earned it, and that's difficult to do.

- He will spend a long time rolling it, making sure it's perfect. It's got to have just the right amount of weed, be perfectly shaped, the paper has to be perfectly smooth, the rolling motion has to be flawless and the filter just right.

- He can't stand the smell and will immediately shower afterwards, then he will get dressed up in his nicest suit, sit in his study and listen to classical music.

- If he gets really high he will want affection. He will lay with you and talk about some nonsensical philosophy, try to unpack things like the meaning of life. He will whisper poetry and kiss your cheeks. It's quite endearing, he gets all blushy and bashful.

~☮~ Marcel ~☮~

- He is always up for sharing, and always has the best bud on him. He will make it a very casual experience and offer some to the other vampire's that have been good to him. It's a time for everyone to unwind and chill for a little bit.

- He's definitely just a social smoker though, when he gets high alone he can fall into melancholy.

- He loves to get high with Rebekah, he will take her on the most elaborate and romantic dates, where they just eat an enormous amount of food... And maybe find someone to drink from together.

~☮~ Hayley ~☮~

- Has tried it a few times when hanging out with the werewolves. It makes her feel calm, and the colours around her just get brighter. She doesn't really understand it and isn't that into it, but she likes that she feels more connected to her pack.

- She likes to use CBD before she transforms into a wolf. It dulls the excruciating pain that comes from that, and she's grateful that it takes her mind off the torture for just a while.

- Jackson loves it, uses it in a spiritual way and is a very good guide for her on the matter. He makes her laugh and makes her feel safe when they are alone, sharing a joint, talking about life, and their plans for the pack.

~☮~ Freya ~☮~

- It freaks her out because it makes her feel sleepy and unfocused, which she does not enjoy at all. She finds it to be a waste of her time and feels like it could never be that enjoyable to be stoned all of the time, there are so many better ways to pass the time.

- But she will experiment with using it in her magic, and will make some potent edibles for her beloved sister. She does think it has some medicinal purposes.

- She is very fascinated by it, and will watch as the other's indulge. She will be the one to find Klaus watching the moon, it amuses her to see him so carefree.

~☮~ Esther ~☮~

- Didn't know exactly what it was one thousand years ago, but liked to add some to her tea. It would make the stress of living with Mikael much easier to deal with.

- Perhaps drank too much tea one day and had the genius idea to make her children immortal. Totally worked out well for her.

~☮~ Mikael ~☮~

- Would never, makes you weak and complacent. If you wanted to be so carefree and useless you might as well be dead.

~☮~ Finn ~☮~

- Tried it once, didn't inhale.

[illubean]

if your requests are open: i just saw your post on hxh character reacting to a reader who smokes, what about a reader who smokes 🍃? :3

HXH with a Stoner!S/o

Characters: Kurapika Kurta, Leorio Paladaknight, Illumi Zoldyck, Chrollo Lucilfer, Feitan Porter Type: idk again lol!, Headcanons, Gn!reader

man I wish I could answer two requests at the same time so other anon I hope you find this

Warnings: drug use, mentions of addiction/smoking

Kurapika Kurta

oh he likes this even less

he sees this as an addiction and to be fair it is in fact justifiable

if you hit him with the "I'm not addicted I can quit whenever I want"

he's throwing all your shit out

you said you could quit right? so quit

he watches after you when you're high with a disapproving shake of his head

he makes sure you're well fed, watered and comfortable

if you're giggly and speaking nonsense he just sighs and tells you to go to bed

he cuddles with you to physically keep you from doing something stupid

Leorio Paladaknight

sooo despite him being anti vape and cigarette he's actually more ok with weed

it has medical properties if ingested properly so he doesn't freak out as hard

still doesn't like the fact that you smoke so often though

you can still damage your lungs

he'll probably ban you from smoking at some point bc of how worried he is

buttttttt a loophole to this is to do edibles 🧍🧍🧍

he's going to voice his opinion on your habits

he doesn't like that you're always stoned so pls take breaks for him lol..

Illumi Zoldyck

the smell of weed is significantly worse than cigarettes so big nono for him

he literally would not stand in a 16 foot radius of you sry 🧍

he probably finds you being high all the time annoying

like tf you so giggly for

he cannot have a conversation with you when you're high, it gets nowhere and ends with him annoyed

like I said in my last post he doesn't care what you do to yourself but he actually thinks your habit is insufferable

Chrollo Lucilfer

in my head he would be a dealer in a modern type au

he'd smoke with you tbh

he doesn't mind you smoking weed but jesus you're high every day??

he definitely thinks your habit isn't the healthiest but hey who is he to tell you what to do

he thinks its funny when you get high sometimes

but he doesn't like it when he has to babysit you because you greened out or can't function at all

BUT he will still take care of you

he makes sure you drink enough water and lays you down somewhere safe

Feitan Porter

this little shit probably smokes too

nightmare blunt rotation but its just you feitan and phinks

he could care less when or how often you're high as long as he doesn't have to keep an eye on you (wow what a great bf)

don't expect much help from him if you end up going overboard

if he gets high with you I can see it going two ways

either he's chill and relaxed or he's going to do something stupid

I feel like he's the type of guy to eat rice straight out of the cooker with his bare hands if he gets high (me im that type of person)

but yeah he doesn't care what you do as long as you're not in his way

[motorcycleboy9]

My take on The Outsiders Modern AU (I'll maybe draw something on that later)

Ponyboy Curtis

transmasculine agender, bisexual, he>they(she)

- ponyboy isn't his real name, but a nickname he picked in 2020, when first realized he's transmasc. kinda regrets it but everyone already got used to it.

- is short and insecure about it

- likes dressing nicely, but doesn't really have money for any good clothes. steals some old pieces from soda's closet.

- bisexual. though had a pre-trans phase when he thought that he only liked girls.

- listens to the smiths & arctic monkeys

- hadn't start on smoking yet, but thinks that with amount of stress in his life will start eventually. probably will do the vape ones, especially if they're chocolate flavored.

- mrs. curtis is alive in this setting, but mr. curtis died in car crash. so yeah, she's a single mom, though darry's trying to help her out.

- he and johnny share the same interest - manga. that's probably how they became friends. (they went to the same middle school)

Johnny Cade

gay guy, he/they

- grows his hair out, though doesn't really know how to manage it (it has wavy texture)

- has conservative parents who are aware he's gay. neglected him ever since, and even said stuff sort of a "you are not our son anymore", which made johnny hate his own household.

- in a world where not all of the se hinton's characters are white I would like to think that johnny's mom is filipino. (he's probably half or 1/4th)

- doesn't smoke cause the smell makes him start coughing badly. and also because his parents smoke a lot, and he doesn't want to be like them.

- broke his leg and back once. not because of saving kids in a burning church this time though. probably a much more stupid reason.

- actually liked being in the hospital cause then he didn't have to see his family & couldn't go to school.

- have been bullied in middle school. pony was the person who tried to help him out, but couldn't have done much.

Dallas Winston

cis guy, bisexual (in denial), he/him

- has christian parents and got a religious trauma.

- got pretty conservative views because of the church, but is trying to work it through.

- told johnny that only girls and gays wear long hair. the thing is johnny's actually gay. and Dallas is indeed wrong.

- had a breakdown when realized that he likes guys.

- started smoking to piss off his parents, but actually got into a habit. hates vaping, thinks that they're not 'real stuff'

- used to be a bully in middle school and earlier (he and johnny went to different middle schools, though. so no, he didn't bully Johnny)

- sometimes when he runs away from his parents at night, he goes to Johnny's place. and then they both go and hang out somewhere.

- brags about living in New York for a few years. everyone thinks it's tuff. but no one knows what he was actually doing there. (me neither)

thanks to everyone who read this to the end! I'm sorry for any grammar mistakes. also, I would really appreciate it if you would help me think of any headcanons for Shepards, Cherry, Steve or Two-bit. and stay tuned for the next part.

[knownangels]

ch-ch-cherry bomb

wc: 13.9k (yes ik)

It’s maybe a little early in the spring for a bonfire, but unless it served her well to do so, Matilda didn’t like to make a habit of swaying to the breeze of social decorum.

“You’re been staring at Benji down there for, like, forty seconds.” 

At the sound of her classmate’s voice, Matilda wobbles wher she stands. She turns (and Christ she really should not have had that last shot because it has gotten to the the point where the world’s started to turn with her) to face Claire. Or, slightly to the right of Claire. One tiny, totally unnoticeable adjustment to her posture fixes that mistake.

She clears her throat to lie: “I am not staring at Benji.”

“You totally are.” Claire laughs. “I mean, I thought everybody knew—“

Okay. Maybe her lie was not as smooth as she wanted it.

“Ew! God.” Matilda shakes both hands out, then giggles because she thinks: gross, cooties! “Claire, like. I’m drunk, not stupid? Or blind. I know. I’m — I’m not staring. I am chaperoning him.” 

Matilda spells out the word in the air with her index finger in prim, pretty cursive like a Disney star. Claire watches patiently although the p might get written twice and there seems to be some confusion whether the n isn’t two or three m’s instead.

“For what?”

Matilda scoffs. 

“He needs to talk to people more. And I really thought helping him get his little friend over here would help, or whatever.” 

Matilda fishes in her jacket pocket for her vape. Now that she knows it’s close, her stomach bubbles a bit and her words become clipped and sharp. Fuck, she needs to quit. 

She takes a longer hit than usual, fist closed around the familiar shape. The rhinestones encapsulating it rub against the pad of her thumb, a pleasantly grounding sensation. She squeezes until it starts to hurt a bit, and the night comes quickly back into focus. Claire watches, then its her turn to attempt subtlety and fail. 

“The cute one?” She asks. 

Matilda rolls her eyes. It is a sure-fire signal of Matilda’s depleted patience and slash or good will. 

“Oh my God, just go ask him out. He’s such a social butterfly it’s disgusting. You’ll get along.” Her eyes narrow. “Claire, were you just trying to sneak in a way to talk about him? You don’t care that I was staring — it wasn’t really like, even that much staring — you just were fishing for information on Maran.” 

“No.” Claire says, too quick to be honest. Her lips stay parted. Clearly, she has something further to add. But Matilda only turns that alleged stare on her, pulling at the vape again before primly crossing her arms. “What?”

“He was inside,” Matilda says, pointing with her eyes to the A-frame cabin she’d rented to host. Stupid fucking investment banker owner, trying to gouge the price threefold on one of those short-term rental websites. He had been so generous and given her night for free. And all it had taken was an emailed picture of her, face girlish and horrified, holding up a hidden camera she’d totally found tucked on a shelf in the bathroom. 

“Wh-what?” 

“He’s inside,” Matilda says again, voice rising snappy and high before she lets out a sigh. “By the drinks. Since you are literally frothing to talk to him.” She hooks a thumb over her shoulder past the throng of partygoers dancing on the raised deck, down towards the lawn. “I’m gonna go see if mama bird’s doing okay.” 

Out on the grass below, people have begun to pull chairs and blankets to encircle the crackling fire. Benji sits a few paces away from the rest of the crowd, just outside a socially acceptable distance. He’s found a massive log, preferring not to use it as a seat but rather as a reclining feature. He sits on the ground, no barrier between his jeans and the damp grass. Even to her, who boasts his rare and coveted label of friend, Benji looks difficult to approach. 

She does it anyway.

Matilda marches down the steps, ignoring several prompts for pause and conversation. Instead off being lulled into a few chatting groups, she beelines towards Benji. 

His dramatic little spot isn’t far enough out that the night air has completely soaked the fire’s warmth, but it’s certainly chillier than she’d prefer. She tucks arms around herself as she drapes over the top of the log behind him, one leg knee-bent to nudge between his shoulders. Benji snorts.

She turns to look at him side-long, and gets caught out. His profile half-lit. Benji’s pretty anyway, but there’s something about where he hovers. The glowing circle of the fire doesn’t quite reach all the way, creating a few centimeters of liminal space where orange flickering dies into purple twilight. Benji’s sat right in that spot, and the lighting makes him downright, jealousy-inducing, disturbingly gorgeous. 

Matilda could tell him as much, but he’d scowl at her. Maybe even get up and leave. She doesn’t want Benji to leave. She wants Benji attached to her, clearly with her, her cool friend, her invitee, her guest. 

Fuck. She really shouldn’t have had that last one.

“Sorry to disappoint.” Matilda monotones. “Just me. I’m sure you were waiting for some other sad, lonely homosexual to wander over and like, My Chemical Romance meet-cute woo you to bed.” 

Benji doesn’t twitch, even though she thought that one was particularly good. Instead, he has what looks like a nasty smile pulling at his mouth. 

“When I opened the mixer cooler, all the ice was melted and lukewarm.”

Matilda sits bolt upright, her heart snagging in her chest. “You’re lying.”

“There was a fly in there, too.” Benji pouts. “Didn’t make it.”

“You’re lying.” 

“Yep.” He pops the p in a frustratingly charming mockery of her, vocal fry and all. “Don’t dish and you won’t have to take.” 

She could check him with her knee, pulled up to nudge right at the sensitive spot between shoulder and neck. She could pluck a hair from the top of his scalp and do a lie herself, marvel at it being gray. But Benji’s a youngest too; he’s anticipating all this. 

