#will I ever not write present tense? not looking good so far

[skibasyndrome]

Simon felt like the floor was being pulled from under him.

Simon feels like the floor is being pulled from under him. He barely manages to hit the button on the machine, slowing down his treadmill before he can trip and land on his ass.

Cause, damn, that would be a fucking great first impression, right? You catch a hot guy walking past you, in a distractingly tight polo (leaving nothing up to the imagination) and distractingly loose shorts (leaving everything up to the imagination, and if there's one thing Simon has it's a strong imagination, alright) and you forget how to use your legs? A+ game.

Simon swears he isn't gonna look again, because this isn't appropriate and he's only here for training and he's pretty sure that imagining what those silky looking strands of hair would feel like between his fingers does not count as training. But when he reaches for his water bottle, hoping that this will help him calm down and think straight (or at least a little less gay for the time being), he almost chokes on his first sip.

Because right there, across the room, the stranger is sitting on the bench press, legs spread in a way that is not helping that straight thinking at all, and looking right at him, gaze intense in a way that should be illegal and lips curled into a slight smile. Maybe Simon is dreaming, maybe he did actually fall and hit his head after all, because it's only once he knows Simon is watching that the stranger lies down and reaches for the bar.

Simon is definitely fucked.

sjsjdjdjd thank you so much for this prompt!!! 💜💜💜 at this point... let's just not count the sentences.... also sorry for the tense change

Send me "Wilmon" + a sentence and I'll write the next five

[entirelysein-e]

『 Pegging them 』

☼ synopsis: you peg your boyfriend for the first time and both of you lose yourself in the pleasure it brings him.

☼ characters: Sakura, Tsubaki, Umemiya

☼ wc: 2.8k (1.0k / 0.8k / 1.0k)

☼ cw: gn!reader, afab!reader, anal play, pegging, rimming Ume, oral (reader giving and mentions of receiving), pet names angel/bunny, praise, consent checks, cum eating, slight overstimulation, hair pulling

☼ notes: thank you for the cafe and the members that kept me insane while writing this. @stunie @dearsylus @hayatoseyepatch shoutout to you three especially 🫶 || sign up for the taglist

ˑ༄ؘ ۪۪۫۫ ▹ Sakura:

✧ Sakura was quite shy when it came to intimacy and he would rarely ever speak up about things he'd like to try.

✧ It was you who brought it up since you wanted to try it out and see if you both could perhaps be into it.

✧ Your boyfriend immediately blushed furiously and denied your request, far too embarrassed to say yes right away.

✧ He did however research a little and perhaps he had watched a few videos to see if it turns him on - which it did.

✧ Of course he was a little nervous but he trusted you with his life and so far you never teased him or made fun of him for the things he enjoys.

✧ So he eventually gave the green light. It was very sudden and took you off guard but you didn't push the topic.

✧ When you two were ready to try it out, Sakura was quite tense the entire time so you tried to reassure him.

✧ "We don't have to, you know" you coo gently as you stroke his rock hard cock slowly, your thumb occasionally running over the small slit to smear some of the precum that was leaking.

✧ "J-Just get it over with! I said i-i...want it" he barked out, although he got more quiet towards the end and his face grew hotter, unable to look at you.

✧ His defensive reaction made you grin, he was so curious but too shy to admit it and trying to play it off but you looked right through him.

✧ Sakura’s one condition was that he can lay on his stomach or be on all fours, not wanting you to look at him.

✧ You didn't mind it, almost preferring the view you had with your sweet lover on all fours, presenting himself so willingly.

✧ His face was burning in at least 10 shades of red when you reached around him to stroke his pretty cock while applying some lube to his puckered hole.

✧ "You know the word to stop, Haru" you whisper against his skin before kissing down the spine - goosebumps rising on his skin.

✧ Sakura didn't answer, balling the sheets in his fists instead when your finger moved to massage his ass ever so gently.

✧ "Shh it's okay, Haru... relax," your breath was hot against his lower back, small kisses calming him down and allowing you to slip a single finger inside.

✧ His eyes shot wide open when the first knuckle went in and you almost moaned at the sight of your finger disappearing at a slow pace.

✧ The second you started gently thrusting your finger, his body slowly sunk into the mattress, his face buried in the pillows beneath so you won't hear the way he's panting, soft moans slipping out despite holding them back.

✧ Your boyfriend felt far too good and you were able to hear those sweet high pitched moans, almost resembling whines when his hips started grinding into the sheets for some much needed friction on his dick.

✧ Using this knowledge you slipped a second finger inside, a loud gasp erupting from him in the process and you couldn't help but marvel at the sight.

✧ Sakura was in utter bliss when you curled your fingers and scissored him open, preparing him for the small dildo that’s attached to the harness around your hips.

✧ "S-stop... please" Sakura begged with a little crack in his voice and the second you slipped your fingers out, a concerned look on your face, his hips shot up but it was too late, ropes of cum shot onto the bed in small spurts.

✧ He was shocked and embarrassed from how sudden the orgasm crashed over him but you wanted more now, wanting to see him come undone when you pound into him, bruising his prostate.

✧ Rubbing soothing circles on his lower back you helped him calm down from the intense orgasm, not teasing him over it since he looked so vulnerable, almost embarrassed.

✧ “Felt really good, hm? Want to stop it here or do you want to keep going?” You asked as soft as you could muster, unsure what he needed in that moment.

✧ “I said you can f-fuck me tonight…” he mumbled and his eyes couldn't even meet yours when he got on all fours again.

✧ You didn't bother asking another time since he felt so defensive, simply applying lube to the strap and some more on his puckered hole.

✧ Teasing fingers massaging his ass soon got replaced with the slight pressure of the dildo trying to slip in and his cock twitched in excitement - if your fingers felt this good, the strap would feel even better.

✧ You tried your best to push in slow but his ass welcomed the intrusion almost eager, swallowing up the purple toy until your hips were flush with his butt cheeks.

✧ Sakura was already fucked out of his mind, the strap making him feel so fucking full and you didn't know if his mouth or the tip of his cock was leaking more liquids when you started rocking your hips into him.

✧ “fuck” he kept muttering profanities under his breath until his head buried itself into the pillow again, his hand tugging on his cock in the same rhythm you fucked him.

✧ “Nuh-uh you don't get to hide these fucking hot sounds from me” You groaned as you gripped a fist full of his hair to get his face out of the pillows.

✧ Just as you lifted him up he moaned loudly at a particular harsh thrust, unable to do anything but pant as his eyes screwed shut and the liquid ivory of his release slowly started to cover his hand.

✧ Turns out Sakura was into getting his hair pulled as well as his cute as fucked.

ˑ༄ؘ ۪۪۫۫ ▹ Tsubaki:

✧ Tsubaki was never the silent type when it came to the things he liked - this also went over to the more intimate aspects of your relationship.

✧ So you shouldn't have been surprised when you had your head resting on his lap as slender fingers played with your hair that he would ask you a very spicy question but you turned into a shocked mess for a moment.

✧ “Would you like to peg me one day?” He was really bold with his question but upon realizing how you froze up he realized it was a bit too bold so he laughed.

✧ “You don't need to, i just wondered if you're into it” he reassured you, not expecting an answer right away either but you nodded, laughing now too.

✧ “I've never pegged anyone but if you guide me i'd be so down” you answered amused, the thought of rutting into him excited you.

✧ The both of you talked about it here and there after the initial question got asked and actually ordered a toy together - Well he chose one given he would be the one having to take it but you got a say for the strap and the color of the dildo attached to it.

✧ Anal play was never entirely off the table with Tsubaki, his rule being that there aren't any taboos as long as it makes you both feel good so you've fingered him countless times before.

✧ You both were in the middle of a makeout session, his fingers. buried in your cunt when he nipped at your neck gently, a grin spreading over the red lips, the lipstick smeared onto your face as well by now.

✧ “Want you to fuck me so good… Can you do that for me, bunny?” he asked with a voice as sweet as honey and how could you say no to him when he asked like that?

✧ Eagerly you nodded and watched him saunt over to his little toy collection to get the strap out, the dimmed standing lamp in the corner of the room making him look even more beautiful in that lacey lingerie he wore.

✧ And you should have known when he dressed so pretty that he had some plans with you tonight but you appreciated the sight just a moment longer before he returned to the bed, wanting to help you with the strap.

✧ Gently he secured the little straps before leaning down to let his tongue travel over your glistening folds just to tease you before taking the toy into his mouth, head bobbing up and down a few times before he pulled away with a wet pop.

✧ The sight was so fucking hot and he pushed you back onto the mattress to squeeze some of the lube onto the toy before straddling your hips.

✧ “Should i play with you fir-” He didn't let you finish your question, a steamy kiss interrupting you mid sentence and his tongue invaded your mouth the same time the toy slid into him.

✧ The way he moaned into the kiss made you shudder, hands traveling to his hips to help him move the way he did for you so many times before.

✧ Tsubaki looked utterly beautiful on top of you like this, head thrown back in pure bliss and the soft light shining against him, making his silhouette glow and giving him an ethereal look as his pretty cock kept bouncing with the rhythm of his hips.

✧ Your nails were digging into his smooth skin, feeling as if you'd come untouched, just from watching him ride you the way he does.

✧ “You're doing so good for me, my prettiest angel,” he mused between sinful moans, guiding your hand to his achingly hard cock that stood proudly.

✧ “Making me feel so -fuck- so fucking good, my angel” he whispered between moans he couldn't control anymore and you could feel his cock twitch in your hand.

✧ You almost grew shy when he rocked his hips, jaw unlocking as he moaned your name like a mantra and his release painted your torso, making you wish some of it would have landed on your tongue instead.

✧ Tsubaki's toned thighs were shaking once he came down from his high, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch a breath but his thumb smeared some of his cum over your chest, covering the pad of the digit in his release.

✧ “Open up, bunny” he cooed and pushed his thumb past your lips, letting you lick off his seed. as his finger estes heavy on your tongue, your hips slowly thrusting upwards to fuck into him. You tasted blood and now you wanted more.

ˑ༄ؘ ۪۪۫۫ ▹ Umemiya:

✧ Umemiya had no taboos. Not when it came to you or intimate moments - if it's consensual and feels good everything goes.

✧ It's not like you both had to ask each other to try new things or actually sat down to talk about something, usually it just happened.

✧ Like that one time where you gave him the sloppiest head he ever got just to lick the saliva that dripped down his balls up and he pushed your head further down.

✧ He didn't demand, it was more like a gentle nudge to let you know he'd like you to lick a little further down and you gave him what he wanted.

✧ You've never heard Umemiya moan so hoarse as when your tongue flicked over his hole and this wasn't the only time you rimmed him, loving how much he enjoys it.

✧ Things just escalated from there on to the point where you fingered him until his thighs were shaking, his untouched cock spurting hot cum from his first prostate orgasm.

✧ Umemiya wanted more. The intense feeling of this orgasm made him wonder what it would feel like if you'd fuck him with one of your pretty toys.

✧ So next time you two were in the mood, Umemiya showed you his newest piece in the toy collection, a cute strap you can wear to fuck his brain out.

✧ And who are you to deny him his wishes if he wanted to be utterly fucked out beneath you?

✧ Umemiya wasn't nervous at all when you pushed his knees closer to his chest, nails raking over the underside of his legs all the way to his cute butt cheeks.

✧ “Keep holding your legs open for me, pretty boy,” you instructed as you secured the strap around your waist and Umemiya only nodded, his hands holding onto his thighs.

✧ “That's my good boy,” you mused and kissed each thigh once and then turned your attention to his balls before slowly sucking him off.

✧ His head fell back against the pillows the moment your lips wrapped around his bulbous tip. Gosh how much he wanted to watch you hollow out your cheeks but he could barely keep his eyes open from how good you made him feel.

✧ Your tongue swiping over his frenulum felt so good he almost missed how two lubed up fingers slipped inside of him, his knuckles going white from how hard he held onto his legs.

✧ “Oh f-fuck” he cursed out when you started massaging his prostate, your head still bobbing up and down his length until you felt like you prepped him enough to take the pastel pink colored toy.

✧ Umemiya gasped when you removed your fingers, feeling the tip of the dildo press against his puckered hole and he held his breath at the sensation.

✧ “Changed your mind, Angel?” You asked sweetly and one hand moved to gently stroke over the knuckles of his left hand.

✧ “Please fuck me” he groaned out almost desperate. In your bliss of playing with him you didn't even notice that you accidentally edged him.

✧ His pretty cock started twitching against his abs when you slowly and gently pushed the strap into his ass, watching how his brows knit together and his jaw fell open.

✧ The thin layer of sweat made him look as if he's glowing, the rays of sunshine that were shining through the half closed blinds made him look like an angel beneath you.

✧ You were so busy watching his face contort in utmost pleasure that you almost missed how his cock twitched, thick ropes of cum painting his abdomen after just the first few thrusts.

✧ He couldn't even moan, a silent scream was all he managed as his jaw hung open, hard panting everything you heard as you kept rocking into him.

✧ “You're taking me so well, looking so fucking hot,” you moaned at the sight of Umemiya’s abs covered in cum and his half limp dick begging for attention when he tried bucking into you.

✧ “Keep- keep fucking going” he moaned deeply and grabbed a fist full of your hair to pull you into a heated kiss.

✧ Your hips started snapping into him, almost pounding into your white haired lover as wanton moans fell from his lips, your name sounding like a lewd prayer when your hand wrapped around his overstimulated cock.

✧ Umemiya was a fierce leader and only you were able to have him helpless beneath you, reducing him to a moaning mess for mind blowing pleasure.

✧ You couldn't wait for what he had in store for you after this, knowing that you're playing with fire when you push his boundaries and overstimulate him like that.

✧ A loud moan followed by a soft whimper was all you heard when he came a second time from getting his prostate milked like that.

✧ Strong arms pulled you flush against his body as his hips bucked upwards and spreading the cum between your bodies, creating a sticky mess which none of you minded.

✧ “Can we stay like this for a moment?” He asked exhausted once the shockwaves of the orgasm wore off, his chest rising and falling rapidly at how heavy he was breathing.

✧ All you could do was nod, completely exhausted from fucking him like that, admiring how much stamina he had since he never seemed this tired after he was done with you.

✧ The both of you stayed like that, the toy still deep inside of him but he needed to catch his breath before anything else, starting to like the feeling of being this full.

Networks: @pixelcafe-network @interstellar-inn @houseofsolisoccasum

[writtenbymoonflower]

Hi, if possible could you write a polyMarauders x Reader where she just lost her dog that she had since she was little, and the boys comfort her?

No pressure if you do not want to do this.

I had to euthanize my own dog(Bobby) this morning, he would have turned 13 this summer and I miss him terribly.

Could use soms comfort from the boys.

Love your writing btw. Hope you have a nice day.

Hi lovely! I'm so so sorry for your loss. I've had to put a dog to sleep before so I know how painful that is. If you ever need to talk my DMs are open. poly!marauders x fem!reader

cw: loss of a pet

419 words

You were numb as you left the vet clinic, cheeks tacky with dried tears and mascara. You had expected to be distraught, screaming and disconsolate, but it was as if all fervor had left the minute the shot was administered. And in its place was a throbbing and fierce ache. Your hands had shook the whole trip there, but now you were stony and lithe, it was honestly distressing to your boyfriends. 

You wordlessly got in the car, still holding onto your dog's personal effects like a vice. If you loosened your grip, you were certain that the distance would grow, and you were holding on to any closeness you could find. Even though you were sandwiched in the backseat between James and Sirius, you felt miles away. Some part of you hoped that you were still with him, and that even though you couldn’t feel him, he could feel you, together and far away. You gave one last longing look as Remus put the car into drive, a pinch in your chest as the building got smaller and smaller in your view. Soon, Sirius blocked your view of the window with his face. Usually, you wouldn’t complain, but now it made tears cloud your vision again. 

“I feel like I’m leaving him.” Your voice was pitchy and watery. Under any other circumstance you would feel inordinate amounts of shame, but you were too hollow to care at the moment. Sirius’ features screwed up in pain too. 

“I know, baby.” James pet your hair so gently you could scream. “He doesn’t feel like that though.” You turned your glassy eyes toward him. The present tense he was using tugged your heart.

“I know that he felt so loved by you, sweet girl.” Sirius unbuckled his seatbelt to wrap himself around you. “You were so so good to him. Everyone knows that.” 

“And he loved you too.” Remus said quietly, his voice thick and heavy with emotion. “You made him so happy, even when he was struggling.” You nodded, tears slithering down your face. You pressed your swollen lips together and hid in Sirius’ shoulder. As the car jostled you, it forced more sobs out. You were certain that at any moment your eyes would run dry, but it never happened. You weren’t sure how long the car ride was, but there was no rush, no indication of time passing as the boys held you together. It was pure, sharp pain, only softened by the blanket of love you were surrounded with.

[it-happened-one-fic]

Any Weight - Idia

Author Notes: So I really didn't know what I was going to post today in terms of oneshots, so this happened. This fic has been sitting my google docs for quite while and honestly started out life as practice for writing Idia. I wrote this and edite it while listening to the song "Heavy in Your Arms" by Florence in the Machine. As per usual, reader is gender-neutral. I hope you enjoy!

Type: Gender-neutral reader/ sfw/ fluff with angst/ comfort/ romance highly implied/ Spoilers for Ignihyde Chapter

Word Count: 1539

Idia shifted slightly as you leaned against his back, reading some book as he farmed one of his games. And in easy, quiet moments like this, with the weight of your body resting gently against his, feeling like a silent but ever-present promise, it was easy to forget the truth of his situation. Of his life.

But Idia was cursed. It was a weighty, but simple truth that had hung over his head for his entire life. Because he’d never known a life where he wasn’t cursed.

Idia was cursed to remain chained to the Island of Woe, to S.T.Y.X., and to guard the remains of those who’d fallen prey to their own magic and dark thoughts, just like he almost had back when you’d come all the way to S.T.Y.X.’s headquarters after Grim and your friends.

Idia was also cursed to never be able to feel darkness’s embrace, which could hide even the greatest of shames, until the light inevitably came. Because his hair always shone that cold blue light on him. Never letting him hide away from the gaze of all those who looked upon him in horror or disgust and saw all of his many flaws.

Idia was even cursed by his own personality. Unable to tolerate being around others without shutting down and drowning in their silent gazes. Judgmental, fearful, and sometimes pitying, no matter how he felt about it.

It was disgusting, infuriating, and so many other things that left him filled with ire towards anyone and everyone who didn’t understand him or his life. If they were going to gawk at him, then he would mock them for their naive, stupid views, and avoid them. There was no use in bothering with people who would never care.

After all, his life had been decided for him from the very moment he’d been born.

And all of those reasons, as well as so many others, were why he’d pushed you away initially. A laughable thought now, considering you were sitting on his bed, with your back pressed to his in a gentle reminder of your presence that, rather than causing him to tense like so many did, made him relax into the silence that rested easily between the two of you.

But when he’d first met you, he never would have imagined this. Not with how you’d seemed so strange. 

A weirdo, to be sure, with the way your gaze had never held that crushing weight that threatened to smother him that so many others had.

Some person from another world who apparently had far greater concerns than a flame-haired freak that lived in some other dorm. And, to an extent, Idia had been able to respect that.

It had quickly become obvious that you were more than just a weirdo, though. If nothing else, you were capable of handling and surviving numerous overblots. And even as he was getting to know you, it had already been clear to Idia that you were capable of so much more than him.

And that was still clear to him even today. Because if he was a curse, then you were more akin to a blessing.

A blessing who stepped in and stopped overblots from destroying their victims rather than studying the remains of those who were already done for.

A blessing who could see people at their very worst, and still accept them.

And finally, you were a blessing in that you had a personality that was like a balm to introverts. A person he could just be himself around without having to be surrounded by the multitude of people who’d already noticed your calming demeanor.

In reality, Idia knew you weren’t a blessing. Something so good could never survive in a school like this one. And he’d experienced firsthand exactly how much of a pest you could be.

But even with that knowledge, there were still moments when you were like a protagonist with the way you stood out so glaringly from the crowd.

Of course, Idia stood out from the crowd as well, but never in a remotely good way. 

At odds with this, your only supposedly negative quality was that you lacked magic. And while it did make your life a pain sometimes, you never let it bother you. Not like how Idia let his negative qualities and anything he lacked burden him.

And it was a heavy burden. A heavy burden that Idia knew made him equally heavy and unpleasant to be around. Because Idia was no fool. He knew his presence, his friendship, and even his very existence was a weighty one. He could easily drag a person down to their doom with the curses that trailed after him, like an entourage that couldn’t and wouldn’t go unnoticed.

And all of those reasons, plus a myriad of others, were why your presence here, with him, right now ought to be strange. But it wasn’t. In fact, it was perfectly normal for you to hang out with him in the solace of his room. Sometimes gaming with him, and sometimes just doing your own thing in silent companionship.

The selfish part of him clung to both you and your presence even as he continued to face his game in silence. 

Were he just a bit bolder, it would be easy to imagine himself turning to face you and wrapping his arms around your neck, with his fingers curling around your temple as if they could crown you as he cradled you to him.

But what could he ever crown you with other than the knowledge that you deserved far better?

It was his way of betraying you, and he knew that. His betrayal was one of the reasons he never tried to cross the dotted line that strained to keep you and him from growing any closer. Similarly, it was the reason the silence remained between the two of you as Idia pondered all of the oddities that were your relationship with him.

Because you supported him. Embracing him in your arms like he was weightless, rather than the way he knew he had to be a chain tangling itself around your ankles, threatening to trip you up and drag you down.

But you didn’t let him sink, and you didn't get pulled down by him. 

It was like you were a hero in some tropey anime. Willing to plunge into the very deepest of sorrows and pull him out. Never fearing the chances of drowning in the deep darkness of his curses, but also not shunning the light that revealed all. Good and bad.

Or if you did fear it, you didn’t let that fear hold you back. And perhaps that thought was even more alarming. Because that meant you cared about him enough to not let fear hold you back.

Either way, you seemed to just accept both his good and bad traits. Taking it all on with a smile not unlike the one you’d worn when you’d first forced your way into his life.

You’d shrugged off his moody words and met his gaze with your smiling one, “Nobody’s perfect, and it’s not like you’re the only guy at NRC who has overblotted or has caused me problems.”

You were definitely still a strange one, but Idia could no longer view that strangeness as bad. How could he when you could somehow look at the chains that surrounded him, binding him to his curses and doing their best to condemn him and those he chose to tie himself to, and smile in the face of it all? 

But as frustrating as your strange but oddly charming weirdness was, it made him want to do better.

To support you just like how you supported him. To let you know that even in this world that was not your own, you weren’t alone.

If you could willingly walk into that never-ending light that constantly showed his every weakness to the entire, unforgiving, and uncaring world, then he would hide you in the darkness and carry you when it hurt too much.

Because he knew it hurt, even if you hid it well with that smile that only seemed to truly fail you when you were facing an overblot or when the mention of your home came up.

Even if you were strong enough to carry him and all his curses, Idia knew it hurt and that the nights were long for you. 

In fact, it was obvious to him.

Because that weight you carried was why, even after having made friends and forged yourself a family, you still sought your own world. And he recognized that weight’s presence. How could he not when he was all too familiar with carrying a burden all his own?

But you would never be too heavy for him. Not when he was used to carrying the weight of his own curses.

He could carry you, and you would never drag him down. In fact, he doubted your feet would ever even touch the ground. Because, just like how the weight of you leaning against him was more of a comfort than a burden, he knew that, if it was you, he could carry any weight.

[nymphbnny]

LOST KITTY

────── o.miguel

psa: i’ve been wanting to write filth about that man ever since i saw him so this is gonna be a one shot about him outside the spiderman universe ; no claws and fangs lol

tw: miguel o’hara x fem reader, unedited, teasing, fingering, oral sex (female), spanking, miguel hinting he wants to feel your second hole (lmao i know), doggy sex, unprotected, slight hair pulling, use of the word daddy (once). MDNI

⤷ after losing your kitty and having put notice everywhere, a man finally comes at your door to give you what you’ve been looking for.

“oh my god!” you exclaimed as soon as you opened your front door, greeted with the mewls of your lost kitty. you nearly teared up as you take him from the stranger’s arms, pulling him close to your chest. “i thought i’d never see you again,” you whispered to your fluffy boy, as it licked your face. it took you a few minutes to finally acknowledge the man standing in front of you.

“i’m so sorry,” you sniffed, extending your hand to present yourself. “where did you find him?” you held your puppy even closer, at last taking in the handsome buff man. he was gorgeous.

“i saw the notice a few days ago and stumbled across him by mistake really, i’m glad i could help. you’re lucky he wasn’t very far from your location.” he explained, his hand gripping your door frame. “miguel o’hara, nice to meet you.” he reached to shake your hand, your puppy licking his fingers. you both chuckled and stood silence for a while until you finally spoke up.

“oh right the reward, i’m so sorry for keeping you here, i’m just still taken back.” you smiled, miguel’s lips mirroring yours as he anticipated your moves and grabbed your arm gently, stopping you. “i didn’t do it for the money, i know what it feels like to lose a pet. i’m really glad i could help.” he stated, his beautiful spanish accent rolling out the words. deep down, you felt a weird attraction towards him. tall, beautifully tan, buff, cheekbones sitting up high his face. he was so perfect. you wouldn’t mind inviting him to get to know him better.

“at least let me invite you for a cup of coffee? lemonade?” you began guessing with a sweet smile, miguel chuckled before rubbing his hand across his face. “sure why not.” god he was hot.

as soon as he stepped in, his tall figure fully towered over you, giving you an entire view of how tall he was. he fixed his hair and waited for you to invite him further in to follow you. you stepped to the side, reaching behind him to close the door then mentioned him to follow you to the kitchen. “lemonade is fine thanks.” he politely said, watching as you gently put down your cat and bent over to reach for the lemonade that was sitting at the lower shelf of your fridge. he gulped, restraining himself from looking at your perfectly shaped ass, reminding himself that he wasn’t a pervert freak. he wanted to dip his finger in your jeans to pull you back against him and roam his hands on your ass. it was killing him.

you turned around, your cleavage showing as your tank top was pulled down by your hand movements to open the bottle and serve him some.

“there you go,” you drank, miguel following your lead. “i’m really glad i had the address in the papers. i’m even more thankful that no creeps showed up to my place instead.” you chuckled, the tension building up as you caught him gazing at you, his elbow resting on your marble counter. there was something electrifying about this man to say the least.

he smiled at you, gulping the last drops remaining then said: “i had a cat, but it died a few years back.” he frowned. “i’m so sorry.” you put your hand on his forearm, his muscles tensing under your touch. miguel looked at your concerned face and smiled gently, putting his hand over yours and leaned in. he wasn’t sure what he was going to do next.

“you smell good.” you muttered out, earning a small hum in return. you felt pulled in by his demeanor and you wanted more. “miguel…”

“¿si bonita?” he spoke up, his finger lifting your chin up. your thighs rubbed together, the friction of the jeans leaving a low sound that he heard. “tell me what’s wrong,” his hand moved up to rub your arm.

“i’m sorry i didn’t mean to,” you pulled back, afraid he’d think that you were just a thirsty woman who’d fuck anyone you just stepped into her house. but he was way ahead of your thoughts. “you’re not doing anything wrong. if you want me to leave just say so, i can l-“ you interrupted him, your body beating your brain as you got on your tip toes and kissed him. it didn’t take him long to smirk and kiss you back, his palm bringing your head closer. his other arm wrapped around your waist, slightly pulling you up.

you tilted your head, his tongue parting your lips. you gently sucked on it, making him squeeze your waist. “miguel,” you whispered between kisses. your hands grabbed his shoulders. “qué?” you bit your lip, guiding his hand down your thigh, watching how his eyes lit up when he felt your throbbing core. “want me to help you out?” he chuckled once you began riding his hand. he gripped your covered cunt, feeling its pulse before smacking your plump ass. “such a nice body, such a pretty face,” he muttered, sliding down your jeans along with your white panties.

“wait- i didn’t shave,” you remembered, your face red in embarrassment. he swat your hand away, grabbing your hips as he pulled you up easily and sat you on the counter. “i’m not a boy bebe, spread open let me see,” his words made the tips of your ears grow redder, intimidated by him as you slowly opened your legs for him, his finger going around your exposed sex, teasing you. you squirmed, watching miguel eye your pussy. “so beautiful, can’t wait to have a taste,” he deadpanned, pushing his index finger in your entrance.

“mig, shit,” you moaned as he curled his finger, enjoying how you squirmed before removing his finger and inserting it again. he loved the way your pussy was clenching over nothing. “please,” you begged him pushing your hips closer to him. he didn’t think you’d be so needy, but he wasn’t cruel. he couldn’t say no to such a sweet creature. he pushed his finger in again, kneeling so he could take a better look at your pussy. your fingers tangled up in his hair as he began kissing your thighs, then trailed towards the inner flesh. he added another finger, feeling the stretch caused by his big fingers, a yelp followed by a hum of pleasure leaving your lips. his kisses and bites reached your clit, slowly kissing your bud before sucking it, his fingers still working against your soft insides.

“fuck, so good, ahh,” there was something so exciting about having a stranger eating you out in your kitchen. a hot stranger. he was eating your pussy better than anyone has ever done before. slurping and sucking on your pretty cunt like a hungry man. he spread your legs further open with his hands, his face fully buried against your sex, enjoying the slick and wetness leaking out of your tiny hole. you bucked your hips, his fingers teasing that special spot. “dios, you taste so good, so sweet,” he murmured as his tongue kept lapping your spasming cunt. “miguel, mig,” you whimpered, your orgasm washing all over your body, your upper half thrown back as your elbows were your only support to hold yourself from falling. “cum undone baby, c’mon”

and you did. miguel was more than happy to lick you clean, his hands grabbing your thighs to pull you up and kiss you, lifting you up to put you back on your feet. however you weren’t just needy, you were also greedy. now that you had a taste of what sex might be with him, you wanted more.

“are you okay princesa?” he asked grabbing your face. you nodded, your hand instantly pressing the growing bulge in his pants. “i want it,” you pout, rubbing your hand over his clothed dick, a wince leaving his lips.

“you’re killing me,” he looked down softly at you before his animalistic instinct came forth and turned you around pulling your ass against him, your hips rotating to grind up on him. “tan hermosa,” miguel groaned before slapping your flesh, making it giggle and he could’ve sworn he just died at the sight. he unbuckled his belt and pulled down his pants, his hard member slapping against your round shape. you giggled, moving your hips as if you were toying with him, his dick softly rubbing on your flesh. he spanked you again, and again, the sound of your yelps and the way your ass jiggled making him go crazy.

“i want to feel this ass,” he whispered, his hand carefully going from your second hole to your lower back. “maybe another time, though,” his words made you shiver, excited even. miguel stroked his dick for a few seconds before running it up and down your slit, gathering your slick then slowly pushing his pretty tip in. “mierda,” he exhaled, your walls squeezing him as he pushed himself in, helping you accommodate to his size inch by inch. “gonna make you remember each vein bebe,”

you mewled, your face pressed on the cold marble. miguel’s hand went to grab your hip as the other wrapped around your hair to adjust your angle, his hips thrusting slowly and deeply. “miguel, so big, ngh, so good,” you whimpered, your eyes rolling back as he began picking up his pace, his hand going from grabbing your hip to spanking you then going back to its original place. he pulled at your hair, making your body jolt up.

he kissed your head, his hips hitting yours, making the sounds of your skins clapping together louder. although your ass was taking all of his attention, he couldn’t help but slide his hand in your tanktop to pinch and fold your breasts. “so perfect, head to toe perfect,” he whispered in your ear, biting on your lobe. you went limb in his arms, unable to do anything but take his dick. “faster, please, faster,” you begged him, your arms wrapping around his neck, his face close to your face. miguel picked up his pace, his grunts audible in your ear.

“gimme your hand,” he deadpanned, taking your free hand and placing it on your lower stomach. “feel me? daddy’s here,” your body was on fire and the nickname he had just given himself was enough to send you over the edge. your legs shook as you came, your grip around him tightening as you held onto him. “good girl, cum on my cock,” he kissed your shoulder, his orgasm shortly following yours.

miguel pulled out, giving himself a few strokes before coming, the hot ropes of cum landing on your ass.

you both panted, regaining your breaths before you jokingly asked: “lemonade?”, making him burst out in laughter.

[guppybibi]

𖦹 pairing: John Price x gn!reader (i think)

𖦹 content: Fat shaming:c but no angst? idk what to count as angst, comfort & fluff, mild cursing

𖦹 notes: guess what? It's self indulgent! uhh im sick so I'll probably write a pt2 with actual comfort in it once i get better

Another year, another family gathering. You’ve always dreaded this supposedly jolly reunion, and John knew that fully well. Even if you never straight up told him, the way you sluggishly prepared for the gathering made it awfully crystal clear. He wasn't blaming you either, he's been accompanying you to these events as your spouse ever since he could remember. And he's witnessed firsthand the horrid words being thrown at you, he never expected the sweet looking grandmas to call you out for being ‘fat’ the first time he came along with you. So after that, he understood why you disliked going so much.

“Are you sure you wanna go this year, lovie? We can say we got a fever or somethin’.” He questions, arms crossed while he watches you carefully comb through your hair. “You know we have to, I don't want to come but here we are..” To which he nodded in response, chuckling dryly as he attempted to help get the knots out of your hair. “Well at least the food is good.” You nodded, mind drifting off as you imagined the taste of the continuous plates of food and its aroma. “Yeah..maybe it isn't too bad.”

The two of you took your time in preparing, making sure you guys at least looked presentable. Though it wasn't just physically preparing, mentally as well. John could tell from the way your breaths were quicker, the way your chest heaved more than normal that you were internally panicking. He knew you felt obliged to come, he subtly starts massaging your tensing back, trying his best to make you feel at ease.

Soon the time came, the both of you pulling up to the reunion on time. You could already hear the women chattering, the men drinking and the children playing around. John properly parks the car, not taking any chances to get a ticket. (is that how it works??) “You ready, luv?” He questions, shoving the keys into the pocket of his jeans and linking your arms together. “Do I have much of a choice?” You question with an unimpressed look on your face, John laughs heartily while shaking his head. “Nope, no you don't luv. C’mon, let's get you in. Don't want my luvie to stay out in the cold for long.”

Then he lightly pushed you closer to the door, guiding each hesitant step you made. The closer you two got, the louder everything got. “Oh, there you two are!” One of the aunties exclaim once the door creaks open, unveiling the both of you. Unsurely, you wave your hand and feel all of the aunties surrounding you, it seems like personal space doesn't exist in the 21st century.

“Oh Y/N, we haven't seen you in ages!” One auntie comments, not so faintly glancing at your figure. “Seems like you're well fed, you've put on some weight!” Another woman remarks, pointing at your body. John could see how you try to laugh their words off, agreeing with them just for their own satisfaction. No talking back to your elders, apparently that was the right thing to do in these situations. They've said worse bullshit before, so John shrugs it off for now and keeps his temper down for the meantime.

Now (almost) everyone in the family is sitting at the huge dining table, the squirmy children already munching on the food because they could literally care less and since their family’s couldn't be bothered to sit them at a kiddie table. By due time, everyone is settled and happily eating the food prepared. Some small talks were made about how everyone’s life is doing, some well, some not so great. You and Price subconsciously engage with nods and commentary, so far they haven't asked you two any unnecessary questions that made you feel that your privacy was being invaded.

So far this was the case earlier, but now was the time apparently. “Speaking about our diets, it looks like our Y/N here hasn't been on one!” One woman spoke up, chuckling smugly while she downed a glass of wine. “Well it can't be helped, huh? It might be because of genetics, she's always been a pretty chubby kid!” Another noted, almost everyone at the table nodding along as they recalled how Y/N looked during their childhood. You could handle this, you thought to yourself. You've endured years of their countless insults, what's a little more going to do? Right?..It won't hurt as much anymore, right?

You sniffled as quietly as you could, possibly as quiet as a mouse. However, even if it was, John could hear it crystal clear. As if your feelings were a mere glass door for him, a fully opened book. Carefully, John wipes his mouth with the provided napkin. While you stare at him in mild confusion, wondering why he looks like he's about to dash out of here. “Excuse me and Y/N, something urgent came up. I’m afraid we have to leave now, thank you.” You could sense the hurry in John's voice, bowing your head slightly to apologize to your family as he drags you out of the venue.

Now John is driving you two back to your shared home, the radio playing a random jingle that neither of you cared for. “You didn't have to y’know..I can handle them.” “Doesn't mean you should endure them, if I were you I’d probably never show up ever again.” He sighs exasperatedly, the grip he has on the steering wheel tightening even further.

“They're still my family.”

“And true families don't treat family like that.”

“..You're going to have a rebuttal for everything I say, don't you?”

“No doubt about it, now sit back and relax while I take you home.”

[boyfhee]

› HOW TO GET BACK WITH YOUR EX : five do's and don'ts

SYNOPSIS · You were all in for a new start; a new city, new apartment, new department and new colleagues— though, not under the best circumstances— you tried to make it through your early thirties while lost between whether to give up or go on, and then you meet Heeseung, who happens to be on the other end of the same street.

WC · 26.2K ( guys pls give this a chance )

GENRE · melodrama, angst, slice of life, romance, exes to ?

WARNINGS · lots of drinking, marriage talks, mentions of failed relationship and breakups; implications of sexual activity, very existential, mentions of suicidal thoughts, blood, lot's of tense changes ( since this transits between past and present a lot ) please read at your own discretion.

NOTE · i know i'm on hiatus but this was almost done and i had a sudden burst of motivation so here we are. my longest fic till date, i'm so proud of how this turned out. experimented a little with my writing style here, overall a fun experience. i hope you all enjoy this as much as i did, happy reading. ps the quote below is actually by john mark green, but let's assume it's written by hee for the sake of this fic. okay, good bye again, see you guys soon :›

playlist : tune in for better experience hehe

“ And if love may be madness, may I never find sanity again, ”

— Lee Heeseung, Red Wine

I.  Regret and Remorse

You don’t think you’ll ever become someone who’d look forward to the working experience that comes with job transfer. In fact, you don’t think you’d ever become someone who’d grow a liking to job transfer in the first place. 