She takes what some might call the high road, but she prefers to call a strategic and temporary retreat. Matilda lies back down, lacing her fingers over her stomach. 

“You’re such an asshole. I was going to warn you that your Cabbage Patch Kid was getting slobbered on in there.” 

Benji twitches, then. 

Aha, she thinks. There’s the gap in the armor. 

The movement is just a slight kick of his foot out. A few fingers tightening on his own knee. But he softens it as quick as the tells had come: Matilda recognized that shuttering and admired it, the first time they met. 

Benji was so careful of himself, so in-control but charmingly messy with his demeanor. She wished she could pull it all together, pack it up, hide it away like he could, sometimes. She’s too proud to admit she takes mental notes every time they speak. She’s too honest with herself to deny that she knows she’ll never replicate that easy mystery, because with people like Benji it was natural. Unduplicable— undupli—

Matilda scrunches her nose, the word falling to bits in her head. Fuck, she should not have had that last drink. 

“He’ll live.” 

“Maybe not. Did you leave him with pedialyte? Not even a water bottle?” She pouts.

“He’s a big boy,” Benji says, although now he’s got just a tiny little note of worried guilt to him. Matilda beams evilly up at the sky. 

“I’m just kidding. I sent him off with my friend from class. She’s safe. And, like, I think celibate by choice, so if you’re worried—”

Benji groans and rubs fists into his eyes. “C’mon.”

“I’m just saying. We should be fine, but like—”

“Til.” 

“—he’s very cute, so anything could happen really, but I’m just trying to assure you I do have the money to cover a Plan B for him if he needs it in the morning, because you should probably expect—”

Benji reaches around deftly to pinch the sensitive skin behind her knee. Matilda yelps and rubs at it, eyes narrowed to slits just like his. 

Fucking youngest sibling behavior. She tells him as much. 

“I warned you.” Benji laughs.

It’s a nice enough sound she largely forgives him.

“He’s gonna have so much fun. We’ll give him,” she spreads her fingers against the night sky and tries her very best to emulate their accent. “The proper American experience, mate.” 

“You’re off it.”

Matilda nods and the whole expanse of the galaxy, the universe, starry gorgeous planetary system they rotate around spins even harder and faster than it usually is. She leans over the log to press her forehead to Benji’s cool, leather-clad shoulder.

“Do you want to hear the drag idea I had.”

Benji snorts again. His hand reaches up to brush back hair from her face. Just a moment before she was cognitively aware the curtain of it in her eyes was bothering. 

“Why’re you askin’ me? Your token poof, hey? Think I give a fuck about drag?” 

“You do.” Matilda says. She rubs her forehead on his shoulder. “If you’re not transphobic, you’ll let me speak my truth.”

“Oi! Don’t you think assumin’ I wanna hear your dogshit idea means you’re working a bit of the other ‘phobia there, mate?” 

“Mate.” Matilda parrots childishly. Youngest sibling behavior. “Well. Do you?”

A pause. Then:

“Yeah, a’right. Lay it on me.” 

“Blo.” Matilda intones seriously. She palms the side of his head, pressing her cheek to his temple at a strange perpendicular and tilting his face up to the stars. “Like, blow. Obviously. But Blo from Regressive. The insurance lady.” She gestures a circle around her head. “I’ll do the whole wig.”

“From those bloody stupid commercials?”

Matilda sights. “God, of course you wouldn’t get the vision. It’s too tastefully referential to everyday American media culture—”

“I’d rather hear about Maran’s’ night unfiltered than listen to you chat shit on your own genius.” Benji teases meanly, gesturing a fist at his hip. “I’d rather listen to Maran talk about his figurines—“

“Bioncles.”

“Til, what? He’s already got you sucked in?”

“I’m going to be worse than you.” Matilda admits suddenly. She has only had one single conversation with Maran. In her car, which they had picked him up from the airport in, there’d be no time to chat. He had been entirely engrossed in his catch-up with Benji. She had watched his face light up in the rear view mirror as they talked non-stop for the drive back to Benji’s apartment, where an air mattress and touch light courtesy of her online shopping return pile were waiting. 

But when Benji went to the bathroom at lunch — McDonald’s, because Maran insisted on trying the superior version of fries — he’d turned to her and beamed. Thanks her for the ride, her hospitality, her favor to Benji. Matilda had never met a friend-of-a-friend without it being slightly awkward, but Maran had something about him. He gestured to the toy display on the mustard yellow wall and had jumped into a regaling tale about McDonald’s toys from his childhood, and the little robot he had sat on his windowsill at home. 

And Matilda, who did not give a single fuck about Legos or building blocks or robot action figures or whatever the hell exposition he was explaining about the larger universe, had sat there and listened.

“What do you mean, you’re going to be worse than me?” Benji asks, yanking her from the reverie. 

But, prompted to explain, Matilda’s mouth dries. 

She didn’t really have words to describe Benji’s childhood friend just yet. He was probably one of the most charming people she’d ever met. And yet he had this flighty aura about him. Almost shy, but not quite. Not scatterbrained, either, because he seemed to be totally present in the moment. Maybe sort of sad. Sort of lonely, even surrounded by people. Even beaming, the way he did. 

It had always been sort of obvious to Matilda when a person had either no friends or a single person they held close. Maran had been looking at Benji in her reareview mirror as they chatted with the grateful reverence someone who had expecting to be on their own for awhile longer. 

“I mean.” She starts, and stops. 

Benji simply quirks a brow.

“Ugh! I don’t know, okay. I had like. Two franken-lemon drops.” She circles a wrist in the air. “Whatever replaced the vodka assault and batteried my sobriety.”

“Way to put it.” Benji chuckles. 

Matilda slouches to the side, nearly draping herself across his shoulders. There’s a lull in conversation from the other side of the bonfire as she rolls herself bodily into his lap. It is partially to find a softer recline than the log under her back. Partially to converse with him better,. Partially because she knows that nearly every person is looking at them, wondering about their quiet and intimate conversation, wondering what they could be talking about, wondering at the hidden aspects of their friendship and hoping it could be made public — or, maybe, have that feeling shared. 

Matilda swings her eyes around the circle of partygoers. They double and triple and bob and swim in her vision. She smiles. 

“You’re going to have to keep an eye on him.” 

“What?” Benji asks, elongating that vowel like a motherfucker. 

Matilda pushes up with a palm in the grass between his knees. He scowls at her, their noses almost touching. “Benji, I know you are totally dense about some things. I love that for you, really. I do. It adds to the whole —“ she waves her fingers in a circle chest-level. “That.” 

He glares at her.

Matilda sighs. “But honestly, it gets old sometimes! I’m just trying to be a good friend, okay? Maran seems like a sweetie.”

“He’s a nice lad, Til, I swear. Told y’we got up to it as kids, but we’ve mostly leveled—“

“I don’t care!” Matilda laughs. Her hands raise as if she’ll cup his cheeks and squeeze, but the warning glare on his face is enough to deter that drunken thought. “Benji. That’s not what I’m saying. Look, Maran is basically this little offshoot of you, right? And everybody here wants something to do with you.”

Benji scoffs again. This time, it’s ‘genuinely incredulous’ rather than his usual ‘moderately humored’. 

Matilda’s lip curls. “You’re so joking right now. Benji — oh my God, I’m not therapying you. I’m too drunk to even bother, okay, because that is a well to the center of the earth full of content to pick through and even the most seasoned psych would—“

“You’re full of fuckin’—“

Someone shouts his name. They both turn to look up towards the deck, where the voice’s owner stands backlit by the golden patio light. Whatever Maran calls down to him is lost over the thrum of a dozen conversations and the crackle of the fire. But he sports such a sweet, eagerly excited smile…

“Maran makes me feel like when you see a mortally wounded fawn on the side of the road and you know it’s going to just croak right there but you’re like, oh my God, I can help.” Matilda muses. “You know?”

Benji is silent for a moment before gingerly lifting her by the biceps to her feet, rising with her. He tucks a hand behind her neck and pulls her down for a kiss to the forehead, which Matilda tilts into despite the spinny nausea of being made to stand so fast. It’s the most affectionate Benji’s ever been with her, and she wonders if that is what Maran does — softens him. 

“And I need therapy?”

“I’m going to hate, like, every single girl he dates.” Matilda promises, voice hushed. “Not in a creepy way. In a cute roadkill way.” She holds up both hands, fingers spread like claws. “Stay away from my little fawn and his broken femur.” 

“Therapy.” Benji suggests. He holds a finger up. “Ah, water. Carbs. Sleep. Then therapy.” 

Matilda watches him jog across the lawn towards the deck stairs, which he takes impressively quick and two at a time.

And, a few weeks later at the sequel to that wildly successful totally illegal bonfire at a blackmailed rental, Matilda watches him descend the same steps.

The log has become their spot, of sorts. With every face Benji passes, she feels the thick rise of tension in the air like ozone; lightning on spiking her hair before a storm. It is so, so delicious — she turns her head and catches no less than three people staring at them as Benji lowers to an artfully lazy slump beside her. 

He’s so fucking blind.

But right now, he has the energy of someone who wants to gossip, so Matilda turns to lay her cheek on his shoulder. She maintains a sweep of the partying crowd. 

“Can I be honest with you?” 

Benji, who certainly knows what this is about, offers her a noise that is half grunt, half laugh. “G’wed.”

“I really cannot stand this new one.” Matilda admits. “In a way that makes me concerned about my own internalized shit. You know when you hate someone that bad?” 

Benji is silent for a long, working moment. Whatever goes on between his ears is lost to everyone but him. Then: “She’s sound, I guess.” 

It is way more diplomatic than Matilda was expecting. It’s way more sly than she thinks he means to slip. So she throws her head back and laughs.

Up on the deck, the sleight blonde tucked against Maran’s side —short enough to dodge his waving arm — moves closer. 

And although it would tickle her fucking pink to hear, Matilda isn’t close enough to catch what Fiadh whispers, anxious, in his ear: 

Why do I get the feeling Benji’s friend hates me? 

*

Years prior:

The step stool scrapes across nonna’s hardwood floor. Maran snaps into guilty shape before she turns to him, attention pulled from the kitchen’s ancient stone sink.

“Have I told you once or twice?” Nonna asks. 

Maran holds up two fingers. 

Nonna laughs, then catches herself. She wags her own wrinkled digit before wiping both hands on the faded floral apron tied at her waist. 

“Maybe even three, eh? Maran. Pick it up, care for papa’s hard work.”

“Sorry,” Maran says.

He does as requested, then walks himself up the steps beside her at the counter; in a year, he won’t need the stool. In four, he’ll dwarf his grandmother, even though she stands tall for a woman of her age. 

The spite, his mum’s disembodied voice whispers impishly in his head. That’s the ingredient. Maran isn’t sure what exactly spite is — he’s a bit behind the rest of his classmates, and tries not to let them see him trailing behind in the vocabulary workbook — but he figures that he shouldn’t ask Nonna. 

“Maran,” Nonna admonishes his apology. “Ah-ah. Per favore.” 

“Scusa, nonna.” Maran responds dutifully, but it’s not quite enough. Nonna narrows her eyes. He sighs, propping his chin on the cool countertop, and can barely hide the attitude when he corrects: “Mi dispiace. Molto, molto, molto.”

“Ah, marrona! Smart ass.” 

But Nonna laughs. She has a wrinkled and sun-dotted brown hand pressed to her chest in a youthfully ladylike gesture.

Maran has helped her in the garden, both of their knees and fingernails black from the soil; has helped her chop firewood for the stone oven on the patio; has watched her pluck a horrible, scary splinter from her finger after an afternoon of patching and waxing their old boat, made reliable from decades of unselfconscious and hearty care. She’s a woman that has worked nearly every day of her life — still, with that dainty hand accompanying the look of reproach, Maran has never felt more that she ought to be the queen of something, somewhere. 

“Tantissimo.” Maran chirps. He’s smiling, mischievous; genetics clear in their reflected, crooked mouths. And now he means it, really. He’s sorry a hundred times for not listening, for maybe scratching the floor. And he peers up at her with thick-lashed eyes, hoping that comes across. He’s never meant anything more (except for maybe later that evening when they’re sitting on the rocky beach with their feet in the lapping waves, watching the sun descend the water, when he’ll turn and see her cast orange and tell her if there’s ever a summer he doesn’t get to visit, he’ll die). 

“Oh, tantissimo, really?” Nonna flattens her queenly hand against her forehead now. “He is too above us. Mannaggia la miseria, he won’t eat at our humble table. Best we save all of this food for the common folk —“

Maran casts a quick glance into the sink. Fresh picked cherries, stems already plucked free, bob in the water. The original goal of his step stool. His mouth waters. 

“I said sorry,” he pouts, sneaking a finger to swirl the water. He debates on plucking a cherry, but none of them have been pitted yet. And also, he’d get a slap to the hand for it. But maybe…Maran perks up. 

“Can I have some if I help?”

And suddenly he’s scooped up in her warm, soft arms, feet dangling just an inch or so above the top step of her stool. Nonna smells like sun and salt and her coconut lotion as she lays kisses across his face. He’d be embarrassed, if any of his school friends were watching. But they’re not — it’s summer, they’re stuck home in rainy, boring Liverpool, and Maran gets to be here, with her, so he allows the attack. Giggles through it, even. He loves her so, so much. 

“Can he have some if he helps! What a good boy, my Maran. Here,” Nonna gestures. She hands him a tool he’s seen in the drawer, but never used. It’s made of two equal sized pieces of smooth, sanded wood. The stain has worn off in places, the grain light underneath. Maran puts his hand to those impressions. Although they’re much larger than his own palm, the use-worn nooks make obvious how to handle the thing. 

Nonna fishes a handful of cherries from the water. With careful instruction, Maran learns to nestle them one at a time into the hammered metal cup wedged between two bits of wood. With wrinkled fingers curled around his, he squeezes the device — 

Out pops the cherry pit, spit into the sink. The pulpy fruit still clings to the outside, feathering out in the clear water. It slowly begins to spiral pink. “Oh! Mum does this with a knife.”

Nonna tsks. “And I bet she has cut a finger. I told that girl to find her one.”

Maran picks up another cherry, proudly pitting it on his own. He examines the tool. “One of these?” 

At that moment, the back door swings open. Nonno barges in — loud and brash and heavy feet, as usual. He swings the parchment from the butcher onto the counter and pulls nonna into a barrage of kisses to the face, not unlike the ones Maran had just received. 

“No, Maran, one of these—” and then she’s laughing girlishly. Her husband’s big form crosses the kitchen to sweep her into a crushing hug.

Nonna says something to him that Maran isn’t yet able to translate — the words are too fast, too big, too messy and noisy and adult in their dialect for his beginner Italian to catch. 

“Maran!” Nonno barks, startling him out of his thoughts. Maran pits another cherry and lifts it up to show him. Nonno opens his jaw wide, snapping his teeth and pretending to bite at Maran’s fingers before the cherry disappears. 

“I think that they taste better when you do them!” Nonno whispers (although he’s never been capable, it’s still a yell in his booming, clear voice). 

“Chi si duci,” Nonna deadpans. She plucks the other pitted cherry from the water and tests it, eyes widening. “Wait, it is true. Maran has the touch.” 

And he’s old enough to know they’re being silly with him, making him feel good about being new at a task. Still, he beams as he pits the rest of the cherries and listens to their lilting conversation. He picks up what he can, here and there, but even though most of the words are lost to him he doesn’t feel lost. He feels right at home. Involved. 

When he places the bowl of cherries in front of them at the kitchen table, pitting tool in hand, Nonno beams. 

“You!” He says, and plucks Nonna’s sun-kissed hand from where it curls under her chin. “Every time it is used it, I am loved more.” 

Maran glances down at the pieces of wood, his thumb brushing the light spots again and again. He remembers the knife and chisel Nonno carries in his pocket, the spare in his work apron, the stark white raised scars on his dark brown knuckles. 

Oh, Maran realizes, but can’t name the realization. Oh, Maran feels something click into place, but can’t name what or where. 

“Maran,” Nonna says, snapping him from his thoughts. She’s not looking at him, but smiling gently at Nonno across the table. “You have permission to go find Giuliano and play until dinner. When you come back, we’ll have crostata ready to eat.” 

Maran loves crostata. He loves it so much he can almost smell it cooking right then. His posture straightens and he puts the tool on the table beside his grandparents’ twined hands, and then offers them a little salute and sprints out the door. 

*

Just the other month:

Maran has never traveled anywhere on his own, besides those annual trips to his grandparents’ home. That flight has barely changed in the decade and some years he’d been flying it. Even then, it’s quick — he always slept.

 On the international charter he takes to the States, Maran doesn’t sleep at all. 

He isn’t sure why he’s so nervous. Why, despite the anticipation and excitement months in the making, he suddenly feels a pang of something worryingly similar to guilt. 

It will be the first summer he doesn’t visit his nonna. Coincidentally, it will be her second year without nonno. 

When Benji had first invited him for a holiday stateside, nonna was the first person he told. He supposes now it was more asking permission. 

Live your life! It’s for you, anyway. 

Maran settles back in his seat, legs tucked. They’ll start to ache soon, give him pins and needle — but he’s too wrapped in his own thoughts to mind. He barely notices when the plane ascends. 

He wonders how she knows exactly what to say, nonna. Because lately, all he’s been able to think about is that he’s only been living life for himself. And even then, just barely. He worried that this decision to holiday was just another impulse-driven tick of the box. Doing things because someone asked, because it was offered, because the opportunity presented itself. If he was thinking critically, he’d spend the summer with nonna because potentially — it might be — she was getting up there, was all, and —

Maran swallows hard. When his eyes crack open, they scan not a beautiful seaside sky touched gold by sundown, but the dull grey cabin interior. The seatbelt light’s gone off, so Maran unbuckles himself. He pretends that the nasty, dramatic thoughts of nonna and the wiggle of guilt escape him. Like they’d been held in by the seatbelt and he had no choice but to think them. 

Except the anxiety lingers. It turns to other things: what if the plan went down, and what if it Benji was extending a pity invitation? What if the way he lived — impulsive, thoughtless — worried his friend. Was he living at all, really? No prospects, when he eventually returned to Liverpool. No school or certificates or job offers or apprenticeships. 

Nothing but a day and the next, aimless and unable to focus on anytihng but the scroll of a feed beneath his thumb. For fuck’s sake, last year he’d nearly enlisted.

He imagines Benji’s voice, dreamlike and mean, amongst his own thoughts: what would he do if he were alone? What would Maran do, left to his own devices? Look at all his choices so far. Barely choices, innit? Wouldn’t be anything responsible. 

The voice is meaner than Benji would ever really be, but he’s in such a fucking state that the anxiety rockets up another notch anyway. When the flight attendant next passes by, Maran gently reaches to touch her elbow. He hopes his smile is just that, not the grimace he worries betrays his mood. 

“I know this is so inappropriate.” He starts, already apologetic. “I promise I’m not bein’ difficult—“

Her dark eyes narrow in that service industry way Maran recognizes. Anticipatory. He tries not to wince and barely manages to keep sheepish smile plastered on his face.

“I’m getting a bit nervy,” Maran admits, as if it embarrasses him. It does embarrass him. There’s no reason he should be in it like this. He’s flown before “Haven’t flown before. D’you think I can get a little—“ he clicks his tongue, gestures with thumb and forefinger. 

“I’ll need to see identification.” The flight attendant says.

Maran stares up at her. “Wait, what? I look that young?” He beams. “Swear.”

She seems to be fighting a smile of her own. “Do you have it, or not?”  

He fights it from his pocket, blushing hot when she watches him pull it from a bright pink wallet. The top sleeve sports his big eyes, the iris color rubbed off by use. The bottom unfolds into his gaping mouth, and its from there Maran fights his card out. 

The flight attendant watches silently until its placed in her palm. 

“This isn’t a fake, is it?” She teases, gesturing to the wallet. “I think my nephew has that.” 

And then Maran has a little plastic cup half-filled with a mixture of Coke and rum — he didn’t particularly like rum, but he also didn’t particularly know anytihng about drinks, and this was the thing his girlfriends always ordered at a bar while Maran was stuck sipping at a pint he didn’t actually like. Might as well enjoy if he was also going to kill the nerves.

When he thanks the flight attendant (very sincerely, mind) she blushes. Maran doesn’t sleep even after he finishes his drink, but something about making her blush settles him more than the alcohol. 

He isn’t sure why.

*

A bit after that:

Maran whistles, low and impressed.

Benji’s only been at the flat for a few months, or so he claims. The incredible array of fucking mess could be attribute to a shut-in of several years. And diagnoses. 

For saying as much during their tight hug, Maran gets a solid thump to the back of his shoulder.

“Dickhead,” Benji says, but his sneer is missing. When they pull away, his eyes seem brighter than Maran’s ever seen them — especially in all the blurry, silly, nose-up selfies they’ve sent each other during Benji’s first year abroad. He looks…he looks happy, Maran thinks, and privately defends that as a regular show of emotiona for his friend. People tend to assume otherwise.

He has a bit of a hard time piecing together the fact that Benji’s happiness in that moment is a result of his presence. They’re best mates, sure, and that’s how it ought to be — but lingering on it makes little pricks of tears gather at the corners of his eyes.

“Don’t pop off.”

Maran huffs and socks him back. He’s hoping for that nasty look, maybe a fond and laughingly delivered insult. But instead Benji’s brow pulls. It’s that knowingly empathetic scrunch. He reaches for Maran again, tossing aside the duffel he’d slung about his shoulder to carry in. 

Nice of him, that walk up was four flights, Maran thinks as he’s pulled into another crushing hug. And then he starts properly crying.

He won’t pretend Benji’s own sniffle is quiet. Or that he doesn’t feel the eye-spaced wet spots growing on his shirt. They’re being babies, sure, clutching at each other and sniffling like its been a decade, not a year. Maran is incapable of pretending that doesn’t mean something. They’ve known each other since birth, after all. Earlier, if he’s keen to get philosophical. 

He can’t really piece together the fact that Benji’s happiness and his own presence might be related; lingering on that thought makes tears prick at his eyes.

“I missed you, mate.” 

“You’re my favorite,” Maran replies immediately. The words don’t pass through his brain on the way out his mouth, but he means them. Really, really means them.

Benji thumps him again. Naturally Maran socks him back. He’s hoping for a bit of a sneer, a laughingly delivered insult. But instead Benji’s brow pulls.

Nice of him, that walk up was four flights. Maran thinks as he’s squeezed tight. 

He even allows Maran to squeeze him back, and then they’re moving in a clumsy sort-of waltz circle in the center of what could be a spacious living area if the bastard could pick up after himself. 

Maran says that, too. Benji gives him another thump for it, but he’s also still sniffling.

“Mate.” Maran starts. 

“Fuck off.” Benji mumbles warningly, but it’s no use. 

“Missed you so fuckin’ much.” 

Another half-hearted swat to his back. “Oh, fuck yourself.”  

Benji does another soft little noise, one that gets Maran actually worried for the state of his shirt. But he gives a fuck, he gives a fuck, he can’t pretend not to — so he pulls Benji in for another hug when he backs off, stiff with embarrassment. 

I’m glad I wasn’t the only one lonely, Maran thinks. Benji, sometime I’m gonna ask you about that: do you get lonely? Is that normal? I think I care too much. And when I’ve got nothing to care over — 

Benji’s next noise isn’t a cry or a sniffle, but a wheeze. 

“Oi!” He snaps, laughing through their shared emotion. “M’fuckin’ lungs, man. Keep bein’ mean to me and I won’t invite you—“

Maran perks immediately. “Where? S’cool place, though. Say it’s cool. Oh, mate, are you taking me somewhere cool for my first night?”

Benji’s cheeks look warm beneath the yellowy light. He needs more lamps; they would make the place less sad and stuffy. Maran’s just opening his mouth to say as much when Benji pulls him in for their most crushing hug yet.

“What!” He wheeze-laughs, arms stuck to his sides.”Fuckin’ hell.”

“I missed you. Oh, fuck, Maran, I missed you.”

Maran warms a bit, too. In the hall mirror, over Benji’s shoulder, he realizes that tears and emotion have painted his nose a cherry-red.

Clown, Maran thinks fondly at his reflection. Worrying over what?

*

A couple weeks?:

Looking back, Maran isn’t sure if it was a romantic one-after-another of chance encounters moonlighting as capital S signs, or if the universe had been offering him him string after string of warnings. 

Everyone had urged him to have fun on this summer trip; Benji might be busy, sure, but that didn’t mean Maran couldn’t dive the deep end. How many opportunities would he have, anyway? Realistically, when would he ever be able to travel the world again? He hadn’t, unlike his best friend, had the foresight to set himself up a future. An educated or well-paying one, anyway. Hadn’t been smart to save or invest or open — what did Saha call it? high yield? — or get a bank. 

And, unlike Benji (yet again), he didn’t have a responsible and welcoming older sibling in whose footsteps he could follow. 

What he had was the money saved from a summer job (he’d planned on putting it towards driving lessons, towards a car). Maran had a friend on the precipice of a massive life change. Maran had — 

Maran had more things, for sure. He just couldn’t think of them at the moment.

But.

No prospects, really. No motivation. No path ahead. No job lined up. No dreams — at least, not for the nebulous, adult ‘future’. 

So although he was tagging along (as Maran did, he always tagged along, that was Maran, following), he was being a bit of a cunt about it all.

“Nah, it’ll be good for you. I feel a bit like a shit dog owner, yeah? Leavin’ you alone when I’m in class half the week.” Benji insists on Maran’s phone screen. In the little boxed background, Maran can make out a shelf and the telltale orange stained wood of public space furniture.

“You at the library again, mate?” Thanks to his mood, Maran sounds a bit nastier than he intends. Benji doesn’t seem to notice. Or, in his patiently diplomatic way, doesn’t care. 

Benji turns to look at the array of books behind him. “Bit obvious.” 

“You are a proper fucking loser,” Maran says sweetly. He pretends to be offended at the finger Benji raises.

“Who’s dropping an application off to deliver pizza—“

“You just said you approved and it’ll be good for me.”