Autumn of 2022 was supposed to be filled with vacation plans and a self-sobriety program in one of the many remote towns of Gangwon, away from the internet and daily complaints of your employer and family members. To put it simply— you’re tired of the life you’ve been living so far. Looking back, when you were a fresh graduate from one of the best universities of Incheon, life seemed to offer more opportunities than it does now. Your goals weren't any different from other people in the same age group as you, which majorly consisted of getting a job that pays well, maintaining financial security, getting into a good relationship, and perhaps visiting a few places on your travel list that you made in your first year of university. The idea of ‘ideal workplace’ leaves your mind the moment you step into the industry. Over time, you’ve realised that there’s no such thing as a job that fits to your liking and pays well, along with a hundred other benefits ranging from covering medical expenses to providing paid leaves. While that may apply to some, most of the crowd isn’t lucky enough to experience the luxuries of their dream job or workplace. Unfortunately, you happen to be just another person of that kind. 

You wake up, it’s the same old Monday morning— and no matter what day it is, it always feels like a Monday morning. You look through your same seven sets of office attires in your closet and pick one for the day; you go to the kitchen and find the same dish you had last night. You heat it up and eat the same for breakfast. Albeit, you find yourself at a cafe downstreet if you’re hoping for a change of scenery. You go to work, review the same old files, look at your same old colleagues and the same old boss who makes your blood boil. You aren’t the most sociable person and prefer to have lunch at the canteen, and coincidently, it’s the same old menu from four days ago. The day proceeds in the same old direction and you arrive at your apartment by six in the evening if your team leader doesn’t make you work overtime. You make dinner, sleep on the same old bed in the same old room with the same old feeling of dissatisfaction stuffing your stomach, and the same old cycle continues. 

Intellectually, there has been no progress— you've read scarcely half a dozen books, haven't made one new, exciting friend, haven't had a starling or unusual thought. Economically, things are no better— same old bills to pay, same old pay that hasn't been increased over years now. You get your paycheck and half of it goes into buying necessities. It's the same old job, same old routine of nine-to-five workdays, the cheese and ham salad for lunch, same dreary ride home. No change, nothing but routine, sameness, monotony— it's as if you're vegetating.

If you could go back in time and meet yourself when you were still a college freshman with high hopes and even higher aspirations, you would tell yourself to stop. Now that you’ve seen how the world works and have experienced the stagnancy of life, you wouldn’t want your young and carefree self to go through the pain of disappointment after encountering it yourself. You would instead tell yourself to switch fields since finance doesn’t seem to have a lot to offer. Instead, you would push your past self to go for liberal arts when you suddenly wanted to switch majors in the second year. Perhaps, in that case, your life would’ve been a tad bit better. 

Well, better than what it is now, at least, because currently, you’re sitting in the living room of your new apartment with a beer can in hand and tons of unpacked boxes around you. You’ve been thinking of unpacking for over an hour now, but every time your eyes land upon another beer, you’re back on the floor, chugging the drink down and regretting your life choices. Things would’ve been better if you had turned in your resignation instead of waiting till the last week of July for your pay; because now it’s August, and you’re in a new city with a new apartment, and the only thing you remember is the way to the nearest seven-eleven store from your apartment. You don’t want to think of this negatively, really, since you’ve been asking for a change, after all; and nothing is better than starting anew in a completely new location. However, you don’t want to work in the sales department when all you’ve ever worked about is finance. You don’t want to go through the pain of getting lost in the streets and chased by some dog, for you’re hitting thirty and you feel your bones cracking. You wanted a new start, however not in this field. A new start, for you, meant going on a vacation, detoxifying your mind off all the stress and tension, picking up a hobby, focusing on self-care— just anything that would help you change your views about life.   

Your silent remorseful session is interrupted by a knock on the door, and you’re certain you heard a doorbell, however you’re not sure if it’s the alcohol playing with your mind or whether someone is actually waiting at your doorstep. Forcing yourself to stand up, you stumble towards the door, the sudden decrease in blood pressure leaves a hint of dizziness as you step forward. Since you’ve just moved in, expecting anyone besides mails and landlord is pointless. While you remember having a friend living in the same city, you never told her your address so it’s unlikely for her to visit you either. You stand before the door, fixing your hair before moving down to the creases on your shirt as you unlock the door with a forced smile; and the time ceases to exist. 

“Hi,” Heeseung mumbles. 

You step aside to let him in, involuntarily— “Hi,” you breathe out before stressing your mind to come up with a reason for letting him inside. Could it be that you’re so lonely that now, you’re treating your ex as just someone you’ve been expecting to see? Maybe not, maybe it’s because you just moved in and despite the notes that you both ended on, it would be disrespectful to shut the door on someone who came with seemingly all good intentions. 

His steps are laced with hesitation. There’s a Château Margaux in his hands as you notice his fingers nervously tighten around the bottle before he turns around, albeit you avoid his gaze actively. “I heard someone moved in so I came to meet,” A pause, and then: “Didn’t know it was you.” 

He puts emphasis on the word as if it’s a bad thing. As if you’re an outsider trying to invade his peaceful life yet again, only to cause mayhem. However, the question is, had you known that Heeseung lives here, would you have moved in? Or, would you continue to live knowing Heeseung is your neighbour and that you would possibly see him for the rest of your life? You don’t know the answer to that one— not sure if you even want to find one, in fact. The last thing you need is to worry about bumping into an ex. You gesture at him to take a seat and to your surprise, he sits on the floor, exactly where you were having your drinking session before he came along. You grab the wine glasses from the kitchen before making your way back to the living room and sitting opposite to him. There’s a heavy tension in the air, one that is suffocating both of you, though you’re sure a major part of it is arising from you. After all, you let him inside as if he was an old friend, one that you were hoping to see, as if he isn’t your ex. 

Heeseung and you got together in your second year of university. You met him through a mutual friend on their birthday when they invited a few people from another department. You didn’t plan to go initially, you had presentations to make, but something inside of you prompted you to give in and had it not been for that day, you would’ve never come across Lee Heeseung in your life. The first time you met him at the bar, Heeseung seemed to be a heavy drinker— droopy eyes, messed up hair, a few things written on the palm of his hands— he didn’t even come across as someone who paid attention during lessons. However, much to your surprise, he excused himself early, sitting outside with a can of cold coffee he got from the vending machine in his hand while reading what seemed like economics notes compiled in pdf format. Perhaps, Heeseung knew he came off as a showoff when you found him chugging down his drink in an attempt to erase whatever effect alcohol could have on him. 

You sat next to him and all of a sudden, he started explaining how he doesn’t usually dip in the middle of gatherings with friends and step out to study. He simply happens to have a test the next day and his friends dragged him along. Simultaneously, you learnt that it was his first time drinking despite and he swore not to drink anything that wasn’t caffeine. It was nice, really; while Heeseung was busy worrying that you might dislike him for being such a show off, you were enjoying your time with him because in the end, you weren’t a big fan of drinking with your friends either. The two of you talked about wasted matters, complained about subjects and teachers, shared social media handles. It was fantastical, almost unreal, because you don’t remember the last time you clicked with someone so quickly. You didn’t have impressive social skills to initiate conversations, which consequently resulted in you being left out most of the time. It didn’t really matter since relationships and all were secondary at that time, for you had a set goal to work towards. You had always believed that people can make friends and fall in love anytime. However, life gives you just once chance to achieve your dreams. Disconnecting from the public didn't have any effect since you got your work done. While your friends wasted their nights at clubs, you spent it studying and completing assignments. You never felt the lack of friends and interactions eating you slowly. The loneliness didn’t hit you until you graduated with hands full of bills to pay and responsibilities to handle. 

After that night, you started seeing Heeseung more than usual. Despite being in different majors and completely different schedules, you saw him at the campus more often than you used to. It was as if he was always there, waiting for you to find him. Despite changing Twitter and Instagram handles, the two of you barely talked. There was no communication except interacting with each others’ posts, leaving a comment every now and then, tagging each other in stories. You would mutter a soft hello every time you’d bump into him and if fate allowed, you’d have a small conversation. There was no progress in your relationship until a few months after your first meeting, at one of the fests hosted by the Art Department. You had no one to visit with and Heeseung wasn’t interested until you came across him in the library, taking down notes of the lectures he had missed. He asked if you wanted to visit the fest, much to your surprise, and that was the first time you had hung out with Heeseung after knowing him for five months. 

“You seem excited for work,” It’s a question that leaves you confused until your eyes land upon the stacks of files and documents lying stray on the kitchen counter. The next thing you notice is that Heeseung’s voice has gotten a lot deeper, possessing all the necessary qualities of a voice a hiring manager would want to hear in interviews. 

“Do I?” You offer a rhetorical response, not knowing exactly what to say. For a brief second, you considered pouring yourself more drink and going off about your lethargic and unfruitful lifestyle. A chuckle falls off your lips as you stir the wine in its glass, feeling the weight shift from left to right before chugging the remaining liquid down. “I hate my job,”

You pour yourself another glass. Heeseung’s fingers flinch watching your hands reach for the bottle but he didn’t dare interrupt your actions. Another second passes in silence, another sip of wine hits your system. You feel fatigue fill your sinuses as you fight off sleep for another hit— another line of thoughts.  

You can go on for days, complaining about your job, despite knowing that looking down on your work and throwing shade on your boss isn’t going to get you anywhere in life. But at the end of the day, you have nothing else to talk about either. While your colleagues spent weekends drinking, going on dates, and watching movies, you worked your ass off to finish off a project and get a promotion; because promotions come with an increase in pay, and the thing you need the most at the moment is money. Even in school and universities, you used to spend your days and nights studying hard because in the end, the employers from big companies always look for candidates from the top universities, students who graduated with high honours and those who have a lot to offer to the market. Graduating from one of the best universities in Korea in your department should’ve helped you get a high paying job with several benefits. You didn’t lack knowledge, nor did you lack the brains to tackle the problems in finance. You graduated on top of your class so your educational qualifications weren’t below the bar either. If it comes down to experience, one can not expect a fresh graduate to have work experience. In the end, you’re left with the lack of information once again, not knowing why your life turned out this way when every step you took ensured success. 

“Then, why don’t you try doing something that you like?” Heeseung suggests, twirling the glass in his hand, unknowingly mirroring your actions. While he thinks he’s doing a good job at keeping the conversation going, Heeseung knows his advice isn’t worth a penny. Imagine telling a full-time employee to quit their job and do what they like! He thinks to himself, almost ready to take his words back, because he can’t even imagine himself doing the same thing for the sake of a better life. 

“You can’t depend on your likes and dislikes to make a living,” You chuckle yet again, voice laced with bitterness. Failure and disappointment were something you never had tasted until now. You remember the dissatisfaction you felt when your mother gave you sliced apples when you told her you were hungry. You refused to eat, but your mother said that when you’re starving, you don’t look for food that suits your taste. You just eat whatever you get; and thinking about it now, you think it applies to practical life as well. Survival in this world isn’t possible if you depend upon your preferences. Humans have the ability to adapt to various situations, and the key to adaptation is working under different circumstances, often that don’t suit your preferences. That is how you secure your position in the world. If things revolved around one’s likes and dislikes, you sure would’ve been a billionaire for you love to stay on your couch all day and dislike capsicums. 

“What about you?” You counter with the same question. “You look even more tired than how you were in university.” Now, your attention is on his dark circles and weary eyes. The Heeseung you remember from university was phenomenal, having an urge to do anything and everything. His eyes searched for opportunities, hands aching to work on something new. His never ending passion and a desire to know more made him an ideal figure for the juniors as well as someone who the seniors used to envy. However, the eyes of the Heeseung sitting in front of you are telling a whole nother story. They’re talking about the good times while his hands look tired from having a lot on his plate with no time for himself. 

“Work load,” Heeseung sighs, eyes fixed on his drink as he continues to twirl it around. Your gaze shifts to the corner of his lips, watching them curl into a faint smile. “Do you remember how we used to spent weekends hunting for part time—”

And then a pause. Your eyes avert to his’, meeting him in the line of contact; they resonate with just two emotions— regret and respect. You fail to decipher the meaning behind his gaze, you lost the ability to do so years ago. He presses his lips into a thin line, pressing his fingers against the glass in an attempt to suppress his emotions before looking away from you. The comforting silence suddenly weighs upon your shoulders with its hands around your neck, suffocating you to the point of breathlessness; and then you ask yourself— what am I doing? The clock strikes seven and it didn’t hit you how quickly the time flowed until everything dawned upon you. Once again, you’re left questioning your whats and whys about life, for after all, you didn’t expect to spend your evening drinking with your ex. You notice splatters of rain against your window pane as they blur the golden glow of the city scape behind. The rain falls louder, the room fills with the sound of clouds rumbling, you take another sip of wine— it takes you back to your days with Heeseung. 

You don’t know if it’s alcohol blurring your paths down the memory lane, but a part of job hunting with Heeseung also included applying for the same part-jobs and competing so see who gets hired. Although, both of you ended up receiving a polite rejection most of the time, it didn’t affect your relationship. Actually, you don’t think anything regarding job interviews or grades affected your relationship with him. It was a good, healthy race, one that allowed both of you to grow as individuals, for yourselves and for each other. There were days when you came home with the news about getting hired, only to know how his application was rejected or he was fired, and vice-versa. You both took your turns comforting each other— it didn’t feel like your life was any different from his. In fact, every second with Heeseung felt as if you both were living the same life. Watching him go through the exact same thing you went through a few weeks ago, or finding yourself in the same situation you found him merely a few nights ago; it was like watching just another version of yourself.  

Seconds catapult before you. Heeseung gets up and makes his way towards the door. No words are shared, the world is spinning too quickly, it gets harder and harder for you to retrace your steps to figure out how you ended up here. His name falls off your lips— it’s not louder than a soft whisper. You don’t know why you stopped him in his tracks. Is it intentional? Is it involuntary? Or is it because you were hoping for something else? You would never know, at least not now. Months expanded into years and the time when you dated Heeseung still feels like yesterday. It’s as if you woke up— there is his face next to you, the sunlight offering a soft golden glow to his eyes as they light up your whole words. His lips meet yours, a smile emerges under the tender kiss, Heeseung tells you he loves you and you couldn’t be happier. The day rolls by, your steps follow him everywhere he goes, breaths mingling into each other in secluded corners of streets, hidden from the world because it’s a love to be harboured in secrecy. Your hands intertwine with his. It’s two souls living as one, two hearts beating in synchrony. The night rolls by and you’re back in his arms, a little closer to heart, deeper into his mind. The moon sighs in admiration, night slips through his feather light touches as he traces every inch of your skin with love. The sun comes up— and suddenly you’re exes. You never had enough time to process his departure from your life, just the way you failed to process his impromptu arrival this evening. Heeseung is in front of you like the way he used to be. However, just like the first time, the universe agreed but the stars never aligned, and Heeseung is leaving once again as you fail to hold onto him one more time.

“Why don’t you resign if you don’t like your job?” Heeseung stops by his door, and you realise the words that leave his mouth are the same ones that people throw at you whenever they hear you complain about your work life.

“I was about to, but was transferred here. Thought I should give it a try before quitting.” While that doesn’t sound like the most convincing reason, it sure is a plausible one. You had been looking for a change— any change— and throwing away the chance to have one while it had been in your hand would be a bad decision, no matter how unfavourable it sounds at the moment.   

“Doesn’t that sound familiar? When I confessed, you said you weren’t sure about your feelings but would give it a try,” There’s a faint smile on his face, albeit you aren’t able to perceive the meaning behind his words. “I’m sure it’ll turn out better,” 

You take a step towards the door before shutting it completely. You don’t know why he said that, nor do you think you’ll ever get the chance to ask him. Perhaps you wouldn’t ask him willingly in the first place. You turn around, leaning against the door as a sigh escapes your lips. Heeseung has his own life, and so, his own views on different things. If he resents you, you’re in no position to try and change that for him. You don’t think you’re in a position to interfere with his life when you decided to walk out of it in the first place.

If regret was his part to play, then remorse was yours. 

II. Don’t be a ‘know it all’ 

Drinking with Heeseung feels like yesterday, when in fact, you haven’t seen him in four days. 

Life is busy, and it’s even busier for someone like Heeseung who works as a chartered accountant if your memories from last evening aren’t defying you. You can’t imagine yourself in that position, not like you want to in the first place. Excel sheets and tons of documents about taxes are all you could think of when you hear anything along the lines of accountancy, which is intolerable to you, given that you’ve majored in finance, ironically. 

A lot of things in your life are contradicting, actually. You don’t like to cook but cooking for close friends is something you’ve always loved. Examples follow, and at one point you realised that your life barely makes sense. Expectations from friends and relatives made you a try hard, so much that anything less than a perfect score made you feel suffocated. People had desires and interest in certain things, but you needed to be good at everything, and saying that it was for yourself would be a lie, because you had to set an example of an ideal person in front of your younger siblings. Your parents were strict to you and it didn’t feel unfair. You were ten when you saw your mother cry because of all the financial burden, but she had to be the perfect mother for her children, so you never saw her complain ever again. Fifteen year old you didn’t have a goal in mind but she knew that there’s a path ahead of her that leads her siblings on the right track, towards a better future, and so she took it— no aims and dreams of herself, just whatever she could’ve done for her brothers. It was hard at first but the formula to success was easy— hardwork and determination, and all you had to do was avoid distractions. Again, the reality didn’t hit you until you met Heeseung. 

It was as if you were both her two sides of the same coin. Persistence flowed in both of your veins, but every time you looked at him, you realised that he enjoyed everything he was doing. Heeseung enjoyed waking up at four, going out for a jog, attending classes, job hunting, staying up till two or simply not sleeping on some nights. Even on the darkest of the days and coldest of the nights, you would see Heeseung looking at you with a warm smile. He always managed to find a reason to smile, or make a situation humorous enough to make others smile as well. You don’t know how he did that, you never had the chance to ask, but you’re certain that even if he told you, you wouldn’t understand. Heeseung’s principles of living were beyond your comprehension— staying up late yet waking up right when dawn breaks, buying books but never really reading them, researching articles on topics that don’t concern your subjects even marginally— but that’s just his curiosity getting the best of him. 

Often, he’d find himself amidst a financial conflict like any other college student, but it never had an impact on his desires, and he used to say, ‘A sale wouldn’t wait for me to pay my bills so that I can buy my favourite shirt with the money left,’ as if his rent was going to pay itself. If someone asks about the biggest difference between him and you, it’s about desires. You suppress yours while Heeseung lives them like it’s the last time he could ever wish for something. You believe in the cause, while Heeseung did in curiosity, and that’s where it creates a line. Though lately, you’ve been hearing other things about him, new things, if you must say. 

The landlord told you about the Heeseung who’s quiet, who doesn’t leave his house until it’s about work, who eats the same menu for days until his system demands something new, who now has been prescribed actual specs because of his family history of hypermetropia. You find yourself smiling about it because back in university, Heeseung used to brag about his perfect vision, and you would say, ‘family health history is no joke. you take that shit down to your grave,’ and now when it has actually happened, you wonder what he has to say. Hearing stories about him made you realise that a lot of things changed, but Heeseung didn’t. Maybe, the situation demands him to live vegetatively, or maybe he’s saving up for a bigger plan. 

“They say you’re a loner,” You had said one time when you bumped into him on the lift. “That you never leave your apartment except for work,” 

Much to Heeseung’s surprise, a lot of things changed after he entered his thirties, the most prominent being his back pain, which may or may not have arisen from the lack of workout and constantly sitting in front of his desk for hours. He would smile at plants or sit by the balcony, watching the city being ever so lively and yet so monotonous. Afternoon naps became mandatory to continue proficiently for the rest of the day and before he realised, Heeseung became the old man of every highschool student’s imagination. Truthfully, he spent his first few months after graduation in his room, amidst sketching pencils and loose sheets. While other fresh graduates hunted for jobs or ways to fill their resume to fit the companies’ requirements, he spent his early months as an unemployed lad who graduated with top honours from one of the best universities in Korea. For the first time in life, he found himself looking at his ceiling and wondering, what’s next. Heeseung, who always had a plan for something despite seeming reckless, was about to step into adulthood with no plans to follow. 