“The exercise will. How much that piece of absolute shit cost you, man?”

“Couple quid.” Maran chirps, automatic. Then he frowns. “No. Uh. Dollars. Like, two hundred.”

“Scammed!” Benji hisses. “You been here a week and you got scammed by some fuck on Facebook. I told you to be careful.”

Maran sours even further. He doesn’t want Benji to seem his childish slouch, the moody tuck of his arms, the severe pout his mouth draws.

What are you doing, Maran? What are your plans? Have we just fucked off, no prospects, to spend a summer — what? Faffing about, doing fuck-all, being nobody, spending money you shouldn’t be spending?

It felt — it sounded— familiar. It sounded like—

Bastard. 

Maran silences the little voice with that, just to be wily. He musters up his own. He finds nonna’s, his mother’s, Kay and Saha all assuring him it would be good for them both. That Maran could have fun.

Have fun. Have fun. Have fun.

And what else? 

What else? 

Maran hopes the moment has stretched too long, too awkward; judging from the blank look on Benji’s face, it hasn’t. Or…he hasn’t noticed, bless him. 

“S’fine. Got the bike. And I’ll be careful,” Maran says. He beams into the camera. It isn’t fake, his smile. It’s sincere. It’s —

What else? 

They chat as Benji packs up his studying material. When he hangs up to enjoy his walk home in solitude (but not silence, he always has that fucking noise too high in his earbuds), Maran simply lays on the air mattress and counts the minutes. It usually takes ten and a half, traffic considering, for Benji to meaner across campus towards his flat. At nine minutes thirty, Maran abruptly stands. He drags himself from the bedroom, fixing his mattress-flattened hair. With a sneaky glance out the curtains, he confirms Benji’s making the final trek up the sidewalk towards the building. 

Then Maran positions himself on the couch, a book he’s never read opened halfway through and flat over his knee. He pulls his phone from his pocket, places it screen-up on the coffee table and open to a group chat that looks active from a distance but hasn’t been touched in two months minimum.

Look, Benji. I have a life outside you, Maran thinks, and lifts his head just as the front door rattles and swings open.  

*

Maybe a week after that: 

Maran doesn’t have a license, but he doesn’t need one to ride the bike. So he signs up to as many of the delivery apps as he can as a rider. Money he’ll need, if he wants to enjoy the stay at all and not loaf about on Benji’s dime. And something to do, because if he spends another Thursday afternoon by himself he’s liable to do something desperate. Like, join in on the mid morning pickleball matches that the complex’s elderly folk enjoy out on the lawn. Maran doesn’t even fucking know what pickleball is.

What he does know is that the hill is a fucking riot to shoot down on his bike, but a bitch to pedal back up at the end of a working day. He tries to go for the dinner rush only, and keep the trips short. But the tips roll in meager — cagey, stingy suburban fucks and poor college students make up the majority of his clientele.

Maran prefers his skateboard to the bike, which makes him use muscles in his legs but also his core, which he didn’t even know you needed to ride a bloody fucking bike in the first place. But he can’t ride the road on his skateboard, and the tips roll in faster the quicker he is between deliveries, and so he resigns himself to the hard work between parties and bowling and filthy underground shows Benji drags him along to as a plus-one. 

Occasionally, the good tip rolls in. Maran is quick to nab them up.

This latest one is a sizeable amount — shockingly good, considering the upscale neighborhood the app directs his delivery towards. 

Shockingly, considering the shiny copper roofs of the gated apartment community. Shockingly, despite the curling script font of the welcome mat: soooo happy you’re here! 

Maran sighs and braces himself to knock. The instructions hadn’t said leave at door, so he’s anticipating someone who wants to chat. Or be strange. He’d had a fellow open the door just last week, shirtless but for a comically large bib around his neck and a pacifier in his mouth. 

The girl that opens the door has neither of those things. But frankly, she’s pretty enough Maran wouldn’t blink twice otherwise.

“Hi.” He says, and stands there like a numb fucking idiot before he remembers the food in his bag. He slings it off his shoulder and to the ground, holding the girl’s eye as long as he can before slippery fingers on the zipper make him break it. 

“Um.” He straightens. Pauses again, because their eyes meet. She is pretty. Gorgeous, even. Springy strawberry-blonde curls that are long enough to frame a trim waist, eyes that are just a size too big that seem to twinkle up at him. Even the little wrinkle between her brows is pretty — oh, fucking hell. She’s frowning.

Maran swallows. “Name?”

“Isn’t it on there?” The girl asks, gesturing at the phone loose in his free hand. He’d been close to dropping it.

“Yeah, but—“ he fumbles the white paper satchel containing her food, barely managing to catch it mid air before it spills all over her sequin butterfly top. “Oh, fuck. Woulda fumbled that tip, huh?”

The girl laughs. He brightens too, even if it’s just a little giggle. Her eyes crinkle when she does it, but she hides what her mouth does behind her hand. 

“You’re nothin’ local,” she says as she takes the bag from him. Their fingers brush. 

“Sorry?” 

She flaps her hand, laughing again. Now she doens’t have one free to hide her smile. She’s got a gorgeous one of that, too. Teeth straight and white and just a bit too big for her mouth in as endearing a magnification as her honey-colored eyes. 

“Not local.” She says. She taps at her phone, bag propped on the swell of a hip for better motor control. Maran’s phone, still slightly slack in his hand, pings. She’s added another five to the tip. 

Maran tries to come back down to earth a bit, and process. “Uh. No. M’from—“

“Can I guess?” 

For the first time in their interaction, he notices her accent.

“Wait a second.” He laughs. “Hold on, ‘fore we go further with this.”

“Oh, further, are we?”

“Irish.” Maran says confidently. “North?”

“How dare.”

Maran laughs harder, his smile widening at her tone. She’s nice to talk to. “So sorry! I’ll guess.”

“I asked first.”

“Uh, Dublin.” 

“Easy cheat, that. Nearly everybody is. No, Cork.”

He pouts, watching a spot of color rise to each of her cheek. “Aw. I was guessin’.” 

“Let me take over for you, then?” The girl switches the bag to her other hip, and Maran tries not to let his focus drift there too long. “Um. Oh, I’m so shite at this. Ah, can I get a hint?”

Maran stares at her, perplexed. “What, me talkin’ s’not enough for you?” 

She blinks owlishly, then flushes even pinker. “Alright then, yeah. Liverpool.”

“Bit obvious!” Maran laughs. He hadn’t been aware until just then that he’s leaned against her doorway. He jumps back from it, sheepish. “Aw, fuckin’ hell. I’ve got to get to others— you were on the way—“

“You make me feel very special,” the girl cheeks. She hefts the food up, because the bag is rather full and she’s nearly a foot shorter and proportionate in musculature. That is, to say, not owning much at all. Her straining bicep flashes a bit of ink below the sleeve. 

Maran glances down at his phone screen. Then back up at her, smiling. “Fiadh. Nice to meet you.”

Fiadh giggles when he tips a fake hat, bowing low. She peeks at her phone, then sets a storm of butterflies in his gut: “Maran. Let’s run into each other again.” 

He’s stunned from words by the easy, sweet confidence of her tone. Maran stares at the flat orange color of her shut door for a moment long after it’s been shut in his face. Then he lets go of a deep breath, turning from the door before slipping both hands over his wild, smiling face. 

It isn’t until he’s back at his bike that Maran realizes he’s left the cherry milkshake from her order to melt in the drink holder. 

*

Day or two, maybe: 

The three of them stumble into the on-campus diner far too late in the evening. It’s university affiliated, which stateside Maran has begun to understand means massively inflated money-wise, but the food’s the best they’ve found so far. And by best, of course, the greasiest and fattiest most disgusting post-bar hop food available. 

Maran is picking at the remainder of their wings when Benji abruptly stands, teetering slightly on his feet. He spreads both palms on the laminate table, prompting Maran and Naima to look up.

“You okay, chief?” Naima asks. She sounds (and looks) the least sloshed of them. Her handmade crochet top, loops tastefully open to show skin, doesn’t have a single smudge of wing sauce. 

Maran pouts down at his own shirt, wishing Matilda were there — she always carries one of those handy little stain pens with her. He wipes at his mouth, uncomfortably anxious that he’s got stains at the corners like a child.

“Yeah, Benj. You good?” 

Benji, who has stood there silent for a long moment, shakes himself. His eyes swim somewhere halfway between the pair, then swing towards the corner of the diner.

“Ah. Needta piss.” 

Several heads turn their direction; alcohol always fucks with Benji’s volume controls. But thankfully, all the other patrons seem either too eclipsed in their own business or alcohol levels to care.

“G’wed, then.” Maran prompts. He flaps a hand at Benji. “Well. ‘Fore we gotta give you a new nickname, Benj.” 

“Piss King Supreme.” Naima intones. 

“PeePee Palanivel.” 

“Fuck yourself,” Benji says, pointing at Naima. He sways as he turns to Maran with the same finger. “Fuck yourself extra.” 

“Don’t get lost!” Maran calls, equally at odds with his volume controls, as Benji teeters towards the door marked with a stick figure in a top hat. 

The second he’s up and out of earshot, Maran spreads both arms across the booth towards her. 

“Yes?”

Naima sips her Coke, knuckle pressed to the deep sleepless circle under her left eye. It’s Thursday night, which means tomorrow (today, if it’s past midnight?) is Friday, which means she’s got an early morning lecture, which means she’ll hit totally Benji-like levels of cranky if they stay up much later. He mentally strikes off the idea to ask her if she’d like to go see a late movie.

“M’gonna die alone.”

She wrinkles her nose at him. It looks a mix of humored, intrigued as to where this conversation will go and why Benji couldn’t be around to partake, and exhausted with his antics.

“Man, what? You sneak another drink when I wasn’t looking?”

Maran shakes his head innocently. The room spins once he’s done, and Naima sucks her teeth.

“Are we doing the late night existential loneliness thing?” She swirls her straw. “Ugh. Why’d you wait for Benji to get up? He’s the expert.”

“Ha.” Maran snorts, momentarily distracted from his own self pity. Then he sobers a bit…just not much. Whatever had been in those drinks at her friend’s house party were strong. 

“Oh shit.” Naima says, slow and sage. “You weren’t joking. That’s only forty percent alcohol talking.” 

Maran peers down into his plate of suddenly unappetizing fried food. He thinks of all the truthful things that he could tell Naima, in this moment. But she hates giving advice. Secretly, he knows, hates being responsible. Hates when people box her into the mom friend category. The perpetual eldest sibling.

Maran doesn’t know what that is like. He does, sort of, considering Saha. But — 

That’s one of the truthful things. And they usually start with: when Benji’s gone, I’ve gotta stand on my own Like, as a person. As an interesting person, with something to say. When Benji’s gone, I feel alone, sometimes. Even sat across you, Naima. I wish I had little siblings to poke at me for more than I can give. I wish I had more friends here, not that you and Benji and acquaintances and the party regulars and stuff aren’t enough. It’s enough. It is enough. 

Why doesn’t it feel like enough?

Maran blinks. It’s sluggish to his brain slurry, but probably normal. Silently, he turns both arms palm-to-ceiling, fingers spread beseechingly.

Naima sighs. But she puts her own hands, warm and dry, on top of his — although there’s a slightly dubious quirk to her brow.

“Hypothetically—” 

Naima sighs and begins to retract her hands. She scowls a bit when Maran encloses her fingers again.

“Motherfucker. You are out of it, Maran. I think we can cross off vodka from your list.” She casts a dramatic, searching look over her shoulder. “How slow does that guy piss?”

“Hypothetically,” Maran insists, whinging for her attention again, shaking her hand. “I mean, am I dataeable?” 

Naima pretends to stand. 

He wails (admittedly too loud) as she tries to pull away.

“Fuckable, at least?Naima. Nai, come on.”

She’s trying to be put-off by the question, but she’s predictable — Naima’s always had a weak spot for the sort of humor that puts her on the spot. So they’re both grinning and giggling as she tries to get away from the booth and he nearly tumbles off the side seat, shoulders shaking.

They’re drawing a bit of attention, but no more than drunk, grease-seeking college kids at a diner. So the blush on Maran’s cheeks isn’t as full-force as it could be. 

“Can’t take you two anywhere.” 

Maran cranes his neck to see Benji stood there, arms crossed. He is clearly, judging from the lifted brow and smile pulling at one side of his mouth, assessing how quickly things have fallen apart in his absence. 

Maran grins up at him. “We’re wallowing. Y’should join, mate.” 

“Don’t look like wallowing.” Benji mumbles, nudging Maran back into the corner of the booth so he can slide in again. 

“It wasn’t wallowing.” Naima announces. The words are mischievous, leading. Maran narrows heavy eyelids at her warningly, but she ignores him. “Mar was just begging me to fuck him. It was real weird.”

His jaw drops and a shocked, embarrassed noise escapes him. “You!” 

“You!” Naima accuses in turn, pointing at him. “You gonna look Benji in the eye and lie to him? To that face? Look at that face, Maran.”

Maran cannot.

“Gotta be careful with this one.” Benji says. His tone is evil, even. “Has a reputation.” 