“I guess I’ll be that,”

He was back in your apartment, same wine in his hand, same old complaints. It’s been quite a few weeks since you’ve moved in and Heeseung always finds himself in your living room at noons when he doesn’t sleep, making small talk about topics that usually stir a little interest. You haven’t had the time to go out with your colleagues and make new friends or explore the city, which gives you a perfect excuse to see Heeseung and call it socialising. Not to mention, you’ve been introducing him to your previous workmates as the ‘new friend’ you’ve made in the new place. 

“We both know you’re not that,” You continue, recalling all the reasons why Heeseung isn’t how people around describe him to be. 

“No one is the same after actually getting a life,” He replies while going through his emails, scrolling down with one hand before placing the wine glass by his side and proceeding to type something. “Look at yourself, for example,” 

You don’t know whether it’s a compliment or an insult. Perhaps the latter, albeit the chances of him noticing a good difference in you are low but never zero. Your eyes fix on his fingers, following them as he types something before clearing it all, and then typing all over again while mumbling the exact same words with an expression ranging from confusion to worry. You reconsider his words, he isn’t half wrong. 

Adulthood is climacteric. You think you’re an adult the moment you turn eighteen but in reality, you aren’t one until you’re in a position to make it through life profoundly, and ironically enough, you don’t think most people get a taste of adulthood until they hit their late twenties or enter their thirties. Your mind traces back to what he said— ‘yourself, for example,’ and suddenly, you become conscious of every single thing that has changed about you. You learnt piano but now your fingers don’t flow smoothly over the keys as they used to, given you haven’t played piano in years. You were a part of the science club in highschool and the student council president in your senior year. You wanted to go into aeronautics but seasons changed and one day, you looked in the mirror and saw the version of yourself who was about to graduate with honours in finance. Even after graduation you had a chance to switch fields but you didn’t, or rather, couldn’t. You were hired in the same year, which gave you even more reasons to continue since it would relieve your dad of the financial burden looming on his shoulders. Maybe, that’s what adulthood is supposed to do to you. You find yourself working in a field you have no interest or experience in and by the time you gain experience, you’re too old to grow an interest. 

Statistically, your school life was much better than college and onwards. You had, although little, but knowledge about all the subjects, a desire to know more, time to yield interest and a will to keep going on. To think, almost everyone in high school grows up under the same circumstances. They either have the opportunity or are given one to pursue what they want, taking it or not is up to them. For you, it was the former. You were given the chance to participate in the maths olympiad which you didn’t because of school exams. You were recommended to the best science institute in the country but you dropped out in just two months. Your music teacher offered you a chance to learn music professionally in Vienna but you never reached out to her on that again. You were given multiple chances to live how you wanted to but you simply discarded them and went with what proved to be the easiest way. 

That moment on a comparatively warm august afternoon, sitting next to him with wine, you went all the way back to all the instances and decisions that lead you to where you were right now. 

On the other hand, you shift your attention back to Heeseung, and even though you never got to know about his childhood or parents properly, you certainly knew that the way he experienced both of them was better than yours. Growing up as a single child gave him absolute control of things that he did and did not want. His decisions were not influenced by his parents, which could be classified as some sort of independence in regards to making his own choices from an early age, but neither did he have any siblings to set an example for. All his life, Heeseung has only lived for himself, and it reflects in his personality, if one tries hard enough to notice. While you had to give up one thing or other for your siblings, Heeseung got a taste of everything he wanted. He knows how it feels to not sleep all night but you never had the chance until much later because you were always thought to sleep on time and wake up early, whether or not you had anything to do. There may have been someone guiding him all along but most of the time, his experience gave him a clear insight and freedom to choose what he wants to do. 

To sum it up, you might be more qualified in terms of academics but Heeseung has more experience when it comes to diverse situations, and experience is all employers want these days in their employees. 

“Well, you still are the ideal candidate for marriage,” You chuckle, remembering what the lady told you a few days ago. You notice him marking a few emails before closing the app, picking the wine glass back up once again. It’s not a surprise to see someone like Heeseung being approached with several martial arrangements. He, despite being described as a loner by a few residents in the apartment, is still the guy with whom you would want to marry your daughter off. He works nine-to-five like any other family guy, is disciplined, comes from a good family and education background, and his looks work as cherry on top.  

“All they want is a guy with a stable job and salary,” He spat with a smile, chugging down the drink in his glass all at once. “That’s not who I want to be,” 

“Who do you want to be, Heeseung?” You ask above the silence lingering in the room, just loud enough to pique his interest. His phone screen lights up with a mail, but his eyes never leave your sight, not even for a second. 

People usually wouldn’t recommend talking to your ex, let alone sharing a deep, therapeutic session about life and self-development. If you say you’re starting as friends again, they would say it’s impossible because the bare minimum requirement to classify as a friend— the lack of romantic emotions— has already been violated. Even if you claim to be over Heeseung and treat him as just another one of your exes, you know there are unsaid feelings blooming in the air. You wouldn’t call Heeseung a friend, he never was one, actually. Heeseung was never there when you actually needed a friend but you never noticed his absence as your colleague, or as your boyfriend. Heeseung is terrible at being friends because he confessed to you the day he introduced you as ‘just a friend,’ to his friends. You wouldn’t consider being friends with your ex, yet you don’t think you could be anything more with him either. You started talking to him as a stranger but Heeseung has always been way too familiar to identity as a stranger. Too familiar for a stranger, too strange to be familiar, it’s another one of the things your life could be contradicting about. 

He looks at you, directing your question back to you as if you’re a better candidate to consult. ‘Who do I want to be?’ All your life, you’ve never done something that counts for yourself. Even your perfect sleeping schedule was meant to set an example for your brothers. Your achievements were never yours to begin with. You were good at piano, but that’s because your teacher taught you. You never composed a piece and simply played what has already been played. Even at work, you do what you’ve been told, and not what you want to. There’s no innovation, just flow of ideas from one level to the other, and it keeps being passed down to a level beyond which, it’s no longer fruitful. ‘Who do I want to be?’ You ask yourself over and over again, but it’s a question you don’t know how to approach. Rather, you would like to know, ‘Who am I right now?’

Just like that, October passes amidst wines and visits from Heeseung every other afternoon or evenings on weekends that weren’t swamped with work. For some reasons, workload increases as December approaches with his cold and calloused hands, which could be the reason why you’ve been seeing less of him lately. Occasionally, you would pour two glasses of wine and sit in the living room, but it would end up with you drinking yours in silence while his’ rests untouched. On nights you stay up till twelve or so, you could hear him unlock his doors in a hurry and shut it just as quickly. Maybe, that’s how a busy lifestyle is supposed to be. Consequently, you stopped waiting for him, coming in terms with reality once again. For a brief while, you considered flying back to your hometown and living with your family for a while, but the idea was dismissed as soon as the announcements about promotions emerged in your department. Once again, you found yourself working day and night with eyes set on no one but Heeseung to spend your upcoming Christmas with. 

Usually, you’re someone who prioritises family over work but a promotion is what you need the most at the moment. Time and patience, they say, but you have neither of those. You don’t have time to sit and rethink or start all over again, time to start from scratch, and patience was never one of your positive traits. At times, you would consider resigning and moving to a whole other country but it was too late to do that. You were no longer a stranger to society, you knew how things work and you had to make things work, with no time to try anything new. At thirty-two, no one wants to see you resign and fly to Maldives for a vacation, to live like you have no worries to worry about, not even yourself. See, that’s the pain of growing up. Parents would tell their children that they have their whole life to do what they like and just a few years to study and make something out of themselves, and it’s nothing but a lie. The truth is, you only have time when you’re young and, as you grow up, time starts slipping out of your hand. A kid is expected to be able to walk by the time they’re eighteen months old, or two years at most. Beyond that, it’s a problem and you have to consult a paediatrician, even if you don’t want to. A student is expected to graduate by the time they turn eighteen, people are expected to have a job by twenty-seven, you’re supposed to be in a relationship before thirty and married by thirty-five. As you grow old, the time to do something runs out and by the time you’re seventy or so, you realise you’re too old to do what you want. 

“I actually wanted to go back this time but, mom’s trying to convince me into getting married,” He said when you accidentally bumped into him this morning, signing off a delivery. Heeseung, in college, came off as someone who would be rather interested in marriages, someone who’d commit to a serious relationship in university and end up marrying them. You wanted to ask the reason but chose not to, maybe because you remind yourself that you’re exes and there are boundaries that should be maintained. 

“So, you just don’t want to get married,” It’s supposed to be a question, albeit it comes off as a statement. You lean against your doorframe, watching him carry his parcel inside and placing it next to his couch. Usually, you’d lend him a hand but today, you simply crossed your arms and waited for him to respond. 

“I don’t want to get married right now,” He replies between huffs. “I can barely take care of myself,” There’s a faint bit of fascination in his voice, a smile evident on his face that leaves you wondering if the slight humour was necessary or whether it’s supposed to be a facade for his rather unsatisfactory lifestyle. 

“Well, you are doing much better than me,” You counter with the same fascination, shifting your weight on both your feet equally in hopes to engage in a full fledged conversation instead of a small talk. “Besides, marriage is a two way street. Being the husband doesn’t mean you have to earn and be responsible for the whole family, or being the wife doesn’t mean she has to cook, there are no roles to play. Marriage is just, sharing what you do, good or bad, right or wrong, and helping each other become a better version of ourselves.” A string of silence follows, you notice his chest rise in an attempt to reply, but words never leave his mouth. You wonder if you said something wrong, but part of you knows you didn’t. Marriage is not as horrific and most of the people make it to be. We all need someone to hold onto, someone who you know will be there when the world isn’t— it’s similar to dating, except you’re committing to just one person, which is better than breaking up and living in vain for months before falling for someone and living the whole process all over again.  

“You seem to know a lot,” But Heeseung never replies and shuts the door, and it’s just you and the silence once again. 

You spend the next few weeks locked in your bedroom, in front of your laptop, making a presentation while living off noodles and beer. You sleep schedule has been in shambles, you’ve grown prominent dark circles, living the vicious cycle of working your ass off with little or no sleep to suffice for your constant workload. This is the most productive you’ve been in a while, especially after your transfer. You wouldn’t say your job pleases you and better, but being aware that this project could really end up with you getting a promotion and thus, a salary increase, is enough to keep you going. 

You were back where you had started a few years ago, reading reports and watching your laptop overheat from all the tabs and applications running at once. You knew what you were doing but everything felt so foreign. The excel sheets spread open with the pointer blinking for you to add an input but your fingers no longer dance above the keyboard like they used to in the first few months of your job. You consulted your seniors, talked to your team leader, watched conferences of qualified professors of your field, took notes, but it all led you to the same thing— deleting and rewriting the whole thing, or simply a blank document that would light up your room on  nights you chose not to sleep. You even considered talking to Heeseung at some point but after recalling the way he dismissed you the morning he was receiving the parcel, you choose not to. While most people wouldn’t mind taking ten minutes to offer a word of advice, you simply choose not to involve Heeseung with your personal issues. 

Taking half days from work using it as an excuse to work on your presentation gave you an opportunity to watch Heeseung leave and arrive at his apartment everyday. You’d sit on your balcony with beer, or tea, rarely, and your laptop on your lap, scrolling through emails and numerous files, and around seven every evening, you’d see him step out of the cab that drops him off right in front of the apartment. On mornings, you usually see him walk up to the intersection which you think is to compensate for the lack of exercise in his routine. Often, you find yourself peeking down from your railing to catch a glimpse of him as soon as the minute hand crosses seven twenty. When he doesn’t arrive by eight, you grab another can of beer and take rounds from your door to the balcony with a pacing that increases with every second that passes. One time, he came home at nine and you rushed to open your door before realising that you can’t tell him you’ve been waiting for him for the past two hours. Good thing is that you had your phone and continued on your way to the apartment garden, telling him that you have to make an important call. 

You met him as his ex and now you find yourself dropping everything and waiting for him as if he’s your first priority. That’s when you realised you needed to create a line, but for now, you don’t mind hanging out in the neighbourhood with Heeseung as his friend, according to how he now introduces you to people he knows. 

“You’re telling me you never went out and explored this place?” His mouth was agape, too shocked to say anything. There were days when your antics spilled out relentlessly, but living in a city for over almost four months and not knowing any of the routes besides the one to your workplace has to be the worst one of those. Even back in university, you preferred to spend weekends in your dorms instead of at some club or bar, like your friends did. It would be a stretch if Heeseung said you are a hopeless case because he was no better, but he wasn’t as bad either, in several ways. 

“Hm, well, work gave me a perfect excuse to not go out,” You say with your eyes glued to the data sheet on your phone and it reminds him of the day you saw him studying Economics outside the bar. These are a few of the similarities that Heeseung noticed between him and you, similarities that he likes to see but is too scared to address in words. “Besides, it would be a waste of time and fuel when you can get the exact same things at your doorsteps.” 

“Is that why you never went out in college either?” He asks finally after a long drawn silence, albeit it never hits you since you’ve been too busy going through the documents on your phone. “Hey,”

“Maybe, but that was more because of academic reasons,” A poke on your shoulder manages to draw a response out of you, but it doesn’t take Heeseung to realise that you’re no longer interested in his questions. “Should we get more beer?” 

Heeseung stares at you, wondering if you still want a response because you’re already picking up cans from the shelves and walking towards the counter for billing. Gradually, he realises that you don’t even remember asking him for his input because you’re simply paying the bills and thanking the woman for her service. Instead of a question, your words resonate more like a statement. As if, you are no longer asking for a third-party input, you don’t need it, you’re simply letting them know your next decision, disguising it as an action of. . . kindness? Soliticion? He doesn’t know.

Now that the sun is approaching the horizon, offering a purple hue to the ever so beautiful sky, Heeseung finally comes to terms with what he thinks about you. His mind traces back to the day you told him that he’s not who people make him out to be and for a brief second, he questions the credibility of your words. You claim to know him, but do you know that he has been living by the edge all this time, or that he has been fired thrice before getting a job in the bank he’s working right now, or that he tried to call you after you broke up with him, that he has been diagnosed with some sort of congenital heart condition? You didn’t lie when you said one’s family health history will follow them down to their grave. And just like you, he doesn’t know much about you either. Even though you’ve told him most of the things, ranging from your family to your current situation, Heeseung doesn’t know who you are. There’s an unfamiliar familiarity, or a familiar unfamiliarity, either works, he doesn’t have a better phrase to describe it. To think, while you consider yourself in a position to classify people’s thoughts on Heeseung as right or wrong, he doesn’t even consider himself in a position to pay for your food, and it’s probably because how you’ve been taking slow steps away from him, eyes still glued to your phone while you keep talking to him as if he’s right next to you, when actually, he’s twenty steps behind. The sun that has disappeared, leaving behind a sombre glow over the whole city, taught him something— that no matter how long you’ve known someone, you never know them enough. There are pieces of you that separate you from them, actions that tell you that no two people are mirrors for each other’s soul, for one’s body and mind knows how to differentiate between self and non self, and no one’s a ‘know it all,’ after all. 

“You’ve changed,” He mentions abruptly, and that’s when you finally look up in his direction, soaking in the awareness that Heeseung is no longer standing next to you. 

For some reason, the evening led you to a local restaurant and while you were busy on your phone again, Heeseung took his time reading the menu card. As he took his time ordering the drinks, your attention shifted to the view of busy streets on the other side of the glass window pane. You watched as the high schoolers had the time of their lives next to a vending machine, following the actions of the book store owner as he reopened his shop for the evening. You swear you heard Heeseung call out your name a couple of times, albeit it felt like a fever dream and you didn’t respond. 

Change, as he described you, you wonder what could’ve changed inside you. You don’t think there’s a lot. You still work like a maniac and refuse to go out. Your complaining nature never changed, but you still don’t voice your problems where you should. You still get terrible headaches and take a pill for every little inconvenience. In the end, you don’t think you’re very different from how you were when you met Heeseung. Except that your hard work barely pays off these days, you think you’re still the same, monotonic version of yourself that he fell in love with, the same you that dumped him on the day of graduation ceremony four years ago.

“You said I changed,” By the time your drinks had arrived, you were knee deep in the simulations that could’ve made Heeseung feel like you’ve changed. “In what aspects, if I may ask,” 

“Like, in general,” He replies with a nod. “I can’t point it out but something about you has changed— well, of course, your age aside,” Liar, he thinks. Heeseung, in fact, knows what has changed, but he doesn’t know how to put it in words. Well, I can’t say you’re no longer looking forward to my opinions on something. Because even though you met as neighbours, even though you’re in a restaurant with him, having a meal and sharing bits of your life’s stories with each other, even though Heeseung looks forward to seeing you everyday— he needs to remember that you started as exes. 

You manage to draw a long hum out of you, nodding cautiously as you take his every word into consideration. They don’t offer much insight about what he’s actually thinking, but again, you never know exactly what is going on inside someone’s head. However, you take your chance to try and get something out of him. “A good change or a bad change?” 

“That’s for you to figure out,” He says softly, tying his words with a long, silent pause that follows closely after. He shoots you a cheeky smile before digging in and you take your time examining his features under the yellow lights of the restaurant, noticing the way he cuts his steak, or the way his eyebrows perk up as soon as his phone rings. You watch him turn to his side as he picks up the call, putting hand on his mouth to minimise the sound, though it was loud enough for you to decipher it clearly. 

You read the slight changes in his expression and gradual curve of his lips swifting upwards. Amidst all, your phone rings as well, interrupting the decorum of the restaurant. You pick it up quickly when Heeseung sends you a displeasing look, though you believe it wasn’t intentional. You didn’t check the caller ID but the voice tells you that it’s your team leader and for some reason, you’re expecting something good. Call it a hunch or the change in scenery tonight but something tells you that there must be good news waiting for you in a secluded corner. While you try your best to focus on what is being informed to you from the other side of the line, you’re too busy analysing Heeseung’s grimace that now you’re mirroring the same smile that’s dancing on his face. He glances at you and his smile grows wider, making you do the same in return. You really hope your call isn’t about the presentation due tomorrow because if yes, then you’re going to mess up, for your attention is nowhere near your call. You’re so lost taking note of every single change in Heeseung’s expression that now, everything your team leader is telling you from the other side of the phone is a blur. It’s as if you’re in a crowded room and the only thing you’re able to perceive is him. You’re so busy indulging in his actions that the only thing you’re able to hear clearly from the phone is that you’ve been removed from the project.

‘I know that you’ve been working hard but the Chairman thinks you’re not skilled enough to collaborate with us on this project,’ You start paying attention to the conversation now, letting everything else around dissolve in the yellow glow of the restaurant. ‘To make sure your efforts aren’t wasted, you’re free to give us a brief view on what you had in mind and if we decide to include it, I’ll put in a word or two for you to the Chairman.’ 

‘Promotion,’ he mouths the word with a cheeky smile when your eyes focus back on him before getting back to his phone once again. You don’t put down your phone and pretend to be on a call to avoid hearing about his good news, or share the bad one from your side. You try to respond with the same smile but your lips feel like they’re frozen. No movements— you don’t know what to say, how to smile; numbness is all you could comprehend. For the first time in all the years that you’ve known him, a slight hint of envy intoxicates the air between you and Heeseung. You should be happy for him— you’ve always been. You’ve always been a part of his success despite falling to the rock bottom on your part. On days Heeseung called you to inform you about the awards he received in a particular competition, you’d invite him over for a celebratory drink even if you, yourself, lost terribly. It was a long drawn process of mutual development and self-care. What people thought of as a relationship written in the stars, was a selfish way of ensuring your well being in the most selfless ways ever. You stayed with Heeseung because he was the only person down to hang out with you in your apartment instead of forcing you to go out. You enjoyed his company because he motivated you to do better, to test your potential and go beyond your limits; and somewhere inside, you knew you were worth the same for Heeseung too. Watching him do well, isn’t that what you wanted? You should be happy for him— but you’re not.  

Heeseung excuses him outside the restaurant once his phone starts blowing up with texts and calls, giving you a chance to drop your facade and let the whole situation sink in. You lean back on your chair, phone on the table as its screen lights up with a message from your team leader, informing the team that you’ve decided to step down from the project— which is a lie but you assume it’s been told to save you for further embarrassment. You sniff, a chuckle falls off your lips, there’s no use of it at all, what’s done is done. On the other side of the glass pane, you could see Heeseung talking on his phone with a triumphant smile, making invincible patterns on the pavestone with the tip of his converses. It feels as if he’s shining against the busy streets behind him, as if he’s the centre of attention at the moment. It takes you exactly back to your graduation day— he was just as happy sharing the news about his graduation with his family. You were sitting inside a cafe and watched him talk for what felt like hours. Your heart was full of the same dissatisfaction, but now that you think about it, perhaps it was just jealousy back then too. While Heeseung was born smart, brimming with passion, you had to fight to get what you wanted. And despite being one of the brightest students in his class, Heeseung’s achievements never had a chance next to yours. You stood in the first three ranks of your school, first five all your college life, been recommended to prestigious schools, were given more opportunities, you were better than Heeseung in all the possible ways. 

You watch Heeseung come inside and pick up his fork, only to put it down and get back to typing once again. There’s a smile on his face and it tells you that you’re equally deserving of the happiness he’s experiencing, perhaps even more than him because life was way harder for you than anyone else you’ve known till date. For the first time in years, you think life is unfair to you because even after giving your best in everything, you’re met with nothing but failure and discontent. No matter how hard you try, your efforts never pay off and people start treating you like a pushover, thinking you would do everything they’d say because you need to put up a good image of yourself in your workplace. You walk hand in hand with failure and watch people succeed with their bare minimum effort. You look at him once again and think, why must it always be you who suffers the pain of failure and shame.

Why me, why not him? 

III. Remember why you broke up

By the time winters arrived and marked their peak, you barely got a view of your neighbour. A part of it could be because of his even busier work life that comes in with promotions. You took the weekend off, saying you have an annual health checkup scheduled at the City Hospital, even though it was a white lie and you never had an appointment with your physician to begin with. Those two days felt longer than usual with the four walls of your apartment making you feel suffocated in your own house. You paced around for hours on empty, rearranging things, cleaning rooms, cooking meals, moving furniture— just anything that would make you feel useful. Truthfully, being depressed over a promotion makes you feel even more stupid about yourself. It’s a part of life, something you involuntarily signed up for when you applied for your job and you can’t run away from it no matter how much you try. Being in the workforce comes with disappointment and pleasure, failures and success; it’s not your first time losing but it still feels like the burden of failure is occupying every little space in your room, making it harder and harder for you to breathe. 

You thought things would be better once you get back to work but everything starts caving in when you hear the team leader discuss details about the project. Initially, they would let you in their meeting, offering you a chance to share your ideas to see if they can cultivate anything better but it didn’t last long either. You started learning about their meetings after work from other colleagues and they started leaving you out of their discussions. On some days, you would sit by an empty table in the canteen and go back to every move you made, trying to track down the mistakes you could’ve made for them to push you away. You didn’t expect them to keep you updated on everything since you’re no longer on the project team, but it would’ve been better if they had simply said that you’re not needed anymore instead of watching you run around cluelessly before you caught a hint. Everything would’ve been a lot easier if you didn’t have to drag yourself around to survive and make a living. On days like these, you would imagine Heeseung in his cabin with a complacent smile, laughing with his friends and receiving compliments. You don’t know why but at one point in time, you started picturing yourself in his shoes while idly resting in your apartment. 

Occasionally, you would hear his footsteps outside your door and stop everything you’d be doing to hear him unlock his door and walk in. Having Heeseung with you was slightly better than living alone and drowning in your overbearing thoughts, but you decided to maintain your distance. Heeseung— apart from being your ex— was someone capable of doing something, anything. You’ve known Heeseung for years and the once carefree young adult found a purpose in life. He had goals to achieve, perhaps a to-do list to complete; you didn’t want to disturb his decorum with your lethargic lifestyle. On some days, he would knock on your door and you’d pretend to be asleep. He would stand for a minute longer and knock again, you would focus on the sound of him tapping his shoes until they faded behind his doors. You started with leaving him on seen and stopped reading his texts altogether. For a few days, it felt refreshing— as if he was never a part of your life to begin with— but the loneliness didn’t hit you until he stopped dropping by your door. And you realised— you were never able to get him out of your life properly. After you broke up, you moved away, blocking all means of contact, but met him at a reunion, and something inside of you prompted to get his number, and so you did. Even though you never talked, you found yourself staring at his number with your fingers hovering over his caller ID. 

It took you years, but you think you’re coming to terms with the truth, that you can never get Heeseung out of your life, and it’s not because you can’t, but instead it’s because you don’t want to. Life without Heeseung felt like a maze, but with him it’s as if you’ve found a way, and you would never admit but having him next to you was so much better than living alone with alcohol. 

When his absence overwhelmed you, you would try burying yourself into stuff as a distraction. It started with books, then painting, followed by poetry, before you would slump on your couch again with no motivation to do anything. Job wasn’t any better or busier. People had little expectations from you and you had even less. At times, you would pace in your living room, trying to complete a presentation or prepare an excel sheet. The deja vu caved in when you’d hear Heeseung’s cab stop by the apartment entrance, except you no longer ran to your balcony to catch a glimpse. You no longer sat on the balcony with tea, waiting for him to arrive. As time passed, you stopped paying attention to the sound of him unlocking his door. His footsteps dissolved in the heavy silence, too miscible for you to perceive. Occasionally, you’d find yourself thinking about him in the shower or before bed, but the thought of him never lasted long enough for it to dawn upon you. Before you knew it, Heeseung became just another neighbour you had, another resident living in the fourteen floored apartment.  

One evening, you bumped into a woman who was standing in front of Heeseung’s apartment. You didn’t see her face, for you were standing behind her with grocery bags, but you could picture what she looked like. Your eyes settled upon her chiffon shirt and the way it complimented figure, her stilettos, a handbag from Lana Marks, you couldn’t help but compare yourself to her. The thoughts about her knowing or being related to Heeseung didn’t cross your mind until a few minutes later. She, despite being someone you never met, was the exact image of how your younger self had imagined herself in future. 

“Excuse me, does Lee Heeseung live on this floor? I just want to confirm,” And her voice is just as captivating. You find yourself staring at her face longer than you should, losing the sense of reality because of all the questions hurdling inside your mind. 

Who even are you?

“He does, but he’s at work right now,” You reply with a bitter smile.

Who are you to him?

“I see,” It seems like she’s about to say something, and you’re not up for a small talk with a stranger, or Heeseung’s girlfriend, or his ex-girlfriend, your ex’s other ex girlfriend, whichever fits the scenario better. Actually, you’re not half against the idea of him dating someone else, not like your refusal will mean anything either. Truthfully, the idea never crossed your mind. You spent your days working days and nights to get the degree you’ve been aiming for, apply for jobs, fueling your hunger for having more and more. 

Maybe, that’s why college is supposed to include one of the most youthful years because after all, it is the only time when you’re free from most of the worries. You didn’t have stress about attending classes regularly or having proper notes like you did in highschool, nor did you have to worry about fitting into the workforce and numerous interviews. College, for you, was the time you could see yourself falling in love, and you did, and now that you stand in your marginally empty living room with your gaze reaching up to the farthest of the buildings touching the sky line, you realise that you don’t see yourself falling for someone the way you did for Heeseung. Perhaps that’s why your conscience refused to imagine him with someone else. Maybe because he had such an impact on you that you don’t see yourself with someone else, you sort of hoped that the time he spent with you had half, if not the same, impact on him as well. 

The evening passed by with you sitting in front of your laptop, scrolling through the document your boss sent you the same noon. The beer cans lie stray on the tiles, right next to you as you shiver under your beige cardigan. You’ve been wanting to close the balcony for a while now, except you don’t want to get up from the cushion that has warmed up with you sitting on it for two hours now, especially in this cold weather. You’re not busy, but you’ve been trying to indulge yourself into little work here and there. Even if it’s just moving your furniture from one corner to another, or going through a file that you’ve already reviewed the previous evening, anything that could make you feel less lonely is welcomed. 

These are the moments when you zone out involuntarily, thinking about Heeseung, or more precisely, his work life. You picture him in his cabin with a cup of coffee, skipping lunch because he has files stacking up on his desk. You imagine him amidst his colleagues at a local bar after working hours, having his drink of relief that hits his system with a wave of satisfaction after a long and busy day. You think about him a little too often for someone who’s trying to forget him. Usually, the thoughts are laced with traces of envy. Today, they’re drowning in something between regret and jealousy. You take a sip from the can in your hand, and suddenly, the image of Heeseung with the lady from earlier pops inside your mind. You’re not sure if they dated, or if they are dating, but you do know that they’re more than friends. Perhaps, it’s just a hunch, an intuition that’s terribly wrong and is driving you to insanity because of all the stuff you’re thinking about. You know you should stop but you can’t help but picture them together. 

Now, you’re thinking about their life together as a couple, the stuff they’d do, the things they’d say. You feel like an intruder peeping into their lifestyles, someone who’s uninvited in their story, a third person. You think about them doing everything you and Heeseung did together, but again, neither of you had a lot of things in your hands to begin with. You had your problems, he had his part-time job, a sorry excuse of a college major that both of you found interesting, along with each other’s shoulders to cry on when needed. While your stories started off as any other tale of love with paths decorated with flowers, it was far from how they portrayed love life in universities in the media. In reality, you barely have time for each other and if somehow you do, you know in the back of your head that you’re missing out on other things. College is, actually, just a bunch of things to do with limited time, and the time is running out of your hands while you sit on your bed and contemplate life decisions, crushing over some person from one of your classes, thinking about the bartender from that cafe downstreet, making up for everything you didn’t get to do during highschool. 

You and Heeseung didn’t have a lot of time to offer each other. Texts were shared, he’d face time with you every morning and you’d call him if you couldn’t see him after classes. Hugs shared in hallways reduced to apologies at your shared apartments, you both went from making out in club rooms to barely getting a glimpse of each other on weekdays. Initially, when he would get back after extra classes, you would be at the door, waiting with your arms open. After sometime, you’d be in your room, busy with your work while he would be lost in his own world of things to tend to. At first, Heeseung’s presence made you feel better about yourself but later on, it didn’t matter if he was there or not. It all felt the same, and the worst part, neither of you tried to work on it. Both you and Heeseung started to get used to the lack of each other. 

Your fingers tighten around the can, your mind goes back to thinking about the lady. Maybe, the lack of affinity in your relationship gave Heeseung a reason to give up and move on. Perhaps, she was everything to him that you couldn’t be, maybe she keeps standing at her doorstep to welcome him after he returns from work, that the two of them seek for each other instead of getting used to whatever has been offered by the circumstances. Could be that every kiss meant as a thank you for being in each other’s life instead of a sorry for not being able to see each other for days and more. Maybe, he is happy with her and you have no right to be jealous because in the end, you gave him every reason to try to forget you. 

Another shot of beer down your throat, another can added to the emptied stacks, your senses start fading into nothing when you hear distant clicking of doors, or perhaps it’s the hangover blanketing the sound for you. With the last bits of energy and soberness left in your system, you get up and open your door. 

“Didn’t expect you to remember me after all this time that you’ve been ignoring me,” Heeseung snaps at you playfully, or maybe, with a hidden sense of disappointment. You have the answer to his question if he asks why you suddenly opened the door when he didn’t even ring the doorbell, or why you’re here standing at your doorstep with nothing but a thin cardigan in this chilling weather. You’re just hoping he won't ask you for the reason you refused to see him until now, because you don’t have an answer to that. 

“Someone came, looking for you,” You say, and meanwhile, in the back of your head, you think of reasons why you actually ran to see him the moment he arrived from work. You don’t want to admit it’s because of the woman from earlier today, you don’t think she’s the reason behind the sudden changes in your mannerisms in the first place. “Some lady,”

A pause, you notice realisation seeping through the cracks of his skin. A second passes, and then another, his eyes tell you that he knows who it could be. “Right,” 

And, Heeseung steps inside your apartment as if it’s yours, and you step aside, letting him in, as if he has always belonged there, and it feels as if the walls have started to fade out the moment he takes a seat on the couch, taking a sip from the bear can you offer him with eyes ever so indulged in him, as if he has returned home after months. Heeseung exhales deeply before letting the words fall off his lips. “We dated for a while,” 

You expected that much, judging from her mannerism and the way she took your name. You had expected them to be in a relationship, or had pictured them as exes who are planning to get back together, a luxury you could never afford. Consequently, you bury those thoughts deep inside, taking a seat next to him, and for some reason, you feel breathless in your own house, on your own couch, with your own bear intoxicating your systems. It’s something Heeseung has always done to you; making you feel out of place. 

You want to yell at him. 

Looking at Heeseung, you don’t know what exactly made you fall for him in the first place. For example, say, you can claim that he dislikes drinking out late with friends and is the type to study even during gatherings based on just one incident. You can sit back and claim to be almost, if not just as, similar to him, pointing out the similarities while completely ignoring the differences, crossing them out of your list of reasons why. But considering everything now, Heeseung has always been different, and a better different. He received good grades even after spending empty hours at your apartment, watching you study. You complained about having day long picnics with him, saying the two of you could use that time more efficiently. As a result, there were nights you could cry yourself to sleep because you were unable to look at your relationship from his point of view. You would kiss him but it’s an apology for the upcoming week that you wouldn’t be able to see him, and you would cancel dates just to study another chapter beforehand. Every single second spent next to him reminded you of all the sacrifices he made for you and every thing you did to disregard his efforts. No, you weren’t a bad partner, his timing was wrong, but saying that would be just another excuse to soothe your aching heart. Looking at him now, it takes you back to all the days you’ve spent together in pain and pleasure, between yes and no’s, do’s and don’ts, a choice between leaving and staying for a little bit longer; the memories are bittersweet like your favourite wine, or rather, they resemble a cold autumn breeze that makes you shut your doors and windows, keeping you from enjoying your favourite season. Time spent with him was short, though nice, but thinking of him makes you blue. You said you wouldn’t see him again but you’re still here, next to him, stuck in the past, still young, still making mistakes, still growing, not knowing if you’ll ever learn. 

“So, how was work today?” You ask, partially because you don’t want to think about him and partially because of the slight curiosity you have regarding his work life, about how it feels to do something he likes, something that doesn’t feel like a chore. 

“You’re not going to ask why we broke up?” He questions back. 

“I figured that it’s your private matter,” 

“She said I didn’t love her,” He says it factually, as if it’s something you’re supposed to know. “That I used her to pass time while waiting for someone else,” His words are unclear, insinuating towards something that you dare not assume, but his eyes are telling you that it’s your fault. 

And for once after you broke up with you, you wonder if Heeseung resents you for calling off your relationship. The thought of him hating you has never crossed your mind, be it your pride or habits to avoid taking the blame. You don’t resent him, he can’t either. You loved each other, you got over it, you broke up, that’s life. That’s the flow of the universe, to meet people and leave him to meet someone else and to keep meeting a new person until you find the one you could stay with. If he thinks you’re the reason why he hasn’t been able to move on, then he’s no different from you, for the thought of him dating someone else has been bugging you ever since the two of you had a drink together on the night you moved in. 

To you, love was inordinate. I love you, Heeseung would say, and you’d ask, how much— he wouldn’t find the words to answer you then. You can go on, pretending none of this ever happened, draping sheets over all the memories about everything you and Heeseung were, in the back of your mind, and fall in love with him all over again, living as all the things you could’ve been. You’ve put too much faith in your love for him, knowing that even after spending the sunsets alone, your mornings will always commence in his arms. There’s fear lurking around, you chose to ignore it. So resentment, in your relationship, was a bliss neither of you could have. For every day that you stood him up, Heeseung paid you back multiple folds. Every moment spent in his arms struck you back with arguments that seemed to get bigger, and none of you were ready to work things out. The pain was mutual, you both hurt each other, then why does it seem like only you’re in the wrong? 

“Turns out, I never gave you a congratulatory gift for your promotion. I should be having a bottle of wine if I’m not wrong,” You get up from your couch; a subtle attempt to change the topic and drive the atmosphere in any other direction except the one it was flowing into. 

Silence takes over, you’re in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, he’s on the couch, the sound of water dripping down your kitchen sink hits your ears as you get conscious of the periodic sounds of the clock ticking. Maybe, wine is just an excuse to get away from Heeseung and everything that his presence takes you back to. It feels like university all over again, where you could spend hours in silence next to each other, though this time, you’re apart, but still, under the same roof. The sense of something being terribly wrong looms in the air, but none of you could bring yourselves to say something, because you both need a shoulder to lean on. There are heavy untold words housing the back of your mind, unasked questions that haunt Heeseung in his sleep, suppressed emotions both of you know couldn’t be expressed so easily this time ‘round. 

There’s no wine at your place, but you put water to boil while preparing hangover soups for both of you. His exhausted grimace tells you he needs it, and you need it even more than him. You’re taken back to the days when either of you would have a run down to the nearest convenience store to the university to get beer and then spend the night before the test amidst alcohol and sheer stress weighing your shoulders. You would refuse to waste your time instead of studying but one look at Heeseung and you’d lose your composure. Blurred words about how both of you should be studying for exams would escape your lips between sips from your cans and, Heeseung would simply laugh at your failed efforts to pull yourself together. On days, you think about the possibility of you and him and you could’ve been if time had allowed, wondering if you could’ve made things right by attending the reunion last year instead of making excuses to pass just because Heeseung was going to be there. You consider every single scenario where he and you could’ve been together if time had allowed, and if either of you had taken a step towards making things right, then again, a voice from the back of your mind would tell you to give up. 

You hear Heeseung let out an exaggerated sigh. “I resigned,” 

“What?” And it feels like your lungs have collapsed. “I mean, you’ve been promoted then, why?” You don’t get it. Resigning from a job that had everything to offer seemed too incomprehensible in your knowledge. Had it been you— had it been anyone else— would think the same.

You’ve spent months in despair, searching for a purpose in the way you make money, a reason to keep going on between oceans of failure with pieces of your shattering will staying afloat. You’ve spent nights staying up, working on a presentation and giving it your everything to secure a better position in your department. Not a day has passed when you didn’t feel like you’ve lost the purpose of everything and yet, kept going with the flow of life to see if something good lies at the other end. And Heeseung would say, who cares about the standards of normal people, but recruiting managers don’t look for something out of the ordinary. They’re not looking for someone who would operate things based on whether it fits their sense of satisfaction, someone who would resign after getting a promotion when other employees struggle to get one. You would consider having a long talk about the choices he made and one he should’ve gone with, but instead, you sit in front of him on the cold winter tiles. 