Maran’s just drunk enough that it stings, a bit. He knows it’s a joke — knows Benji would never lob something like that with an insult intended. But…but the drinks were strong —

“Nice job.” Naima says.

“Huh?” 

“You are so dense.” She insists.

Benji leans over to peek at him, but Maran only tucks his chin down into his palm and turns away. 

“Did you just hmph?” Benji asks, incredulous. Maran’s temper bubbles at that laugh.

“I don’t have a fuckin—“ 

“Excuse me.” 

All three of their heads whip to the side at the introduction of a new, unfamiliar voice. Maran, head swimming and still emotional, sort of likes the sound. And when he sees who it comes from, he likes the sound even more. 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” The blonde lifts her fingers just above her hip, which he chooses to interpret as a subtle wave meant just for him.”Um, I’m glad you lot are having fun, but you’re being really loud.” 

Benji and Naima pull faces in unison, staring at the freckled face. It’s familiar to Maran, but not them; they share a quick conversation contained in two twin looks: the audacity, then, wait — are we actually being that loud?

 “We’re really sorry,” Maran says. There’s a quiet, grumbling chorus from the other two that he ignores. He casts a shyly embarrassed glance around the diner; people stare back, some angrily. 

“It’s Waffle House on the outskirts of a college town at —“ Across from him, Naima pauses her grumble to reach out and check Benji’s watch. “One twenty-five in the morning.” 

Fiadh crosses her arms, but it doesn't look intimidating the way it does on Benji. She looks like she’s trying to hug herself, and her mouth is twisted into a strange pout, and her eyes have gone a bit shiny. 

“I’m not trying to cause any issues, alright? My friend just had a rough night — like, a proper rough breakup.”

Maran glances between them. He can see the debate play out on Naima’s face; keep arguing, cause more of a scene, be the bad guy even though it is sort of silly to expect full quiet in a restaurant like this one. Or let it slide. It’s only a matter of tension for Naima because her stubborn streak is wider than Benji’s moodiness.

Maran turns back to the recognizable face. “I didn’t get your full name, last time?”

Beside him, Benji snorts and leans back in the booth so Maran can talk more directly to her. “Last time.” 

Beneath the table, Maran digs his heels into Benji’s ankle until that loftily amused noise becomes pained.

“Why do you need my legal name, Maran?” 

Naima and Benji share another look. He tries very hard to ignore the fact that they’re privy to this interaction. He wishes it was just the two of them, him and this beautiful girl that seems interested in speaking. 

“Um.” 

“So he can look you up on the ‘gram,” Naima fills in. She wiggles her fingers. “See if you’re one of those Bible verse in the bio types.” 

“I was not—“

Beside her, Benji snorts.

Maran stands abruptly. It startles Fiadh, even, who jumps away from the end of their table. Over her shoulder, a gaggle of other girls —her friends, presumably, who are pretending to not pay attention— move as one single-felled unit. They all lean forward, all narrow their eyes, and Maran realizes he s not the only one with an audience.

“D’you want to go for a walk?” Maran blurts. He casts a glance back down at their unfinished food, at the spot in front of Benji’s arm which is staining the laminate diner table a buffalo chicken orange. He’s embarrassed, all of a sudden. He isn’t sure why.

Fiadh, in a fluffy neon furred coat that matches the color of the glitter carefully applied to her eyelids, smiles at him. He’s a bit stunned by it — not just at the wattage, or hypnotizingly shy coax to it, but that she gives it to him at all. Him.

“Yeah, sure.” 

*

Twenty minutes, ish: 

“It’s a bit rough, I hear.” 

Maran tilts his head a bit. She looks very pretty, even under the ebb of harsh street lights — he’s not sure what that means, really, only that Saha was always complaining about it growing up.

Fluorescence is a sin.

“What? Liverpool?”

Fiadh giggles behind her hand. The balloon in Maran’s chest swells and bursts at the sound. He hopes the grin remains normal, even though it doesn’t feel it.

“The way you say that — great. Yeah, Liverpool. Where else?”

He laughs, a bit shy. “It’s nice. I miss it. Honest, found it impressive that you guessed point-blank. Some people can’t distinguish, y’know? As distinct we think it is. Haven’t been used t’people pickin’ up on it much, over here.” 

“They guess London?” 

He slaps a hand down on the table, eyebrows raised. “Would you believe?  Me, posh. But, yeah. To answer you, yeah, it’s nice. Miss it.” Maran’s stomach twists strangely. He feels a strangely defensive need to give his hometown to credit. “Really though, s’not, like…more rough than anywhere else?” 

Fiadh blinks up at him, honey-brown brows tilted slightly. 

He considers for a moment, then flips his palm ceiling to floor and back. “Right, well. Okay, maybe a bit. Certain places. That’s anywhere, though. You ask the right person and you’ll get a great rant about why that is. Lots of, y’know, industrial exploitation and immigration and —“

Fiadh’s brow is no longer pinched. Her grin more humored than it was a moment before. Maran snaps his mouth shut.

“You the right person, then?”

There’s an unreadable note to her voice Maran can’t place.

“Not for that one, no.” Maran says. He squirms in his seat a bit. “M’best mate, Benji — he goes here, too. Nursing. Oh well. Not, like, same I guess. Nursing’s on main, and you said you were a bit ways up the road, at the STEM campus. Anyway. Benji’s the right one to ask about all that sort of stuff. ‘Bad’ neighborhoods and housin’ and crime and — fuckin’ hell. Talk your ear off on it, you get him going.”

“You have that in common, then. Fiadh says. 

Her demure grin drops at the expression Maran makes at that. “Oh, no! No, oh my God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that—“ She reaches across and tucks her slim, ringed fingers into Maran’s. Her skin is smooth, slightly tacky from the lotion she’d put on when they came inside. Maran feels his grin bounce back, and squeezes her hand.

“Naw, don’t worry. Do that all the time.” He chuckles. “I mean, the rantin’, but also — also saying the wrong thing, yeah? Worry about it always.”

“Always,” Fiadh insists in agreement. Her voice is so pretty and soft, even more attractive with the lilt of her accent. He’d really like her to say his name again. “I’m so glad you get it, Maran.” She blinks at him for a moment, then ducks her head so that a strand of curly gold falls into her eyes. His chest feels loose, all of a sudden. 

“I’m so glad we met.”

“Yes.” Maran breathes back, and then shakes his head a bit. “I mean, yes. Me too, yeah.”  

*

Two hours later, in Benji’s flat, almost sober:

Naima stands at the foot of his air mattress in a pair of Benji’s briefs and an oversized shirt nabbed from Maran’s plastic drawers serving as a dresser. 

“You what.”

“Walked her home?” Maran asks, not sure why he’s asking. That’s what happened. He walked Fiadh home.

“Probably a good thing,” Benji calls from the living room. 

“Stop eavesdroppin’, bastard.”

“Stop fumblin’, bastard!” His best friend shouts.

“Shut up, both of you.” Naima suggests. “It’s almost four in the morning.”

Maran tilts his face up at her, and she gets that sibling look about. Without prompting, Naima rounds the mattress to sit on its edge. Maran rolls dramatically towards her as the air rebalances him, pitching himself into her side She smells like whatever spicy, neutral scent Benji’s body wash has and that he is largely obtuse to. She smells like the lingering drip of too-sweet maple syrup poured from a diner bottle. She smells like the pine out front, as if she and Benji had accidentally tumbled against it on their own drunk walk home.

“What’s up, Marvin?”

Maran smiles slightly, tilting his forehead into her hip. He likes being babied, likes that Naima won’t do this with just anybody, likes that he gets a hint of what her sister mode looks like. She only ever calls him that silly nickname when its jsut the two of them. And despite the thin walls and Benji’s nosiness, he’s gone silent in the living room. 

“Thanks for talking to me.” Maran says earnestly. He’s sobered up in the chilly night air, enough that the words are strong and sincere. 

Except Naima reaches up and pats his hair, warm palm brushing past his hairline to tuck at the crown. With that leverage, she pulls him up to plant a kiss to the center of his forehead. Maran can feel a bit of residue there from her dark lipstick. Dark Cherry Kiss, or something. He’s watched her apply it in the mirror before a night out. 

“Don’t be silly, Mar.” Naima says. Her voice is lilting and quiet. Affectionate, but humored. Maran’s stomach sours. 

Like she’s assuring a child. 

“i’m not being—“

“You are,” she insists, kissing the same spot on his forehead again. Maran resists the urge to wipe it off. “And I’m telling you there’s no reason to do that, okay? Get some sleep. And there’s water on the floor if you need it.”

Thanks, he withholds. He thinks maybe he does that out of spite. 

* 

Twooo…three days later?:

Maran is delivering again. 

The notification for Fiadh’s address is half down the list of orders, and it’s out of the way, but he’s thinking in Benji’s voice, in Naima’s knowing laugh. Before he knows it, he’s tapping the accept order button. 

He waits: sat on the sofa, legs tossed over the arm; slumped until his spine hurt in one of the rickety kitchen stools; starfish spread on the ground, phone screen to his forehead. 

And then finally, there’s a little ping that signals the app is connecting him with the customer. 

Fiadh: Not to be insane, but I was hoping it would be you. Is that stupid? 

Maran: I’m happy to be delivering your order today :thumbs_up: also no, it’s definitely not. I have maybe been thinking about you a bit.

Fiadh: Just a bit? 

Maran: Alright, fine, yeah. A lot. :blushing: 

His phone pings again.The restaurant’s finished her order, and now he’s got to go pick-up. Maran practically skips out the front door, sticking his upper half back in to grab the keys he’d forgotten.

And he nearly trips down the steps. Maran stares at the latest notification at the top of his screen, knuckles white where they clutch the edges.

! Customer [Fiadh] has added items from secondary pickup location. This location is on your route; the amount from this order will be added to their customer total, but delivery specialists do not receive a second payout. !

Customer [Fiadh] has added the following items to the order: 

- 1 pack evergreen mint gum

- 2 BoomBam energy drinks, very berry and lemonade

-  1 pack condoms, medium 

Maran fumbles his keys in the ignition once, twice, three — swear — four times.

*

Ten minutes later:

Maran feels more than a bit awkward waiting for the door to open. He dries his free hand on his thigh. The plastic bags around his wrist dig just shy of painful; he’d doubled bagged them. With how fast he’d taken the stairs up to Fiadh’s floor, they’d spun and wound themselves tight around flesh. 

The door cracks, and Maran abruptly stops fidgeting. 

It’s her cute slippers he notices first. Leopard or cheetah or the markings of some other big cat, the faux fur lining them almost too fluffy.

Then Maran’s eyes drag up the rest of her. 

Maran blinks. She’s wearing a too-big shirt that reads Take me back to Cabo! Richard n’ Karol 2016 in peeling, faded letters. She’s wearing those cute slippers and a soft looking, her silly Cabo too-big shirt —and not much else.

“Uh.” He glances down to the bags around his wrist, then peers back up at her with a sheepish shrug. “I was going to ask if maybe that was a mistake…?” 

Fiadh’s big, pretty eyes pop wider. “You still think —“ She pinches the bridge of her nose. For some reason, the curl of her lips makes something nervous slip into his stomach.  

Is she laughing at me? Maran briefly wonders. But only briefly, because a small fist knots in the front of his own shirt and yanks him across the threshold. 

*

Three weeks later:

“Why—” Maran tries to place it. “Endocrinology.”  

She laughs. “Wrong one. Entomology.”

“Bugs.” Maran offers. The blunder pinks his cheeks, makes his foot tap.”I guess, insects? Use the respectable term, right? S’like,” he laughs, and is the only one of them to do so. Which makes him laugh more, awkward and hard, which dissipates whatever shred of humor remained of the bombed joke because Fiadh’s only silent and staring at him with her big, deep eyes. 

“Well.” Maran breaks off before he carries on — s’like, is bugs a slur? y’think they get offended, prefer insects? wouldn’t that be funny, you get chewed out because you’ve broken some insect social blunder, who’d you think is the most formal of ‘em, if you had to guess, but you don’t because you study ‘em, so ladybugs, for sure, and cockroaches probably —

“Well,” Maran says again. He tips back until the playground horse’s spring groans under him. Somehow, even that sound is embarrassing. “Whatever. Fuckin’ hell, I’ve had a bit much, I think.”

“I chose it because I liked butterflies as a kid.”

He blinks at her. He expected to continue filling the awful void himself, until she tired of it and left. He was always sort of waiting for Fiadh to sigh in that way of hers, stand with her arms pin straight at her sides, and walk off in exasperation. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” Fiadh answers from a thousand miles away. Her mouth quirks in one of the softest, most genuine smiles he’s ever seen. “We had this greenhouse — more a conservatory, really, the size of it.” She has the decency to cast a sheepish glance askew, out over the woodchips. “One year da had monarchs shipped in. The caterpillars, I mean. Danaus plexippus.”

She pauses, peeks at him, then beams because Maran frees an impressed whistle as cued. 

“Big words in endocrinology.” 

He laughs. “I’ll bet! Not like either of us know. So — the caterpillars.” 

“Larvae, technically.” Fiadh says. He wrinkles his nose. “The most interesting stage.”

“You’re getting to the part where they’re all pretty n’orange, not squirmy?”

Fiadh huffs a laugh — she always does that, just a little bit of a breath. Barely a noise. Sometimes he wonders if it’s purposeful; if she knows what he wants, a proper laugh, and withholds it; if she can tell that he needs it, in a way. 

“Right. So he’s got them sent in, you follow? Tells me it’s my job as lady of the house to fill it up with plants and butterflies and the like. We’d gone to a butterfly house in Denmark when I was — oh, eight, hell, just a baby.”

“Made an impression, I guess. Lifelong learner out of you.”

Her mouth pulls strangely. “Suppose. Sometimes—”

It’s a perfect night for this sort of conversation. Humid enough that his shirt clings a bit, but not muggy. A breeze gentling across the field, strokes of shifting grass blue in the moonlight. He feels the shift in her tone, in the mood of their discussion, like a change in the wind. 

Maran slips himself from the horse contraption, eyes glued to Fiadh where she sits on her own. She’s sleight against the backdrop of the chain link fence: hair fluttering in picturesque wisps, the soft and pale angle of her upturned nose absurdly perfect as if drawn. 

He tries to be quiet, but shuffling towards her across the woodchips proves the effort’s misplaced. Whatever memory or winding thought has transfixed her nearly breaks, but Fiadh doesn’t move as he approaches. She shifts only slightly, thighs tensing as Maran slips in behind her on the spring-bound creature. Her hand rests on its — a badger? a beaver? — forehead, thumb stroking a circle. The place she touches must have been touched similarly by a thousand other thumbs, because it’s shinier than other parts of the old play attraction.

“Maybe I’m a bit more sloshed than I thought, too.” 

Maran hums, chin tucking to a shoulder, arms around a waist, honey curls touching his nose. It’s humid — with them pressed together precariously balanced on the teeter-totter animal, it’s worse. 

But she draws a breath like she’ll speak more, if he’s just quiet. So he is. 

“Sometimes.”

He can’t help it. “But not often?”

“I think it was nice to have a thing.” Fiadh’s gone again. Her eyes are far off on the dim and foggy horizon. Dragging the rest of her, thoughts first, with them. Maran thinks he might not even exist to her as it unravels:

“It’s like when you tell a family member you like something— or even, they bring it up first and you barely express interest, really, but then that just becomes.” Her wrist stirs the air, fingers splayed like the explanation is tucked between the webs. She’s so pale the moon turns that thin skin purple; blood and night sky. 

“Your thing?”

“Right.” She faces way from him, but Maran can hear that bit of her voice about to break. “Sometimes I don’t even know if I’m into it at all. Or if it’s comfortable. If I’m just doing something I know, just…coasting?”

Maran isn’t sure why he shivers, but goosebumps prick at his arms uncaring of his awareness. He brushes a hand down her arm, tracing the path of a dragonfly’s thorax and wingspan even though he can’t see it well: it was one of her earliest, he remembers, so that’s why it’s faded, and that’s why it’s also his favorite. 

“Y’got all these guys, though.” He points out. “That’s commitment, yeah? Passionate, not coastin’.”

Fiadh slumps into his chest a bit. “I’m not so sure.” Suddenly, she twists at the waist to find his gaze. “If I say something awful, will you judge me?”

“No,” Maran says immediately. Maran responds before processing frequently, but he’s mostly sure he means that ‘no’. Mostly.

“I like telling people.” Fiadh admits. It’s a flurry of words just as quick as his assurance. He wonders (briefly, and guiltily for even that split second) if they might have come out regardless of his answer.

“Telling people?”

“That it’s what I’m studying. I feel like everyone’s got this image of me, yeah? Like,” she spreads both hands, index and thumb ninety degrees, to frame a portion of the sky above. “Real specific but totally inaccurate. I know what I look like, and I think people assume. I use my brain just like anybody else, sometimes better.  So I like when people think I’m smart. I like that they look at my and don’t expect bugs.” 

“Insects,” Maran corrects gently. 

Fiadh is quiet for a moment. Then she wrenches herself from Maran’s arms, nearly clipping him sensitive with a knee as she heaves off the rocker. 

Backed by a big, sparkling, romantic moon,Maran can only stare up at her. She’s worked up from something,maybe speaking, her eyes bright and wide and —maybe, he worries, terrified?

Maran smiles at her as soft as he can manage: I get it, keep talking, keep explaining, I’ll do my best to understand, I want to know, I can understand, I can make it better if you want, I know what to say—

“What if I’m meant to do something else, you know? Something bigger, or even better or something —something.” 

“Somethingsomething,” Maran sing-songs, humoring himself.

“Somehing not studying wings under a microscope and pinning for display and identifying instars in freshwater populations and egg cycles and living in an apartment that—“

Maran rather likes her apartment; it’s the fanciest one he’s ever been in, all light (vulnerable, stainable) wood and stainless steel and new appliances. 

“—a covered parking space, drinking cup after cup of leftover pours and going-bad mixers and no job prospects besides conservation or preservation and barely a social life and dating —“

Maran blinks at her. She blinks at him. Then Fiadh bends and retches into the woodchips.

“Oh.” Maran says helplessly. He’s standing, suddenly. His stomach feels cold.

She tries to speak between pathetic, sniffling heaves. “I—too much— oh, the worst. I’m —the worst.” 

She’s not, her assures her, she’s not. She’s so far from the worst they’ve got to come up with a new unit of measurement just to find the distance, he assures her. She jdanced a little too hard, but she looked very cute doing it, he assures her, he got a very cute slow-mo of her jumping in a circle, he’ll send it to her. 

Maran orders the car. Maran assures her. Maran shuffles her to the elevator of her building, assures her and the doorman he’s meant to be there. Maran gets her water and a pill,gets himself one of each after he’s done assuring her, tucking her in, pulling the sheet to her chin because she keeps the apartment at a cool sixty-eight even when she’s gone because she’s sensitive to heat—

Maran pulls the sheet back down to her stomach, because she’s sensitive to heat, and she’s just been sick, and she’s laying there staring up at him with the saddest eyes he could possible imagine. He assures her right to sleep. He assures her with a thumb circling the back of her hand, held in his own. He assures her and imagines the spot goes shiny, but that his is the only thumb that polishes it. 

Dating— he’s thinking as he falls asleep on her couch, even though he’s more than welcome in the bed. The couch is comfier, firm where the bed sawllows him, sinks him into uncomfortably expensive depth.s.

Dating—he thinks, eyes shut, memory and its embellishment giving him a vision of the little spindly veins in her hands as she stretched towards the moon. 

*

Sometime later:

It doesn’t take long, after that. He isn’t stupid — he can tell the second it happens. Rain checked brunch. Museum tripped pushed the next week. A phone call unreturned. Hours between texts, when usually he was hard pressed to get her to stop. 

At a party a few days after they decide friends is better, he’s venting. 

“And it was mutual.” Maran tries not to let himself sound bitter or sad ora’s fucking hurt as he is, but it’s difficult with the taste of the mixed drinks still heavy on his tongue, in the back of his throat. “Well.”

“That’s such a lie, dude. Like it’s always a lie. No offense. Someone wanted it, someone didn’t. Or, fuck. Someone wanted it less.” His fresh friend tilts back nearly off the railing they lean against. They’ve meandered a few blocks from the house party towards a public park. It’s more a square of greenery between two criss-crossed streets, but there’s a bench and that is enough of a qualifier for Maran. 

“Been through it recently too, then?” 

“Hah. I guess — not like this. But kinda.”

Maran tilts his chin back, head loose on his neck. “I just don’t get it, y’know?    Like, m’not planning on staying so…all’s fair, right. But I don’t know how she can go from tellin’ me, oh, Mar, I’ve never connected with someone like this, I thought I was going to be alone.

His drinking buddy sits upright beside him on the bench. A massive hand flattens to his chest, nudging him back against the wrought iron perhaps harder than it means to.

“Oh that is —that’s wicked fucking eerie, dude, I had like almost the same thing said to me.” The other man shoves a hand back through his hair. “Almost word for word. Jesus H., it’s probably from some stupid viral top ten ways ways to nicely break up with someone you’re too scared to admit you fell out of love with or were never in love with at all TikTok.” 

“Psychopaths.” Maran blinks at his new, nameless friend. “You sound, man?” 

He shakes his wild mop of red hair. 

“Peachy keen.” His wide-split smiling mouth twists curiously. “Why don’t we say like…cherry keen, or something? Peary keen?”

Maran sticks his hand out with a grin, pumping his new friend’s much larger on. “Banana-y keen.”

The other boy barks a laugh, charming and brash and too loud; nobody says a word about their volume control as they go on and on, until they run out of fruit.

*

At the beginning:

“Whoa.” 

Maran stumbles against the sudden grip tight around his lower arm. He’s two in. Benji cleared out not twenty minutes ago, so he’s alone and skittish but hiding it well, would be hiding it well if he had another—

“Leggo of me, man, fuckin’ hell.” 

Maran wrenches himself away from the grip, his face set in an uncharacteristic frown. He knows he looks angry, looks unapproachable, looks as though he’s not willing to have a conversation when all he really wants is for someone to fucking say something to him, anything, anyone. 

Maran turns to the person he’d bumped into, then pauses.

“Oh.” 

Benny’s forehead wrinkles with his hitching eyebrows. “Christ, Maran. K-Kill a guy with enthusiasm, will you?” 

Maran nudges around his shoulder, peering behind the wide set of Benny’s shoulders towards the drink table behind him. There’s a variety of bottles and mixers set out. Two women with short-cropped hair stand behind the folding table, twin-like in their choice of leather jackets despite the humidity.

Briefly, he remembers Naima’s fluttering dramatic sigh before they departed the flat: Matilda’s butch barmaid bouncers are going to be back.

“I’ll be a bit more enthusiastic once I get at those l’il beauties.” Maran sing-songs, pointing at the table.

Benny turns at the waist. His button-up sleeve strains a bit against his bicep, cutting into skin in a way that looks uncomfortable. Maran reaches out and tucks a finger into the taut fabric, pulling it away. 

“Don’t think Jules n’Stella are your t-type.” Benny quips, turning back to look down at the finger tucked into his shirt and then back at Maran’s face. 

“You’d be wrong about that,” one of the women crows. Maran feels heat sweep into his face when her shrewd, pretty green eyes dip down him. “Come hang out with us for the rest of the party, sweetheart.” 

Benny tucks an arm around Maran’s waist abruptly, tugging him a stumbling step closer. They touch flush from thigh to shoulder, Maran slightly tucked into his chest. He freezes, but Benny doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Ooh, stop it you.” He squeezes a broad palm around Maran’s shoulder. His middle finger, ringed by a band of steel with a silly skull welded to the middle, digs uncomfortable into Maran’s collarbone. He could move away. It hurts, and he could move away, but — but—

“I just want another Cherry Bomb.” 

Benny glances at the list of drinks Matilda had typed up. “Zombie. Cherry Bomb. Rumming up that Hill. One Way or Another…Shot. Oh, fuck. Matilda is a fucking l-loser.”

“I think they’re funny.” Maran mumbles. “They’re all lady band songs.” 

“Lady band songs.” Jules or Stella echoes. “Benson, leave him with us. We can be trusted. You can trust us with the super cute little—”

Benny hisses like a cat, lifting his other arm to tuck around Maran and pull him in even tighter. It’s not like his hug with Benji, or Fiadh tucking herself against his chest and asking if he’s mad, if he’ll quit his job at her father’s pool, if they’ll keep talking, if he’ll leave her alone, if he’ll hug her again.

Maran sways a bit, and Benny readjusts to keep him upright. They stumble together towards the exit. At least, Maran thinks its the exit.

“Wher’we goin’?” He asks, suddenly sleepy with the overwhelming scent of — pine, maybe, the woods, something salty like an ocean spray— “Are you wearin’ cologne? Smells nice.”

Benny pauses briefly. Then, somehow miraculously shouldering the door open, dodging an influx of new partygoers, and keeping them tight together, they stumble out into the cool night air. 

“We,” Benny announces, finally taking space for himself and allowing Maran his own bubble back, “Are going to go load up on ch-ch-chili cheese dogs.” 

Maran’s stomach flips. He puts a hand to it. “I might puke.”

“Maran, baby.” Benny slaps a hand to his back, nudging him a step forward into the night. “Pukin’ the dogs back up is ninety p-percent of the American dream.”

Maran smiles wryly, thinking of Benji’s bitchily pulled brow and mouth open to rant. “I thought that was trickle down economics.”

Beside him, Benny is silent for so long a moment that Maran tilts his face back from the breezy midnight air and opens his eyes. When he does, Benny’s hair rustles in the wind as he turns away. It brushes his cheek, and Maran’s stomach flips again.

“I love those t-two, but I will fight them—“

“I might actually be sick—“

“Sh,” Benny says, cupping the back of his neck. He rubs there a second, and Maran floats off elsewhere on— on the wave of nausea from the drinks. He had too many drinks. He had too many, for sure. “I will fight them.” 

“Don’t gotta fight nobody.” Maran assures. “They’re nice n’all, real flattering. But I like you better, don’t worry mate. You do the magic tricks.”

Benny pauses their sidewalk march and turns Maran towards him with hands on his shoulders. Maran blinks owlishly. 