“Promotions can make you feel good for a while, but they can’t satisfy you in the long run,” He says it easily, a little too carelessly for your comfort. “I just want to do something I like,” And once again, you come to the conclusion that these are the reasons why you and Heeseung wouldn’t have made it even if you had tried.

He’s too different. 

Heeseung has nothing to lose, never had to begin with. When you saw yourself for a whole month, doing everything in the same way, he was out enjoying his life. Now that you’ve managed to pull yourself together and learnt to handle your emotions, though not by a long shot, he shows up and tells you that he has resigned from his perfect job, or rather, a job that would’ve been perfect for you, at least. You would’ve been a better employee, you’re efficient, you don’t make decisions impulsively, have excellent qualifications, know how to separate work and private life, how to separate likes and dislikes from needs and necessities. You wouldn’t have resigned because if you did, you would’ve lost your only source of income, your last straw, something that has been keeping you from returning back to your stagnant lifestyle. You would’ve been a much better employee than Heeseung. 

You’ve seen him living like he has no worries. You’ve seen him switch clubs, change hobbies, drop subjects until he settled with something that satisfies him. Heeseung is about kissing his lovers between paintings at an art museum, promising forever, but he’s so quick to change his heart. Heeseung knows what’s important and what’s not a little too much, he knows what he needs and things that have no use for him anymore. Perhaps, it’s a sense of fearlessness that you acquire growing up the way he did, exquisitely happy and desperately carefree. You think it’s just a waste of time and resources for people like Heeseung because they don’t understand the value of certain things just because they’ve received it too easily. You wouldn’t disregard his efforts because you’ve seen him work hard to make ends in university. Even though things were a tad bit easier for him compared to you, you know it was the hardest time he had during university. You admire Heeseung for his consistency and passion, but you despise him for throwing away something you’ve seen people cry for; something that you’ve cried for, over a hundred times. While you may come to respect his choices when you wake up the next day, but right now, you wish that he was in your shoes, living life the way you’ve been living, suffering, struggling, suppressing. 

“People just don’t get by through society with their likes and dislikes,” There’s a touch of envy in your words, you hope it wouldn’t get past him. You grew up doing everything that would result in a secure future instead of something that satisfies you, to put it straight. The managers at interviews don’t look for candidates with most unique or extraordinary likes and hobbies, but rather they’re in search of someone with experience, ironically, and someone who can adapt to different circumstances without diminution of their efficiency. 

And you think, the childhood people have, or the way they grow up, what they go through and the circumstances they lived in, it really shapes their future selves. Growing up in a financially suboptimal family made you believe that money is everything, and people can try convincing you otherwise but their views wouldn’t alter the truth. Even if you wake up and try to think that money isn’t the most important thing, you would learn to believe otherwise the moment you open your empty refrigerator by the end of this month. You didn’t waste time having highschool romances and university love stories. You’ve had your fair share in having crushes and one night stands until you met Heeseung, and thinking about it now, a part of you knows it was a better decision to stay with him instead of hoping you had someone by your side on days when you didn’t feel like yourself. Perhaps, you did use him like a part of your conscience claims. Maybe at the end of day, away from all the concepts of love and lust, that’s what he was to you, a band aid that needed to be replaced before it infects the very wound it was healing. 

“You’re going to regret it,” It’s a breathy confession, a bitter truth. “Decisions made impulsively, they always leave heavy regrets,” You’ve been walking hand in hand with regrets. You’ve made decisions, many of which you thought would offer great results but instead, left with heavy regrets. You know better than giving up on the perfect job in search of something you’d enjoy doing, or walking in another direction knowing it’s the longer way home. Life has given you your fair share of events to think back to whenever you sit back, planning to do something new. Sometimes, you wonder why all of this only happens with you, and as an answer, you think that maybe, you’re the only one who would take life for its lessons and losses and still keep on going as if nothing ever happened. 

“Then, did you ever regret breaking up with me?” You see, Heeseung was never successful in comprehending the whole logic behind love. He was told it’s warm, but he knows love is the loneliest place a person could ever find themself in; he read that it’s kind, but Heeseung has spent nights spilling tears on his pillow, all because of love. It’s self contradicting; love is supposed to make you feel happy, but it stings. It gets under his skin, makes him unsteady, makes him question everything he has ever believed about love. He didn’t see it coming. Truthfully, Heeseung didn’t see you coming into his life. You were a boon and a blessing, the one who made him feel reckless and out of control; the one he is infuriatingly and inexplicably drawn to. Ironically enough, you’re not the one who tucks him in bed, but instead the reason why he cannot sleep at night. So, Heeseung needs to know if his presence made you feel the same way, or if he was really just another passerby in your melancholy. 

His question is the words you’ve been avoiding to notice ever since you called off your relationship with him. It has been hiding in the back of your head, popping up every once in a while when your heart aches for love and when your arms feel emptier than the streets after midnight. And amidst your heavy heart and cold tiles, your hands find their way to his. A faint apology falls off his lips, whispered in your ears. The moon watches you slip his shirt off his shoulders, your lips tracing along his neck while his hands find solace in your curves as if you’re the home they’ve been yearning for; an old spark ignites again, a beginning of something tragic. 

As the night dwells further into the darkness, the two of you are pulled back into the old cycle of healing and hurting, the give and take where both of you would be standing with your hands stained with losses by the time it ends. Your steps are heading towards actions you couldn’t reverse, and the very reason you broke up flashes in front of your eyes, though faded enough to have you ignore it. Guilt trickles through your fingertips, seeping through the cracks of his skin, his eyes gleam of remorse, and the moment your lips meet his’, fate decides to play into the hands of your history once again. 

IV. One step at a time

It didn’t feel right watching Heeseung being so busy even after resigning from his job. You always see him on his laptop, typing or reading something. Morning to evening, from noon to night, you’d see the lights in his apartment switched on, faint rumblings of furniture and numerous phone calls filtering through his walls and entering yours. He was busy, he was planning something huge, and you didn’t like the sound of it. 

You’ve come to a point in life where you can finally accept your pettiness and slash or, your jealousy. Maybe, it’s one of the few emotions you’ve been feeling over the past week, and now, you finally know the reason why. Waking up this morning, you imagined yourself in his shoes once again— without a job, without a secure financial flow, without a purpose or strong sense on what to do next, just as someone in the workforce who’s contributing to nothing. The furthest your imagination took you was to your terrace, you don’t know how you would live through a life like that. 

Some things about Heeseung have never made sense to you. While he might come off as someone who has plans prior to everything, you always see him as someone who lives his life based on a hit and trial concept. He does one thing, and if it doesn’t fit to his liking, he switches to other, and then other, and then he has a never ending cycle in his hands. You weren’t there when he got a job but you know how Heeseung looks when he is passionate about something. The evidence lies all the way back to university, or during the few months that you’ve witnessed him go to work before quitting abruptly. You’ve spent evenings trying to deduce a conclusion as to why he resigned, and every possibility leads you to the answer that it was a decision made in spur of the moment. A part of you thought about asking him for a reason if he ever had one, but you ultimately realised that a person like him doesn’t need a reason to choose something that he likes; no one does, except you. People don’t put a second thought when it comes to choosing what they like and what they don’t. They date their crushes, eat their favourite food, watch their favourite movies, attend concerts of their favourite artists; favourite, it’s a word that tends to solve most of the trivial problems that arise throughout one’s life. Perhaps, that’s another reason why you decided not to ask Heeseung about the night from two days ago. Even though you made the move, the most he can say about complying and giving in to your acts would be because he wanted to do so; no reason, no plans, nothing. 

Maybe, it was your fault. You could’ve taken one step at a time, starting from dinner, then something else— you don’t know what people do to get back with their exes. You’ve never done that, would have never if it wasn’t for Heeseung, because something about him has you gravitating in his direction. That’s why, you sit on his couch, the TV remote in your hands as a random show plays on the screen. Your eyes are rather focused on Heeseung, who sits by the kitchen counter, typing something on his laptop for the past hour. He has been busy with that lately. You pictured unemployment as lying on your bed all day, or pacing around your apartment uselessly, having the days feel longer and watching the time pass because you have nothing better to do. But, Heeseung is way too busy for someone who has recently resigned, he’s even busier than how he used to be. You asked him about it once, and he said it’s something he has been wanting to do for a while now. Heeseung never gave you the context, but you know he is putting his time into writing drafts for his book. 

Occasionally, you anticipate a small talk with him, but with no signs of Heeseung being interested in anything except his drafts, your eyes instead run all over his living room, taking a note of every single detail that exhibits his taste in interior decor that has changed over time. The wine coloured curtains are a little too vibrant to fit his choices of decors and furniture. You remember him planning out the living room layouts with you back in university when you were still together, when life was beautiful and you were impossibly happy. 

You find it amusing how quickly things change. It’s been years but if you’re being honest, it feels like just yesterday, you were accepted in the university you’ve been aiming for, as if just yesterday, you earned the scholarship, and just yesterday, you had met Heeseung. Your heart still picks up a pace at the sight of him.You’ve spent months thinking about the time you spent with him, regretting every move that led you to the decision to break up with him. You’ve had your fingers just centimetres above his caller ID, just impulses away from making a call, seconds away from asking him to get together back again, heartbeats away from giving into your desires. It started with your falling for him first, and you kept falling harder and harder until you realised that you were at the bottom of the pit and it was getting hard to breathe. You spent years trying to make your way up, step by step, and when you were finally by the edge, he came back and pushed you back to where you had started. You would say you hate him but a part of you wants to believe this could lead to something better than how it was last time, because things have started to feel a lot like love, and you’d like to take a chance with your broken fate yet again. 

“Heeseung,” You call once, voice low and quiet like a whisper, one that dissolves between the sound of television. You expect him to hear, but your words fly by his ears as if they’re of little to no importance. “Heeseung,” You say again, this time a little louder, eyes fixed in his direction, watching the seconds pass and waiting for a reply. For a second, you wonder if he’s pretending to not hear you deliberately, but you push yourself to sit up straight, hoping he’d hear you this time. “Hee,” 

And he whips his head in your direction. It was for a brief second, but you could see a hint of surprise in his eyes. You would’ve said you have accomplished something if Heeseung had spared you a little more attention, but his eyes go back to his laptop and before you know it, his fingers start dancing above the keys yet again. 

“What are we?” You ask, half hopeful, half defeated. You don’t know where the question comes from, or why you are even asking it. Your heart isn’t hoping for a happily ever after romance, your mind isn’t looking for a redemption arc. You’re not hoping for a good response, you’ve learnt to keep your expectations low after everything that has unfolded in the past. You’re not hoping, you tell yourself, but your soul knows otherwise. 

A second passes, then another, your mind starts coming up with answers to your own questions. What could you be? To strangers, you’re neighbours; to your friends, you’re exes; to yourselves, it’s a broad question. You could tell your mind that you’re in a friends-with-benefit relationship that has a terrible lack of communication and get away with it, but your heart knows it was supposed to be something wrong. 

“You tell me,” A soft laugh falls off his lips, it makes him sound like he’s lost as well, just like you. You take it as a good enough response but Heeseung stands up from his chair, making way towards his bedroom as if you aren’t even there, as if your question holds no meaning. You would’ve assumed his response meant that even if you both are without labels at the moment, you could be something in the future. Maybe, your actions from two nights ago would’ve lead to something good if he was less busier, but for now, all they do is guide you to the answer to your own question: 

A temporary fix. 

That’s what you both are. It’s exactly how it was back in university, a sense of mutualism with no sense of responsibilities. Things were obligatory, dates were barely a show to the world for your sorry excuse of a relationship. It started off like a fairytale, as if you both were supposed to meet, meant to fall in love, made for each other. In the first few weeks or even months, having Heeseung next to you felt like a blessing. A luxury to come home to someone, to have someone you can vent to about that one professor who kept dismissing your essays, someone who you can talk about your endless project and seminar ideas and they would reply with the same enthusiasm, someone who could make you feel like you’re seeing the world just by staying within the four walls of your messy apartment. Dating Heeseung had you believing in all the romance tropes you’ve ever come across, so much that you forgot that you’ve been living in a painful reality. 

You tried not to ponder over it so much. You went back to work once the weekends passed, back to your old excel sheets and same old job. Occasionally, you would wish he stayed next to you until you finished your work just like he did back while you were still dating, but you knew it was too much to even hope for. You would say, you’re going crazy. Perhaps, you shouldn’t think so much about the one-night-stand sort of thing you had with your ex, your neighbour. You both are adults, one without a job and other without the will to do the job, both brimming with unsaid feelings, tied to loose ends, holding onto unasked questions for answers, troubled by old memories and the future that was about to come. He deserved an explanation, you had an excuse to share. Whatever happened, was bound to happen. 

Sometimes, you wonder if Heeseung thinks about it as much as you do. Memories from that night haunt your mind like spirits, making it hard for you to focus on anything and everything else, yearning to feel his touch one last time. There are evenings when you’d come home in hopes of having a conversation about what would happen to the two of you in near future, but then you’d see his eyes glued to his laptop screen the moment you enter his apartment and you’d realise that it has only been you all along. Watching Heeseung do well even after giving up his job no longer induces anger or jealousy. Instead, a sense of inferiority floods inside of you whenever your eyes fall upon his figure leaning over his laptop, typing relentlessly with a content smile on his face. And the reason, once again, lies in the concepts of too many similarities and even more differences. 

Months ago, when you were still in Incheon, still bound to your old apartment and old lifestyle, there was a point when you had seen yourself at your lowest. You used to drag yourself to work, force yourself to smile, push yourself to make it through everyday. You struggled to do the bare minimum that was necessary to survive. You wouldn’t say your situation was any better than Heeseung only because you still have a job while he doesn’t, because inside the four walls of his apartment, he’s doing better than any other unemployed person out there. He’s doing better than you while you still had your job, while you still had money in your hands to spend on useless things. You spent months pulling yourself through just to make sure you don’t lose your job, and Heeseung resigns from his’ a little too easily. You feared every second that passed because you didn’t know what the future would hold, and if you still had a future, but Heeseung is sitting on his couch and writing as if he has nothing to worry about. You saw yourself for months, doing the same thing, in the same way, and Heeseung is living every minute as if it offers him something amusing. 

Life was always easier for Heeseung, and you wonder if this is the reason why you’re standing by his door with your nails digging into the palm of your hands. Maybe, if this is why you don’t try to strike a conversation and instead, walk out of the door as if you accidentally walked into the wrong apartment and now that you’ve realised your mistake, you would make sure you don’t repeat it and end up in the same place ever again. 

The next few days pass by rather slowly. 

You’ve been trying to keep yourself busy with work. Though it’s a bit hard to focus when everything else is plaguing your mind, things have started to get into place once again. Additionally, you’ve also been busy trying to grow a liking for your job after getting an earful from your boss. The truth is, you don’t exactly hate your work life. Materialistically, it’s perfect— a good environment, impressive benefits, a considerably loaded paycheck— it’s wonderful, but intellectually, you feel you’re at the same place where you started from. You haven’t gotten a new project in a while ( was kicked off the one that kept you motivated ) not a single new thing about work except reviewing documents and passing them on for signatures. One could tell you to quit and look for something you prefer to do, but resigning and pursuing something that you like, unlike Heeseung, is a luxury you never had on your side. 

Before you realised, it had already been a week since what happened between you and Heeseung. You wanted to talk about it, hoped to, but he’s harder to see than the most. You could see him through your kitchen that faces his bedroom. You would see his shadow roaming behind the curtains, a notebook in his hand, or a laptop, rarely. Heeseung likes to scribble his thoughts on a paper before settling with one, it’s something you’ve noticed back in the university when he spent nights working on his projects while you sat still at the corner of your bed. You can still watch him on and on for hours, sitting on his couch and imagining him walking up and down his living room while working on his drafts. 

Watching Heeseung is one thing you will never get tired of. It’s a little discovery on its own. Every step he takes and every move he makes tells you something new, something you hadn’t known before. You remember sitting next to him in libraries late at night and watching him study. It was supposed to be a simple observation, perhaps an intention to catch onto his tricks and tips to study, and suddenly you see him biting his nails as if his pores are dripping with nervousness. It made you feel better knowing that someone like him has his moments where he’s nervous, even scared, maybe more. Watching Heeseung was something you had on your daily checklist because those moments reminded you that he’s not all strange, that there are similarities, and that he also falls weak, just like you. Watching him felt like watching yourself, as if he’s more you than you are. It felt like taking a look into the mirror and realising that whatever souls are made of, yours and his are the same. 

But mirrors for each other's soul has a cost: by the time they part from each other, the individuals have become indistinguishable. Before their merger, they each yearned for the other; as they part, they part from self. Maybe, that’s why leaving him felt like leaving pieces of yourself and meeting him again felt like you could breathe once again. 

You can hate him for all the reasons why he is better than you and for all justifications you could offer to prove otherwise. You can spend hours explaining why life has been unfair to both of you, yet still he gets to have the better end while you always fall back to the start even after all the times you’ve tried. You can go out and tell the world your tales of misery and braveness, how you didn’t give up even after life dragged you beyond what could possibly be the worst, and you can complain your heart out about how Heeseung, despite having everything you could ever ask for, gave up all because it didn’t fit to his liking. You can call him a coward in front of eight billion people and would still find yourself in front of his doorsteps at the end of the day, just like now, because after all, he’s the only person who would welcome you with open arms. 

“Have you ever tried painting?” You ask while taking a look at all the loose sheets lying around on the centre table in his living room. It comes off a surprise when you find that what he has been scribbling behind his beige curtains were sketches of characters of his novel, rough and messy, some drawn seemingly in love while others had patches of pain in their eyes. 

“As a kid, yeah. My parents made me try almost everything out there,” He replies on his way from the kitchen with two coffee mugs in his hands; and amusingly enough, it would be the first time you’d be having coffee with him ever since you moved, because every other conversation was accompanied with alcohol or wine. “But paint brushes aren’t my forte, really,” You take one of the cups, nodding in the process. Your childhood wasn’t any different, despite the financial shortcomings. You remember taking extracurricular classes at least four days a week, all for different fields, art being one of those. You wouldn’t say your painting skills are worth exhibiting, but they are better than his. Maybe, that’s why you briefly consider pointing out his mistakes, telling him that he could try fixing the body proportions to make the figures look more presentable but again, you refrain yourself from doing so. 

Instead, you take your time observing Heeseung, again. 

A sip of coffee hits your system, you sit on the couch, watching him arrange the sheets into one place. Earlier, it seemed as if Heeseung didn’t care about you seeing his living room in such a mess, as if it’s something you’re allowed to see because it’s you. You notice the way he’s holding onto the coffee mug, you’ve always loved how his fingers wrap around its perimeter completely. It’s one of the things about him that you find attractive. He sits on the opposite end of the couch and you’re sent thinking about the last time you both sat like this, having coffee over silent smiles. One second, you’re thinking about all the good times you’ve had and the next, your mind drifts back into the thoughts from a few nights ago. 