“You’re goddamn right I do the t-tricks.” Benny intones. His voice is low and earnest, theatrically approving for Maran’s ears and his ears only. “You are goddamn right.” 

Maran isn’t sure what to do, then, other than laugh.

“Cute socks, b-by the way.” Benny points out, once they’re a ways down the street. The dim glow of the downtown district looms at the top of the gentle hill. At one point in the spring, Maran had struggled to peddle up it.

“Thanks,” he says, still beaming for some silly reason. “There’s little cherries on the bottom. Can’t remember where I got ‘em.” 

“Nice, nice.” Benny says. He drops his arm off Maran’s shoulders, but keeps his strange waltzing gait even with Maran’s so the brush every so often. It’s comforting. Maran doesn’t feel alone, in the cool night. “You have a good time?”

Maran thinks about this question. He thinks about it more than he’s thought a lot of decisions through, recently. Then he turns to offer Benny a smile with his answer: “Yeah. A blast.”

[wonyoungismn1glowup]

I HATE PEOPLE WHO SMOKE/ VAPE TOO. ITS DISGUSTING . PEOPLE WHO ROMANTICIZE SMOKING/ VAPING ARE CRAZY AND STUPID. I DONT LIKE MY CRUSH ANYMORE COZ HE SMOKES LMAO .THATS MUCH HOW I HATE SMOKING . ITS SO WEIRD HOW THIS HABIT IS ROMANTICIZED 🤢😑😑

YES ME TOO, As a muslim its haram because ITS HARMFUL TO THE LUNGSSS!!!! 🗣🗣🗣, I used to have a very TOXIC friend who vapes, she always left me and never tried to talk to me and only used me to vent about her problems!!! As soon as i left her I felt so much better!!! (and i smelled clean air finally 🥱) But I really dont get how people romanticies smoking/vaping... cuz gross smells like shit and its soooo not cute, pink&red healthy lungs are sm cuter>>(THIS IS A JOKE PFFHSAHSJADKHAKJ)

but at the same time I cant really be disrespectful to them since their still human(with black lungs *THIS IS A JOKE SRRYSADKSJSIJDS) So i still respect them but I dont really become friends with them and talk to them (Its bad influence!!!)

*Please still respect the person even if you dont agree with them!!!

[dojae-huh]

I was hesitant to write this because I don't want to bring up this topic here…but I just want to share some thoughts…so please don't be offended if my question annoyed you…but you know, I was really shocked when I saw the news about Haechan being caught smoking…of course, he is an adult and I have no right to tell him what to do…and I'm not like a typical Korean fan who can accept drinking but not smoking…I hate both…but smoking is something I really despise…and it's not good for his health, especially since he's a vocalist. Everyone knows how it affects breathing and all…I don't even know what I'm writing here…ty and JN have already been caught before with smoking scandals and I hate that they do it…but Haechan is like a little brother to Doyoung, and I wonder if Doyoung has ever told him not to do it? I don't know for sure, but I believe Doyoung would never smoke as long as he sings and he prioritizes his health above anything else…like some people have said, if they're living together, wouldn't Doyoung try to make him quit smoking?nd also I knw dy is not someone to cross the boundary or force someone to do something ...but u knw hc consider him as a real brother so may be he stops becoz of it...aaaah I dont knw....I just cant stand still since I heard this news...it is killing me....that much I hate smoking...nd i didnt expected it is from heachan u knw...he should stop it…I just want him to stop it…I'm worried about him because I like him so much huh nim..what to do…😥😥…

You can do nothing but hope he'll make the decision to stop. And that he is only an occasional smoker.

It's normal that you are uneasy about it because you feel strongly about the topic. You have both the feeling of disgust (the smell, maybe the action (it does look stupid and ugly with vaping, heh)) and the hyper awareness of the health complications. And it clashes with your positive feelings about Haechan.

I also thought about Doyoung's apparent inaction. Knowing Do used to hang wet towels in his room, avoids drinking before performances, does vocal chords warm up exercizes, and is a fan of the very bitter propolis, I can't see him being OK with smoking. However, normally, when people live with others and care, they go to smoke outside (in case of kids, for example).

As for Doyoung not stopping the habit altogether. He can nag, he probably does, but he can't make people do what they don't want to. Haechan is an adult and not really Do's younger brother. Do can't act with force. He gave up on Taeyong, and all Tae did wrong was be late for practices. Which is a minus, actually, and can backfire one day. Like, if Do's friend gets into drugs, will he be able to take harsh measures? I got such thoughts. Tae is definetely a guy who can fall victim.

Smoking relieves stress. And there are enough things in Haechan's life that are stressful. Smoking can affect the voice, however, there are many singers who smoke and are still able to sing in their 50s (most rock-stars, probably). And there are many people around Haechan who give the bad example. Other neos, managers. Most people pick up smoking because others around them do it. Vaping is advertised as less harmful than sigarettes. Which might affect "stress relief vs voice preservation" pros and cons calculations.

[worrywrite]

I think there's something to be said for the third space argument in this regard. There really aren't third spaces anymore, not like there used to be. Everything is behind a paywall and people don't have as much of a disposable income anymore to spend on paid third spaces (because that requires regular payment and we have routinely been told to trim off regular frivolous payments to prevent financial instability).

But there was something else I noticed about the "wild and exciting kids" when I was in high school. For clarity I consider myself a late millennial... Maybe a zenial, I guess? Doesn't matter. We had access to most social media before I graduated and Facebook wasn't quite starting to enshitify yet (it also wasn't just all old people yet). We had "the great big third space in the cloud" of social media. We could message and text and post and share things with friends and family whenever we wanted, but that also meant that everyone kind of knew what was going on. The kids that did "fun" things often had morning after clarity, but it was too late. They'd go do things they thought were fun and wild in the moment, but then they'd get really embarrassed when they realized they'd posted about it and everyone was right when it was pointed out to them that that was really stupid. The kid who smoked and vaped in highschool got made fun off because he was spending way to much money on the habit and no one would lend him anything and then he'd get caught stealing and go to correctional and it was all on Facebook. The kid how "got away with everything" was actually because his mother was too busy being a teacher to parent him but not too busy to cover for him at school, and so when he lashes out and did stupid stuff like develop a chewing tobacco habit at the age of 14 it was pathetic and the substitute teacher that caught him and sent word back up past his mother got him expelled and his mother fired. It wasn't quite to the surveillance state we have now, but it was peer enforced surveillance. People saw others doing "fun and wild" stuff and we called them idiots for the risks and costs they incurred in the process.

I distinctly remember a preppy girl in one of my classes who had tried to set up a sort of "bonfire in the woods let's all party" sort of thing. And she did... Okay? I guess. People went, someone managed to bring alcohol. But everyone was so awkward that they just sat there around a bonfire and then came home smelling like wood smoke. And the next week people had shared stories about it on Facebook and that girl (who was objectively pretty and smart and kind and more) got obliterated and had to move to a different school for all the bullying she endured. Some kids said it was just her fault because she couldn't muster the charisma to get a dozen teenagers drunk and horny, but also they were just disappointed. They realized that there was no fun and wild thing they could do or could have done that they wouldn't regret or be made fun of for.

Feeling like you have "lived" probably requires more than just a third space. It also requires privacy and, to an extent, isolation--and not the kind of lonely isolation currently manufactured by social media, the sort where you can go somewhere and be alone on purpose.

Maybe this is the wrong platform to pose this question given the average tumblr user but

Is it just me or did our generation (those of is who are currently 20-30 ish) just not get the opportunity to be young in the 'standard' sense?

Like, everyone I talk to who's over 40 has all their wild stories about their teens and 20s, being young and dumb, and then I talk to my friends and coworkers and classmates, and we just... dont.

[chronicbloodynoses]

idk maybe it’s the calm b4 the storm but going from an emotional low to a crazy emotional high??? like idk how to explain it but i just feel so great i feel content with my life like of course there’s always the little things but i just feel like i have such a positive outlook rn and i’m feeling pretty great from it all

(crow from the future. this is a long yap sesh that i typed for like 30 mins. break bc it’s kinda a lot 😜)

maybe it’s the being able to talk to someone, or maybe it’s the feeling set in my friendships, or maybe finding out how an old friend actually thought about me, but i’m just really happy rn???? idk maybe i can send some form of happiness or positivity to you guys????

no matter where you are, no chaos can remain in chaos. whether you’re in or out of school, everything is always changing. you can take the steps needed to make changes, but when you’re helpless, the world still will change. do you think that this will still be happening in a year? or maybe two years? if you think about how you were then, you can see a change. but if you think about it, the change wasn’t truly “noticeable” you can never know something until it’s over, and you’re out. you can’t see the change as it happens, but you can look back and reflect on it. does any of this make sense? maybe you need to just do drugs that aren’t harmful. today in english we watched vaping videos and all that because it’s red ribbon week. idk if i mentioned it b4, but i was vaping a little bit socially before, but i really don’t want to create a habit like that. i’m happy with my edibles, and that’s that. if you notice an addiction, i think you should quit cold turkey as soon as you can, but if you know yourself, then why not, yknow? that is, for what i consider harmless at least. i don’t think i’ve ever heard of a weed death, unless in the form of an overdose but that goes for anything. i think you should do what makes you happy and stay safe when you do it, yknow? know yourself limits and prioritise your responsibilities over having fun. #besafe #dontkillyourself #dontgetaddictedtodrugs #dontgethealthshiz yeah idk my whole thing w this nothing burger ass post (bc yall know i cannot stop yapping) but im feeling good and hopefully you guys are also feeling good and having fun and being safe in anything that you do. i’m also tired. i also just got recommended my kinda ex? but def ex friend, on tiktok. my first kinda partner but we were friends b4 and it was online and we dated for a week b4 they broke up with me, which i was super happy about bc almost instantly i realised i was NOT into them in that way, and kinda funny so when they wanted to get back together a couple days later, i was a big stupid FART who couldn’t tell people things (in the past, im better now) and so i basically told them that i only am in love with dead people. the deceased. they asked in a very indirect way and i basically just redirected each part to dead people. yeah uh yknow more yap fest my dream last night will go here too. paragraph break!

so my dream last night was not JUST a dream. it was a nightmare and kinda a stupid one but my worst nightmares lately all have to do w this. so my computer had a virus LOL and it was like?? through xbox??? and it was pissibg me off and it opened up like 500 tabs of all minecraft over and over again and my computer is like TWEAKING and i try to open up malwarebytes and instead of my usual thing it gives me this shitty fake error basically saying “this version doesn’t work anymore, sorry! click the link below to download the new version!” and i’m like FUCK my computer has a BAD VIRUS and it’s duplicating all my things and overloading my computer and then i’m like okay. i gotta go to malwarebytes and then the actual download to a REAL version. and im struggling to type it and then when i do it and i click the link, its a fake website, and i go back and find the real one. it redirects me to roblox. and i’m like????????? and i go back to get out of roblox and it gives me a short pop up b4 sending me back to roblox saying “windows error” so im like FUCK. THIS BITCH BLOCKED MALWAREBYTES. and i’m thinking and i decide i need to get a flash drive, download malware bytes on it, and use it from there and then my alarm goes off

also little bonus so i wake up at 6, and i basically just relax and hang out in my bed and wake up til 6:30, but sometimes i fall asleep again which is when this dream took place, but b4 i fell asleep i was watching community and so im my dream i hear it and im like watching it on my phone while im dealing w the virus and im comprehending everything (ive already watched community like 3 times, i KNOW these episodes so its not like i watched a new one in my sleep, i was just hearing it while i slept and it made its way in) and then when i woke up from my “alarm” 6+7 i have that one song from south park playing (from night of the living homeless. i get woken up by cartman singing abt the homeless. and i chose this fate.) and 6:30 it’s just a vvvrrr vvvrrrrrrr so in case i sleep through 1+2 i have 3 to wake me OR to give me a checkpoint for getting ready (i leave ~7:30)

little bit sad bc my wife just called and she’s not gonna b there tomorrow probably BUT i know she’s BEEN needing a break day so im happy that she’s able to +allowed to have a break from school and everything and be able to catch up on schoolwork

anyway’ i should prob go to bed ive been typing and yapping for the past likeeee at LEAST 30 mins just bc i could just type my every through literally forever but that doesn’t mean i SHOULD! uhhh yeah GOODNIGHT GUYS! GOODNIGHT TO THE LIKE. 5 OF YOU. I HEART YOU! THANKS FOR GETTING THIS FAR AND HEARING MY YAPPING!

[watery-pancake]

I keep coming back

i keep trying to find distractions but im always in the same cycle. i worked 12 hours a day for months but nothing can distract me from my habits. vaping for a head rush. smoking until i can feel the air. i bought 3 vapes and all i can think is regret regret regret regret. i cant tell my bf because he'll just be so mad at me for being so stupid as to fall back into my addiction and yell at me. the hardest part of addiction is having no one to talk to about it and offer me comfort. im all alone. i broke when i sat down and realized i had 0 reason to quit other than to avoid my bf yelling at me to stop. he doesn't yell. its the air becoming thick and him speaking to me in a lower, condescending tone. talking to me like i am a child who broke a glass when warned not to play around with it. like i am stupid enough to fall into addiction and as if its something i choose. i didn't choose to be prone to addiction. i knew it would happen since its so generational. but yet i still tried it once, like he did. i knew as much as he does with how he DOESNT fall into it.

i did this whole stupid fucking internship and on the day of my presentation. my whole team is just terrible. i left early and no one except my friend on the team even noticed. i skipped the final day and the same reaction. i constantly bother this team and give them good ideas but just like every fucking woman in stem i just get told im wrong and this man who repeats the same thing i just said is correct and it was his idea. i walk away from this internship with 0 experience since i was dismissed so much. thats a lie. until i was dumped with completing the whole thing in the final weeks. i memorized the code top to bottom but yet i am toyed like i am a doll who knows nothing. as if i didnt fix the bug tormenting us since the start of this internship.

then its just back home. no internship. little hours from my job. and i am at home again, unable to sit down due to my severe pain. damnit. damnit. DAMNIT ALL.

[boogey-edits]

RUBBER

hi! this is an original story. i tried my best but i might lose motivation sometimes or the chapters might be short. so bare with me please. anyways, please read the warnings before starting.

WARNINGS: drugs, self h@rm, harmful thoughts, violence, suic!de, smoking, vaping, cussing, smut, and SA. please do NOT read if this will trigger anything for you. there are resources for help over google and pinterest. read with caution. if you are underage, i don't recommend this.

description: I snap the rubber band on my wrist. snap, snap, snap. And sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I snapped. If I just broke. Would it be how Milo snapped? Or something else. Fuck it. snap.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

People say things will get better. People say to just keep trying because everything will be amazing soon and that I won’t have thoughts that apparently normal people wouldn’t have. But what if things don’t get better? What if maybe I’m allegedly not normal? What am I made for in life then if I’m a sad, lonely bitch who cries at the bus stop next to the gas station while I wait to go home to my parents. My family isn’t awful, so I should be more grateful. I know it’s true, but why do I feel like no one cares or loves me? I’m trapped in this self-pity and it’s fucking exhausting. So what happens when I snap out of the rubber band holding me together? What happens when that band snaps? Do I commit suicide? Will I get better? Do I do something crazy like writing a song or some shit? It’s exhausting how my mind runs a thousand miles a minute. And how-

“Beatrix! Time for school!” My mom interrupts my thought process. I look down at myself and I’m not even ready for school. So, I reluctantly roll out of bed and brush my teeth as my mom waits. Sometimes I wonder how she’s so patient. I have no patience at all. I brush out my dyed ginger hair and ruffle up my bangs and short hair to add volume which my hair never has. Unfortunately, I was too tired to wash off my makeup last night and I don’t have time to redo it this morning, so it’s the school bathroom. I toss my makeup bag and wipes into my backpack and change into a baggy, vintage spiderman sweater I found in my closet with some jeans.

“BEATRIX!” My mom yells. I roll my eyes and grab my backpack, swinging it over my shoulder. “Coming mom.” I say, yelling back. I hopped down the stairs and put my shoes on before heading out to the car that my mom was getting back into from coming inside to yell for me. I get into the passenger side and set my backpack down. “How’d you sleep?” My mom asks, pulling out of the gravel driveway onto the regular, concrete road that my mom refuses to change the driveway to. “Fine, I guess.” I reply, not wanting to talk much. I felt guilty that it came out moody, I just don’t like talking to anyone. Ever. “Tone.” My mom reminds me which makes me roll my eyes. Surprisingly, she doesn’t yell at me and just keeps driving. I don’t focus much on the oak trees outside next to the road, or the stupid drivers that almost crash constantly. I focus on the thoughts running through my mind. The word “sorry” repeating through my mind as I think about how I responded to my mom. However, I don’t have the courage or responsibility to say it. So I stay silent in self-pity. I know it’s bad, but it’s a guilty feeling I have. And I just let it swallow me.

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Once we reach the smalltown school of Georgetown, Colorado, I get out, not bothering to say bye to my mom. I don’t know why I’m rude to her. I have no reason to be, I just am. And that’s definitely a bad habit I should talk to my counselor about. As if she doesn’t tell my mom everything. But the truth is, I’m such a fucking blabber mouth that I tell her everything and she tells my parents. I know they know, they just don’t say anything. They don’t call me insane for having these train of thoughts, they just don’t speak about it. But I hear them arguing about it, every day.

I walk through the school, looking around me at all the high schoolers that go to school with me. Let’s just say, I’m known for my anger issues. And no one likes an angry girl that apparently has nothing to be angry about. But I could name a billion reasons why I get angry at everything. But I don’t need to bitch to all of you about it. Finally, I see Milo and Cyrus. Me and Milo have been best friends since kindergarten. I hate his girlfriend though. And no, it’s not that I have a crush on him or some weird shit, I’m lesbian. But, his girlfriend has just been giving him a hard time. Pressuring him into drugs, cigarettes, all that shit that isn’t for high schoolers. Cyrus is my everything though. Her blonde hair, ocean blue eyes, short and tiny. She’d be every teen movie dream. But what if a girl who is definitely fucked up likes her? Because I’m practically on my knees for her. She’s just everything to me. Why don’t I go for it? I’m sure I’d accidentally break her heart. And she’s fragile. I don’t want that to happen to her, she doesn’t deserve it.

Of course, by the time I get over to them, the bell rings. So no time to talk to my friends then? That’s shitty timing. Cyrus looks a bit down by the bell ringing but shrugged. “We have our first period together anyways. Let’s just walk and talk.” Cyrus suggests. Instantly, I nod. Wait, was that too quick? Do I look like a fucking puppy following around it’s owner? Well that sucks. “Yeah, sure. By the way, I can’t make it to the mall after school. Grace wants me to go to the diner around the corner again.” Milo said. Originally, we had all made plans to go to the mall. Of course, there is no mall in Georgetown. But there are a lot of shops all right next to each other and everyone calls it, “Historic Georgetown”, but we just call it the mall. And, you guessed it, Grace is Milo’s girlfriend. So graceful he won’t break up with her toxic ass. But I guess we all have someone toxic that we’re attached to, right? “Uh, that’s fine. We’ll see if we can find anything you’d like.” I reply with a small smile even though I’m a bit pissed since we had already made plans. But Milo really loves Grace so I won’t get in the way of that despite my judgment on her. 

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Jealousy. It’s an ugly feeling. I wouldn’t say that I want Milo to pay more attention to me because I like him, it’s just that his girlfriend is all he talks about now. He isn’t the same anymore and it’s worrying me. He’s stopped communicating when he’s usually a chatterbox that you’d have to slap tape over his mouth to shut him up, and he just always looks..empty. Not the same Milo I knew a year ago. I’m just worried about him. And I hope the drugs aren’t getting to his head, and that his girlfriend isn’t either.

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Hey everyone! I know that this is my first chapter and it’s not very long but I tried my best and I’m scared that if I close out of it, then I won’t work on it at all. But, thank you for reading this and if you have any ideas, please tell me.

[countthereds]

reasons I smoke:

1) stress relief

2) I look cool, i like the way the smoke curls up and the way I look with a cigarette in hand

3) it's gender affirming, i smell like a man and I have a deeper voice

4) tobacco taste nice, shisha is preferable to cigarettes flavour wise but I still like tobacco (i should try that one coffee that promises to have hints of tobacco in it)

5) it's something I can do because I have decided to do. Nothing my parents envision for their "pretty little girl". It works entirely against that shitty image they have of me as a sanctimonious woman who has a stick up her arse. I'm not _flat_ like that. and while I can play that stereotype well, i'm so sick of always having to hide myself from my family.

even if I _do_ try to communicate, it doesn't work. they don't want to see me anything else, so I only have to prove it to myself. and mentally "proving" it to myself is not enough, verbally is nowhere near enough, I Need to be out doing things that break the stupid puritanical image they cast on me.

6) I'm comfortable doing it. Both mum and dad were chainsmokers. I know the different brands, i know what the average price of a pack is having to look anything up. I know what kinds I am likely to like.

7) it's socially inoffensive. Nobody looks twice at someone smoking

8) it's cheaper than other things

9) the fallout of it is not horrible. my parents find out I smoke, they get pissed, so what? even if a cousin does, who _cares?_ It's not sth to get disowned over or get religious sermons over

10) I can store it easily in my room. in my bag, i can get it from any grocery store, nbd. Life is easy

11) I smell Nice, i didn't think i would enjoy the smell tobacco leaves on my body but i do

12) i made my boyfriend cum just with my voice today, which was deeper and hoarser than usual bc i smoked last night

13) It doesn't make me silly like alcohol. I am a happy drunk, and while that is nice, I don't like how i end up more trusting

14) alcohol fucks with my meds. I can only have a tiny bit.

15) it fits the moody aura, it affirms an image in my head. I look more like myself with it.

16) cigs are cheaper than shisha, and they're easier to carry around, cheaper than vape, and look cooler lmao.

17) the withdrawals are not as bad as other stubstances

18) I can't keep popping anti-anxiety pill every time I need to calm the fuck down, nor can I go rub one out, and sometimes even physically managing anxiety and stress doesn't work

19) I can just step out to smoke a bit and not come back absolutely silly and hugging everyone. it fits

20) the sting of smoke balances out the relief of nicotine

21) it tempers my apetite. I always get more hungry when stressed. I need to get rid of that and I can't just go bust a move whenever I want to relax

reasons i should quit after this pack:

1) I'm healing from surgery, and it would suck to ruin all my progress for smokes

2) I'm training for a marathon for fuck's sake

3) I never told Lee

4) I promised to be healthy

5) i don't think using cigs as a bit of self control/self harm move is the best mentality to start Any habit with

6) it will definitely affect my medications and my hormones and the health of my teeth

7) it's expensive in the long run

8) I can't smoke at work

9) i want to be able to handle my anxiety without substances, because i want to be able to have that much control over myself

10) I want to live a long life with my darling

11) I don't want to ruin my lungs

12) I want to be better to the environment than that

13) I want to not be part of the problem

14) I don't want to be a hypocrite. I'm doing this to lash out against the current situation, but I most definitely do Not want to be a smoker forever

15) smokers actually stink, tobacco might smell nice, the rest of that crap getting metabolised through their bodies is Not

16) my farts stink sth fierce rn

17) it can make me more likely to get sick in winter

18) my tits hurts whenever I smoke, i did Not pay a ton of money for my to fuck it up for a short term thrill

19) I'm Better than that, I'm better than relying on a cig for relief, I just need to find a way to do that. I'm sick of suffering through anxiety, i want a way to make it go away

20) I want to be able to donate blood (this stops me from getting tattoos, too)

21) I want to be healthy, that mystical wonder of "healthy" where I can run around freely no problem and where I can swim laps at 80 years od age and not be worn into pieces

22) I want to be a role model to the kids, someone to look up to. I don't think I could look them in the face and lie about having never smoked a single cigarette in my life anymore.

23) nicotine IS mood altering, just bc it doesn't make me silly doesn't mean it doesn't change me. I do Not want to be more irritable

24) I CAN take ashwagandha, which is cheaper and better for me, AND longer lasting and has a better effect, even on my depression and doesn't fuck with my blood pressure

[dudescape]

I'm so fucking migraine or something, my head hurts SO bad. but phone screen so pretty. all my friends in there...

god I'm so glad I can feel that way about something again. I've missed talking to people so much. I'm slowly regaining my self confidence and becoming a person again. I bought some clothes that made me feel good, just on impulse. It feels way better than expensive meals. more permanent. I'm not as tight on money as I fear I am, at least not yet. I'm not starving, but I'm watching how much I eat and what I eat. I try to give a shit about putting the right mixture of things in my body instead of "this will at least make it stop hurting." I'm putting so much effort into giving a shit about the flesh I have to live in. I have my first doctors appointment in over a year coming up and I'm scared but excited. I want to stop hurting, but I have to solve it one piece at a time. I'm trying to stop smoking/vaping nicotine. The mouth habit is a bitch to kick, but I need to just give in and try that stupid flavored air thing I get ads for all the time, it sounds right up my alley tbh. it's not even that much more expensive than a normal fucking vape and it doesn't want me dead. I'm working out with some regularity, and seeing improvement in myself, however small, makes me feel SO good about myself. it's also a great stress reliever - I get my hardest workouts in when I'm PISSED. and it means I'm not throwing anything or punching walls, either. I got one of those grip workout things and I love it it's like a stress ball to me.

it still feels like 2 steps forward one step backwards, but at least I'm making progress. my emotional state still sucks balls sometimes and my hallucinations are getting worse BUT at least I can still rationalize my way through it and avoid straight up panicking, which is nice. can't stand in front of the mirror anymore because my visage keeps distorting? that's fine. I'll just wear a blindfold in the bathroom. worked for my dysphoria in middle school. for the ones that persist even when my eyes are closed? well, as long as they don't touch me I'm good. they haven't touched me yet so we're good but idfk what I'll do when they do touch me, I kinda suck handling those. but I don't trust my eyes at all and never have. my ears are liars too, and so is my nose. but hoo boy it's a lot harder for me to dismiss something touching me. that's my skin, dude. and sometimes it HURTS. but. yknow. can't win em all. progress is progress 💪