The coffee started tasting bitter or maybe, it’s just your thoughts. From thinking about his hands in yours to the smile that used to warm up your evening, nothing seems to cross your mind except the way you felt when his lips captured yours for the first time in years; nothing compares to that, not even close. You thought it’d be fine this time ‘round, people don’t make the same mistakes over and over again. Meeting Heeseung again was like falling back into the hole you’ve been climbing up, but hitting the bottom never hurt. You thought things would work out just fine because you’ve grown up. You’ve learnt things, you know what you did wrong back then and you know exactly what to do to make things right. All these things, they ran an imaginary conversation inside your head where everything went back to normal. There was a point where you couldn’t distinguish between daydreams and reality, and the truth didn’t hit you until you were sitting on the floor of your shower, hyperventilating his name into your hands; and you asked yourself— is it so bad for people to just use one another?  

Because friends with benefits is also a relationship based on convenience, you don’t get why loving someone the same way is deemed toxic or simply unacceptable. If things had worked that way, you wouldn’t have ever ended up on this turn of life. You and Heeseung would kiss but won’t be in love, sleep next to each other but won’t be a couple, share your secrets but won’t be friends. He would be someone you would’ve seeked on evenings you couldn’t stop crying and you would be someone he could hold onto on days that made him feel like he couldn’t go further. Not lovers, but not friends, just something, someone you could use and not feel guilty about, someone who could walk away a hundred times without hurting you, someone you didn’t feel obliged to focus on. You both could’ve been someone who didn’t feel like a chore to each other. If people could just use each other, perhaps, you and Heeseung would have lasted longer. 

Commitments are hard. Loving is hard, because a day comes where you run out of all the reasons to love. You become selfish, starting thinking about the give and receive, the shortfalls, the absence. The part of your lover that you fell for becomes the very reason why you fall out of love. Instead of appreciating the times spent together, you start complaining about all the minutes that went in waste, all the days they weren’t by your side. You take a step away from the commitment you swore upon and then one day, you start walking away before you even realise. So, loving is hard, and it’s even harder to fall in love again when you’ve walked away once and you’re afraid to do it again, not because you don’t want to hurt the person you love, but because you want to save yourself from hurting all over again.

“How are you doing?” You ask above the silence, voice no louder than a whisper. You’re hoping for a conversation none other than about what happened that night. It’s not because you want him to take responsibility because you’re just as responsible for it, perhaps more. You simply hate how you’re the only one still hung over it, you hate how he can go on with his life without worrying about the things he did that have shifted the ground beneath you. 

“Good,” He replies, just as quietly. A pause follows, you feel his eyes on your while yours are still fixed on the mug, fingertips running circles along its rim. “Great,” And, you find another reason for why you’ve been acting lately. The worst part about walking away isn’t the realisation that you have to leave everything that once made you happy, but instead, it’s the hope that follows you everywhere you go. You hope that they’ll run after you, that they’ll stop you and tell you not to leave, that they’ll beg you to say and tell you they need you, but they never do, Heeseung never did. 

You look at him after much consideration, there’s a certain look of inevitability in his eyes. It’s not welcoming but it’s not pushing you away either. It’s like he’s telling you there would be a moment when you would look at him in a certain way, and you both would cross the threshold from friendship into something so much more. Perhaps, it’s just the mood of time or your imagination that has you seeing things, but you feel a certain innuendo in his gaze and the way it traces every patch of your skin, from your eyes to down your hands, threatening to transverse further down below. It could be an innocent play of eyes, a harmless action that doesn’t mean anything more than. . . something. 

It’s how you begin, your mouth against his, and his fingers tracing along the back of your neck. It feels euphoric and equally sinful, the way his lips move in synchrony with yours, fitting like puzzle pieces. Heeseung tugs you closer by your waist, a faint gasp escaping your mouth that dissolves immediately into your breaths mingling together. He’s pushing you back into the couch, your mind plays all the moments with him like a short film, it feels like a warning sign, but you’re far in too deep to pay attention to anything else except him. Every swivel of his head sends you down a spiral of pain and pleasure, you’re somewhere between pushing away and pulling in. You’re so lost, it feels like you’re on an island and Heeseung is the water. If you’re drawing, he’s the oxygen, if you’re falling, he’s gravity— his presence in your life is contradictory. He’s the reason you’re hurting, and the very reason you like every second of it. Heeseung pulls back, a gaze full of love, he whispers a sweet confession. 

“Date me,” he says. You don’t remember responding, and the next time those words flood back inside your mind is two days after the incident, when you’re laying on your living room floor with beer once again. 

You’re counting now, the amount of times you’ve ended up on the floor with beer, thinking about all your past actions and regretting. It kind of sounds funny to think about it, to think an adult can’t pull their life together and resorts to alcohol even at minute inconveniences. His words haunt your mind day and night, in sleep and when you’re awake, in happiness and in sorrow. It seems like you’re back to stage one, where all he ever did was look at you and all you ever could do was think about him for as long as possible. Focusing on work doesn’t help. You tried shifting your furniture from one corner to the other, avoided Heeseung for three days before he was at your door with the electricity bill that was accidentally given to him. Consequently, your alcohol intake has increased again, not that it ever went down, but frequent meetings at work gave you a reason to stay sober. As for now, you’ve been spending each day the same way, vegetatively, ever so stagnant, like water in an infected pond that is born to numerous parasitic diseases. Your refrigerator is getting emptier day by day, you feel too exhausted to buy groceries. Days transform into weeks, Heeseung leaves for Busan for a week. He didn’t tell you. You overheard it from the ladies in the elevator. Now, there’s a closed door in front of you everytime you open the door to your house. A door with letters and envelopes piling up, a plant that is drying up day by day because looking at it, you assume Heeseung had forgotten about it. When the energy to cook leaves your body, you resort to ordering takeouts. Missed calls from work are the only thing preventing your apartment from drowning in silence. When the last of your hope dies, you resign from work. 

You think you’re going crazy, because you get back to the cycles of standing in the balcony around the time Heeseung used to return from work. A part of you knows he doesn’t work anymore, heck, he isn’t even in the city, but you spend most of your day thinking about him. At times, you wonder the point of all this. You wake up, check your phone for any texts from Heeseung or simply anyone. Fifteen minutes pass and you drag yourself out of the bed, eat ramyeon, watch television, sit on the balcony with bear, watch the people come and go, eat ramyeon for lunch again, sleep, ramyeon for dinner— you needed someone else, something that would break you out of this vicious cycle. There are days when your own skin suffocates you, when the image in the mirror doesn’t feel like yourself but rather, a faceless person. You’ve spent hours sitting in the shower and letting the water prune your fingers. You let your tears wet the bed sheets. For some reason, it feels like you’re coming to terms with reality. 

As days pass by without Heeseung, you’re starting to realise your feelings, able to sort out things you want and don’t. You thought your dream was to live an average, normal life. Looking at it now, you don’t think it’s what you wanted, maybe you didn’t have a choice to begin with. You studied in a prestigious university, you had scholarships to support your tuition fee, you had a job that paid you well enough, you had everything any other person your age would desire, you had those things because you wanted to set an example. You lived for your siblings, you lived for your parents, you lived for the expectations that came with your intelligence and skills. Sitting in the bathtub as your mind revisits every decision you’ve ever made in life, not one was for yourself. Or maybe there was— loving Heeseung. 

Perhaps, at the end of the day, you wanted someone who would love you, someone who would watch you be selfish and slowly clap at the back of the theatre because you’re doing a good job, you’re choosing yourself above everyone else. Heeseung was the person, it’s the only thing you’re so sure about in your life. He was like a saviour in the apocalypse. He’d tell you to blather about your insecure mind that kept nagging you regarding all the things you couldn't do and, he’d explicate how exquisitely it told you lies that you believed. You thought you could reciprocate, but every moment spent next to him reminded you of things he was and things you could never be. You were scared he’d notice your insecurities, the voices tell you that you’re only worth abandoning. You guessed it wouldn’t be hard, you just had to hide your feelings, and years later, your decisions prove you wrong once again. You’re struggling to breathe under your skin, your heart desires for him, you’re falling in deep again, and you’re about to pack your bags. That’s how your life has always been, to avoid getting hurt, you hurt the people you love. 

Maybe, you need him after all. Heeseung was one thing you were certain of in your life— still is— but you had your pride ruling your life, and he had stars to reach. 

At some point during Heeseung’s trip, you pick up a paint brush. It’s a sudden decision, an impulsive move. You wake up one morning and your senses crave the smell of oil paints and brushes. You never had a talent for painting, not by a long shot. You attended classes back in middle school but had to drop out because of your family’s financial conditions. You think you’re trying to copy Heeseung. You both have unsaid words in the back of your mind, both need to convey their feelings one way or another. Heeseung picked a pen, you chose a paintbrush. It’s supposed to be therapeutic, you have heard about art therapy. There is no set subject, you draw whatever comes to your mind. Your first piece exhibits your kitchen. There are unwashed dishes, you used yellow to add a light glow except, you used a little too much of the colour. The second one, an apple from your fruit basket. Third, your ceiling— white, blank, empty, you’ve named it ‘My head’s ceiling,’ as lame as it sounds. Your fourth is the cat that roams the neighbourhood on most nights. You don’t know about anatomy, but you sure do see slight improvements with colouring. Your fifth and the last one is Heeseung from the night you met him for the first time after moving in, and then he finally arrives from his trip. 

“Did you miss me?” He asks you when you show up at his doors in a thin cardigan and a bottle of wine in your hands. Weather was never a problem, any place with Heeseung tends to feel warmer. You walk inside, eyes on the loose sheets lying all over his kitchen counter. You wonder how he will react after hearing about your resignation. 

“I missed drinking with you,” You may or may not have a motive behind your words, maybe you wanted to feel him against you once again, maybe the wine ends up being an excuse again, but the night doesn’t flow in that direction. You tell him about your resignation, he finds it funny after the ‘pep-talk’ you gave him when he resigned. You tell him about your newly found interest in art, he tells you to practise since you have plenty of time. His responses are short and specific, not a word more or less from what’s necessary. His eyes make their way to you once in a few minutes and the rest of the time, they’re on his laptop screen. There are so many things you want to talk about, you have so much to share, so much to do. You had plans for tonight, but all he offers you is a short talk. It’s as if you’re not important anymore, as if you’re the third person between him and his drafts, and he’s doing you a favour by not sending you back to your apartment. He’s being distant, it doesn’t surprise you anymore. Half of it is because of his drafts, the other half, his interest. Heeseung is passionate about what he does. Whatever he does, he sacrifices all of him, it’s about catching his interest. You pour yourself another glass, Heeseung asks you a few questions about his work in progress. You realise he’s losing interest in you, little by little. 

You sort of expected yourself to be better after his return, it turns out to be false. You’re still on your living room floor, hands and clothes having stains of reds and blues. You painted the wine bottle from last night. You haven’t got any sleep, the image of Heeseung pops up everytime you close your eyes. It feels like the world is giving you what you had given him long ago— all the pain and insufferable longing, all the reasons that made him believe that he deserved to be abandoned. When you got busy with studies and a job in your last year of university, ignoring Heeseung seemed to be the only way out of your hectic schedules. You had exams, a job to cater too, money was already a problem so you couldn’t afford giving him gifts on all the days they have made for couples. Heeseung used to show up with something new every single day and no matter how pretty it was, a part of you despised him because it made you feel inferior. Leaving Heeseung wasn’t an option, it was your only choice. He was the only thing you had that you could throw away. 

“Can we talk?” Heeseung shows up at your door on a Thursday morning with words that brushed away any traces of sleep in your eyes. It’s eleven, you woke up barely fifteen minutes ago, and you find him at your door; hands empty, no traces of his laptop or notepad. You think you’ve finally become one of his priorities, after all. 

“About what?” 

“Us,” He responded quickly, he came prepared. “I want to talk about us,” And there it is, confrontation knocking at your door. You’ve been waiting for this moment for a while now, for weeks and more, perhaps, and now that it’s in front of you, waiting for you to hold it’s hand and guide it inside, your body freezes under his gaze. It’s a game of push and pull, like a pendulum oscillating between two extremes. You want him to tell someone about you. The thought of you vanishing completely from his world is unbearable. You can’t stand the thought of being a silent tomb in his heart, you don’t want to be an inscription on the first page of his book. You want him to tell the world about you and promise you a forever, but a part of your heart gently reminds you of the impossibility of the kind of love you’re wishing for. It’s not Heeseung who you can’t trust, rather, it’s yourself. You’re scared of your demons. When things get happier, you get anxious because you might ruin it once again. 

“Do you want to come in for coffee?” And here you are again on your couch with mugs and words you’re busy burying inside. The situation feels oddly familiar, your eyes travel to him. There’s a look of dejection in his eyes. 

You join a wellness club a week after, and Heeseung is the first person to know about it. You saw the advertisement when you went to buy fruits two days ago. It didn’t interest you until you walked back home and found yourself in front of your mirror, thinking of what you were and what you’ve become. Your dark circles have grown prominent, your joints ache from the lack of movement. Walks with Heeseung after dinner are the only reason why you wake up everyday and eat your meals. You have your paint brush and wine, you have every reason to not live any longer. If it wasn't for him, you don’t think you would have been breathing at all. You look up the fitness club on Naver, take your time reading through the programmes they’re offering and the pricing. Maybe, this is the change you needed in your life. Not Heeseung, not money, not a job, but some time for yourself. A place to think about yourself and how you are doing, a place to be selfish without being ashamed of it. 

The first few days were nice, you met new people, saw new faces. One new thing in your life, apart from painting. The sessions mainly focus on meditations, you were never the most patient person in the crowd. Some sort of yoga follows before a break, and that is usually the worst part. You would sit on the wooden floor and watch others talk, their laughter and murmurs filling in the hall. It makes you feel like how you used to be in the university— in silence, by yourself. You had conversations with your mind, with your heart. You looked around and saw eyes looking at you. Every second felt like they were talking about you when in reality, the thought of you never crossed their mind. You were no one, despite being popular, it’s ironic, and you hate how the exact same thing started happening in the club. It would have hardly taken you five sessions to give up and get back to your routine of painting, drinking, and sleeping. When Heeseung asked, you excused it as boredom and unsatisfactory. Actually, you have started feeling better ever since Heeseung returned from his impromptu trip. With him next to you most of the day, you feel functional and sane. You feel like you could think again, you decide to get back to cooking your own food instead of ordering take outs or simply sleeping after drinking. You didn’t see the need to attend the wellness classes anymore until a few days before, when they texted about a trip in the groupchat. You tell Heeseung about it, he locks himself in his apartment for the following days to come. 

You don’t know how or why he made that decision. You spend hours everyday thinking about all the probable reasons, only to end up with nothing. After three days of consideration, you land onto the conclusion that you take too much of his time. It makes sense, of course, he’s busy, he’s working, he has a job, even if it’s basically sitting into his room all day and typing. You, on the other hand, don’t have anything. You have your issues that you project onto people, you have problems you try to ignore, you have indecisiveness and can’t decide what you actually want. You spend too much of your time thinking about if onlys and begging God for last chances. Days pass by without him, alcohol becomes your only solace. The voices in your head remind you of the consequences of your actions. They scream about the mistakes you make, laugh at your actions. They recite tales of how you tend to ruin the person you like, how you’re a parasite and Heeseung is a host, and how you feed on his blood to keep yourself alive. You wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, you feel like wanting to scratch off your skin. At times, you want to run to Heeseung and profess your love to him, tell him how much you want him, how much you need him. You have always been aware of your feelings, of what you wanted, but deep down, you’re afraid that you might be a worthless person after all. And now, you are the worthless person who is trapped in their own empty life. 

You want to try living your life as a different person. A life where you’re not you, and all the things you have now aren’t yours, good or bad. An alternate reality where Heeseung isn’t someone you meet at your lowest, where he isn’t just a use and throw to you. You want to go to a place where nobody knows you and live as if you have no history at all, you want to know how it feels to live without having people expect something from you. A life where running away isn’t the only thing you’re good at. You haven’t talked to Heeseung in five days and you're already on the way to his apartment from the supermarket after getting some fruits. Perhaps, you just want to live a life where his presence and absence wouldn’t mean so much to you, where it wouldn’t cost you your life and pride. 

When Heeseung opens his door and invites you inside without asking any questions, you realise he has been expecting you anyway. Heeseung gets back to writing, you’re left alone in silence yet again. You envy Heeseung. As a writer, he has an inclination to step inside someone else’s shoes, to get under their skin and see the world through their eyes. It’s a blessing, you think, to be able to live as a thousand different characters and experience a thousand different emotions, to be able to express them so beautifully in words and actions. If you were him, you’d live as a different person everyday, in a skin that makes you feel comfortable. You could be a pianist pretending to be nervous, or a ballerina with her broken shoes. When Heeseung doesn’t say anything for the next few minutes, you pick up an apple from the grocery bag in your hand and enter his kitchen to grab a peeler. It’s an old tradition between you two, to say things with actions instead of words, to hug each other when sad, to offer fruits when you’re in pain, to sit in silence when you are sorry. 

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” You say abruptly, letting words fall off your lips without control. Heeseung’s hands stop in the midst of typing, hovering over his laptop. When the sound of keys stops, the air starts feeling emptier and heavier than ever, sending a wave of shiver down your spine. 

“What?” A soft gasp, a voice of disbelief. “Why didn’t you tell me any time sooner?” 

“Well, I am telling you now,” 

“The night before you’re leaving,” 

“I would’ve told you sooner if you could take a break from whatever you’re writing,” A pause. You look at him, his shifts ghosts your sight and falls upon the apple in your hand. You’re looking at the document displaying on the screen, your eyes fall back on the fruit in your hand just a few seconds later. You wish for Heeseung to be more open with you, to yearn for you the way you do for him, to want so much that every moment without you feels like death’s hands around his throat. Maybe, he already does, maybe he wants to but couldn’t because the fear of you leaving yet again is eating him from inside. You have given him all the reasons to doubt himself and you as well, every reason to think thrice before knocking your door. Writing is an escape, you know he has his own problems, after all, how many times did someone pick and pen or and paint brush when they couldn’t pull the trigger? 

“When will you return?” He asks, a little unsure of the question, if he should even ask you. 

“One month,” And you respond, peeling the apples between your words. “It’s a paid trip from the wellness club I joined, some sort of detox, so I don’t think we’d get to talk much either,” Your thoughts aren’t sane, they’re all over the place, everywhere. It’s hard to walk, harder to crawl, it feels like you’re standing in a deep pit, the way out is in front of you but you don’t know how to reach up there. Calling it a detox sounds stupid, but you know you need it, it’s for you, for him, and for whatever the two of you are becoming. 

“It’s alright,” Liar. “It’s just one month,” 

Before you know it, you’re in his arms and you’re hugging him back. Perhaps, you missed the embrace, the warmth of loving and being loved. “Just one month,”

“I love you,” He smiles against your ear, arms pulling you closer. You’re stepping into happiness for the first time in months, you’re reminded of its previous betrayal. And you realise that the person you’ve been yearning for is the one you should step away from. 

V. Should you get back with your ex?

It’s been five years since Heeseung has heard from you. He has been waiting, but he doesn’t have time to sit back in his apartment while putting everything aside. He has been keeping himself busy with drafts and publishing, lost amidst plots and characters he created, living in a whole another universe as an escape from reality. It all makes him sound crazy, or rather, like someone who has been through severe grief. But, Heeseung has been busy thinking about all the new genres he can try and every single thing that he can include in his writing because no one can stop him, and his imagination means no bounds. After all, Lee Heeseung, after five years of waiting and working, has finally published his most awaited work. 

Heeseung isn’t used to distances. They drift people apart, as they once did the two of you, but he didn’t mind anything when it came to you. You were going to return within a month either way, and thus, he found solace in texts and calls while waiting for the days to pass. You’d send him pictures of the city while he’d forward you an image file of another blank document. For days, you both texted restlessly, between meetings, during meals, while taking a walk, before and after bed, it was as if you had returned all the way back to how your life was in university. On days you couldn’t make time to call him due to your busy schedule, he would leave voice notes regarding every single thing he has been up to. It was a small step towards forgetting the past since neither of you tried to talk about it. It was more of an attempt at ignoring your past mistakes and moving on, taking a mental note to not repeat them again. While the need to talk things out bugged both of you every night, you were just fine with whatever the two of you had at the moment. 

Things had started off good, but the two of you started hearing less of each other. His busy schedule or your lack of internet could be blamed. You really needed some time to yourself and it seemed to be the perfect excuse to not text him first, or even back. Days morphed into weeks, weeks into months, Heeseung was finished with the first draft for his next book. That was for you but Heeseung, again, isn’t used to distances. You would see his texts on the top of your notification bar, holding onto a fragile ray of hope that he’ll hear from you anytime soon. You’d see his missed calls, voice notes, emails, direct messages on social media, even a letter he sent once. You could feel guilt pool inside of you, realising that once again, you’re being the one to draw a line, to create distance and while you promised that they wouldn’t affect you both this time ‘round, you’re the very reason why they keep on increasing. But, Heeseung is good at these things, hoping, holding, waiting; he’s good at sad things. Perhaps, it’s just another thing he has come to learn because of you. 

When you didn’t contact him for another two months, he started reaching out to your friends and family. He called your friends and his friends, his family, even. It was like he was in a forest with a lantern, looking for treasure, and the flame went out. 

He used to think he could go a day without your presence. Without telling you things and hearing your voice back. Then, a day arrived when he found himself struggling to feel your presence but the next was harder. He knew with a sinking feeling it was going to get worse, and it wasn’t going to be okay for a very long time. 

Losing you wasn’t an occasion or an event. It didn’t happen once and instead, happened over and over again. Heeseung loses you every time he picks up your favourite coffee mug, whenever that one song plays on the radio, when he unconsciously scrolls all the down to the bottom of his messaging app, coming across your contact. He loses you every time he thinks of kissing you, holding you, or wanting you. He goes to bed and loses you, when he wishes he could tell you about his day and everything that he has planned for the future; and in the morning, when he wakes up and reaches for the empty space across the sheets— Heeseung begins to lose you all over again. 

“What inspired you to write this book?” And now, he’s sitting at his book launch event, a faint smile on his face, a good of pride gleaming in his eyes. Through the years, Heeseung has released short stories and poems; poems that he wrote while looking out of his window at every flight that flies by, hoping you’d arrive one day, while sitting outside next to your apartment late at night, while drinking your favourite wine knowing you would’ve had the whole bottle to yourself if you were to join him. Heeseung would sit on the cold tiles of his living room and let his mind paint a picture of you. The image of you in his mind is blurry, but he feels every emotion you gave him to this day. 

“A friend, my neighbour,” His smile grows wider, a little more filled with sorrow, yearing oozing through the cracks of his skin. “My ex-girlfriend,” Calling you his ex doesn’t seem right since the two of you never broke up. You need to be in a relationship to break up, and Heeseung and you weren’t anything. 

His first poetry work, ‘Red Wine,’ was written in the first few weeks after you stopped contacting him. Those were some of Heeseung’s worst days of life, days he felt like doing nothing except lying down and staying still until his systems gave up due to the lack of movement. He has written about you drinking red wine on the floor just like you do, and on the other side it’s him, cold and bleeding. You’re looking at him— he pictures you as such, and you continue to sip on your wine, watching him bleed. Is there a possibility of you and I? Heeseung wouldn’t know, for you enjoyed your red wine while his blood pooled around your legs, and you wouldn’t flinch because you wouldn’t know if it’s blood or wine unless you taste it, and you wouldn’t know if he’s hurting for you’re too busy dwelling in your own mind.   

“Did you get back with her? Is that why the book is named ‘How to get back with your ex’?” Heeseung thinks the question is rhetoric. Anyone can tell if he and you are together or not after reading the book. Few seconds pass in silence, it’s not the question he’s running from, but the answer that lies around. Heeseung doesn’t know if there was ever a point when you considered taking him back into your life with labels, just as how it used to be back in university. You waited for him at odd hours but never admitted to missing him. He confessed, you never gave an answer, but you kissed him as if he was a part of you that went missing centuries ago. Your touch bled with yearning, love rolled down your cheeks, and you never accepted your feelings. You’re not his lover, he likes to keep you as his favourite incomplete fish. 

“No, actually, we’re not in touch anymore,” Heeseung isn’t familiar with loss. He doesn't have a lot to offer, not at all. Lee Heeseung, in fact, doesn't have anything to give or lose, his hands are empty. He has a mediocre job that he resigned from over a mediocre reason, and a mediocre life, a mediocre apartment with some mediocre flowers in the mediocre vase a friend gave him as a congratulatory gift on graduation day. He has the same mediocre thoughts and books, tropes and genres, no new thought in a while; Heeseung, actually, has more to accept than to lose. 

To think, he has always been on the receiving end of life. 

The first month was the hardest. He started hearing less of you, and then none. Losing you, it was like experiencing withdrawal symptoms. Heeseung would pace around, hours on empty, looking obsessively at his phone to catch a hint of you, just one text, one missed call, anything. His editor continued to call him, even show up at his place, telling him to write, to do his job, but words don’t flow when you’re not around, and the thought of you pains his heart inexplicably. He knows he’s always talking about second chances, how there is always a second shot at things that slipped out of your hands. The day you cut off all contact with him, Heeseung realised that it was probably his last chance with you. He cried the first time the news of Bus M4107 crash on its way back to Incheon. He ran back to his apartment, avoiding getting hit by a lorry only by a few minutes, vision getting blurry as his mind started coming up with all the worst scenarios possible. Heeseung went through all his contacts, looking for names familiar to the two of you and begged them to try to get in touch with you. He spent hours looking at his phone, his eyes were like a searchlight. How they looked at the sky with such longing, how they always turned towards the door hoping you’d walk in any moment. Heeseung doesn’t care if you’re with him, he doesn’t mind seeing you across the street while pretending to be strangers. He doesn’t mind not being able to hold you. Even after all these years, even when he’s Korea’s bestselling author, even when he has everything he has ever dreamt for, his life has voids that remind him of you, but it’s fine. Things were fine, you left him one Sunday morning with his cup half empty. It was supposed to be just a month, but five years later, Heeseung pads around his apartment following your presence that still lingers around. Outside, the rain is already falling, there are still pieces of you behind every door, he can live just fine. He can live knowing you’re here, in this world with him, amidst the eight billion people. It’s better than accepting the fact that you’ve left him alone, forever. 

Fifth month was a little easier, Heeseung published his first short story. He was doing good, and had work to stop himself from thinking of you. Friends and family kept him busy, book signing events occupied most of his days. You didn’t leave his mind, you just started residing less. He thought of it as a routine— every morning, you’d leave his mind as his schedules began. He pictures you floating over the city, over the busy markets and sublime lakesides. You visit sometime in between, when he’s resting on his bed or enjoying his tea. You walk back in and tell him about everything you’ve seen. You talk about the balloons stuck in the tree, about the girl running behind her school bus, and then you leave again and he sits to write. You walk down the streets through the sunset, the fragrance of sea-food spinning in the air. There’s a couple on their first date, a group of friends taking pictures outside a hotpot restaurant, a wife waiting for her husband, a mother picking up her son, a family going shopping, and then you’d come back right before he’s going to bed. You’d tell Heeseung about them, your voice ringing in his ears. You kiss him goodnight, he goes to sleep, your thoughts are like a lullaby. And the next morning, the cycle repeats again.

Around the twelfth month, Heeseung found himself at his lowest. It had been a year since you left, a year since you disappeared off the face of earth with no trace of you even after investigation. The case was closed, Heeseung felt the ghost of you leaving his mind bit by bit. Your empty apartment had been sold off to a woman in her forties, he didn’t like the idea of someone else occupying the place that had once belonged to you. In his mind, you still live there, and you still spend your days lying on the living room floor with wine. The renovation began soon after, Heeseung found himself standing in the living room of your apartment. With every inch of wall painted, the absence of you caved in on him closer. Every inch of brush stroke on the wall covered the evidence of your existence, painting white over the pieces of you that you left behind the closed doors. It felt like a sign to move on, as if the world was forgetting you and so, Heeseung was supposed to do the same. It boils his blood to this day, his heart aches inexplicably. The universe knows you as someone who disappeared off the face of Earth, it doesn’t know you like Heeseung does. It doesn’t know the impact you have on his life, it’s unaware of the little things you did that changed his view about things. People are moving on, the media forgot about all the people who died in the accident. He doesn’t understand how everyone continued with their lives as if nothing ever happened. Twelfth month was the hardest for Heeseung. Disappearing memories of you from his mind froze his mind, he wanted to die, if it meant he could see you again. 

You see, getting back your ex isn’t always about the romantic feelings you had for each other. You can be friends with your ex, or neighbours, co-workers, and it would still mean you got back with them, because getting back together means putting the past behind and working together to help each other become a better version of themselves. Isn’t that what we do even when we start dating our exes; being better than how you were with them in the past, not repeating the mistakes that drifted you apart in the first place? Heeseung doesn’t mind getting back with you even if you’re a stranger he sees at the supermarket. It’s fine even if you’re someone he sees once a week at the subway. If there is even a little chance that you’re here, Heeseung is okay living with just a glimpse of you. He has waited five years, he will wait for fifty more. 

“Do you still love her?” A journalist raises the question, and Heeseung could ask himself the same thing over and over again, always ending up with the same answer: he doesn’t know. Saying that he does would be an overstatement because Heeseung doesn’t know where his heart lies, and denying it would be a blatant lie. So, instead, he likes to think of you as just someone who came into his life and lost her way out of it. 

Just someone who he met one night by the bar, someone he warmed up to so quickly that every single neuron in his body went off with alarms, alerting him of all the possible consequences about how this would take a tragic turn. It happened like this : he met you, and for some reason, he felt more connected to a stranger than anyone else— closer to you than his closest family. Someone who taught him what loneliness is because before you, Heeseung was used to doing things alone, on his own. Someone who made him rethink every life decision, someone who, he knew, would turn his life upside down, and still he let you do it. You were someone he spent his happiest days crying about and saddest moments reminiscing over. Heeseung gave you love, and in return, you gave him an insight on life, an important lesson, and an answer to all his whys and hows. Your love was soft and tacit with all hands and lips and hearts in tandem. It was like a storm and he was walking into it straight. Heeseung is an explorer, you were a traveller. You both met at the intersection, the lights went red, the world stopped for a brief second. He saw love in your smile, he wishes he could see more of it. But you had a plane to catch and Heeseung, he was already home. 

Dedicated to my ex-girlfriend, the one I didn’t expect to meet after years of trying to move on, one who left and came back as if nothing ever happened and turned my life upside down. I think it was obvious that this was about you anyway. I hope you are happy, wherever you are. I hope you’re still here. Thank you for being someone I could rely upon, for being my muse, for being my one and only love. 

—

Thank you for reading, ‘How to get back with your ex’.

[recurring-polynya]

Bleach Returns 2024 - Day 7 - Aftermath

This was the first thing I started for Bleach Returns 2024, and the last thing I finished. For theme weeks like this, it's always nice to have ideas that can fit under more than one of the prompts, in case you have to switch it around. This one could just as well have ended up under "Unlikely Pairs" -- they day I turned out to have skipped, but I needed the extra time, and I think it fits better as an "Aftermath" story anyway.

In any case, I have held the belief in my heart for ages that a truly underrated part of the Blood War was the fact that out of everyone in the Gotei, the only two people that got to see Komamura's wolf-man form were Iba and Hinamori, and I wanted to know if they ever talked about it later. I accidentally wrote it in the present tense, so it came out about a thousand times more melancholy than I intended it to be, but I'm actually pretty happy with how it came out. Consider this my Komamura Tribute Fic: you were a real one, sir, and for, like, 30 seconds you were a total smokeshow. Somehow I doubt you truly gave up your heart for good.

Rated T for one mild curse and endorsing lying to your boss | read on ao3 |

---

"Why are you asking me?" Rukia frowns. "Renji is a perfectly adequate liar." And your friend, she doesn't add.

Hinamori has an answer for this. She would have preferred to ask Renji, too. "He's too nice," she explains. "I know that I'm really bad at this, and he'll tell me I'm fine when I'm not. This is important. I need to do it right."

Rukia screws up her face and for a moment, Hinamori worries that she feels insulted, either on her own or on Renji's behalf. It's usually pretty rude to come up to a person and ask for their help in crafting a convincing fib. Hinamori knows Renji well enough-- she knows Rukia well enough now-- to expect that it would be taken as a compliment. But maybe not.

Rukia huffs. "You're right," she grumbles. "He's always been like that." She sighs expansively. "But if he were capable of running a team grift on his own, we never would have met, so I suppose I can't complain." And without any further preamble, she launces into a dissertation on the theory and practice of lying.

Hinamori blinks as she tries to take it in. There are fundamental precepts. There are classic techniques. There is ontology. There are hand-movements and eyebrow wagging. Hinamori should have brought a notebook, not that she could manage to get it all down. A lot of what Rukia says sounds like something Renji would say, but with far more conviction. He always used to say that he learned most of his chicanery from Rukia, and for the first time, Hinamori starts to believe it.

Rukia stops abruptly in the middle of an illustrative anecdote that has something to do with Kurosaki Ichigo's gym teacher. "What, exactly is the falsehood you need to fabricate?"

Hinamori tells her.

Rukia squirms for a moment. Momo realizes that she doesn't know if Rukia was asked to testify at any inquiries regarding her own captain. She wonders if she should have asked Renji after all.

"Look," says Rukia, in a way that is somehow simultaneously gruff and delicate, "Hinamori." She clears her throat. "I know it's extra weird because he's the Captain-Commander now, but you can just lie to Captain Kyouraku. It doesn't have to be convincing. He will ask you the question and you can say what you need to say and he'll write it in the official report. Whether or not he believes you is unimportant. He wants you to lie."

"I know," says Hinamori. "But I don't want it to just be a nod and a wink. Captain Komamura wouldn't have liked that. He was a good captain and a kind soul. Iba told me that he often tried to help people save face. I want to do a good job on my lie, for him. For Iba, too."

Rukia's brows furrow. She sets her jaw. "Your heart is very big, Hinamori," she says. "There are special techniques for lying with your entire heart. I will teach them to you."

"Thank you, Kuchiki-san," says Hinamori.

---

"Shortly after I became his lieutenant," Iba says, facing forward, standing at his fullest height, "my captain informed me that, in the case of his death, he had arranged a special exemption from the standard funeral rites for Gotei captains. He said that, if it was within my power, I should make sure his body was returned to his people."

"That is correct," the Head-Captain agrees. "Werewolves have a different path through the resurrection cycle than we do."

It takes Iba a moment before he is able to continue, but when he does, his voice is steady. He speaks in the cadence of a Lieutenant Delivering a Report. They can all do it. They all do do it. Momo does not remember anyone ever teaching her how. It just comes with the job. Iba's voice is naturally a little froggy, which Momo has noticed before, but it's even more evident when he is forgoing his usual tough guy turns of phrase.

Iba describes the damage sustained by his captain's bankai during the battle with Sternritter E. He makes a remark for the record about the unique relationship between Captain Komamura and his bankai. In this case, Iba says, the damage was more than Komamura could heal, would ever be able to heal. Iba states that by dismissing his bankai, Captain Komamura was able to eke out a few more hours of his life, but that his end was inevitable. This is why Iba and his captain did not regroup with everyone else, and why they declined medical assistance. Iba fought Soldat with his captain until the bitter, bloody end. At that time, zombies had begun to appear on the battlefield, and Iba felt it vital to deliver the body of his captain to the werewolf clan as soon as possible, so that it did not fall into enemy hands. That is why there is no corpse. "But my captain died honorably, in battle," Iba concludes. "I was there when he fell."

It takes some time for Head-Captain Kyouraku to finish up his note-taking. Lieutenant Ise is faster at transcription, Momo thinks, but she is not here. There is so much to do these days. She must be busy with something else.

Kyouraku's eyes scan quickly over his notes. "Thank you, Lieutenant Iba," he says. "Very complete. I don't think I have any further questions."

"If you think of anything later, please don't hesitate to ask, sir," Iba replies.

Kyouraku turns his gaze to Momo. "I understand you are able to corroborate portions of this, Lieutenant Hinamori?"

Momo straightens her spine and clears her throat.

You are telling a story, Rukia reminds her. Parts of that story are true and parts of it are not. Start with the parts that are true.

Hinamori tells the story of fighting her way through the Soldat-flooded city, trying to rejoin her captain. It is their practice to maintain distance when he is using his zanpakutou, but she likes to be within shouting distance. In case he needs her. She talks about seeing the columns of light and feeling the burst of strange, acidic reiatsu as the Quincy unleashed their Voll Stern Dich. She does not mention the way her feet were already moving even before she felt her captain's reiatsu plummet.

One of the things that makes you a bad storyteller, Hinamori, is that you always needs to add in extra detail, even when it doesn't add to the story, even when it makes you not look great. Especially when it makes you not look great. It's like you're always afraid of people thinking you are lying, so you want to lay everything out there up front.

This is still the part that is true, and Rukia said it was important to build up some momentum, so Himamori allows herself the indulgence of being a bad storyteller. If I tell the true parts poorly, she reasons, the lies will be less obvious.

"When Captain Hirako was injured, I made a poor decision. I wanted to save my captain. I thought I could get the drop on Sternritter E. I thought I could fight her fire with mine." Hinamori swallows. "Captain Komamura saved me. I know he wanted to go on and fight Yhwach, but he stayed back to protect me and my captain. I know it's not really relevant to this inquiry, but I would like it added to record anyway, if possible."

"Captain Komamura was always looking out for others on the battlefield," Head-Captain Kyouraku murmurs as his brush makes soft swishing noises over the paper. "I've made a note. Please continue, Lieutenant."

It's not a lie to not say something. It's just editing. Hinamori had wanted to tell Kuchiki the thing, the thing she had to edit out, but Kuchiki didn't want to hear it. Kuchiki had, in fact, put her hands over her ears and sang "LA LA LA LAAAA" until Hinamori gave up. It had been a little bit rude, in Hinamori's opinion. You want to tell me because it feels like a secret, Kuchiki had scolded. It's not a secret. It's extraneous information. Throw it in the trash. Burn it to a crisp. Forget about it forever.

It sure feels like a secret, the thing she had seen. She tries not to think about it, afraid that if she does, it will leave a hole in her story the size of a werewolf and the shape of a man. Instead, Hinamori continues. "Captain Komamura ordered me to take Captain Hirako and leave. I wanted to stay. I wanted to help. But I had seen her explosions, and I knew he needed the space. He went to bankai as I left."

"You didn't actually see them fight, then," Head-Captain Kyouraku surmises.

"Captain Komamura's bankai is--was--very large," Hinamori states the obvious. "As I left, I could see it taking explosion after explosion. I could hear and feel the bombs. They were deafening. I shouldn't have, but when they stopped, I… I looked back. I saw Captain Komamura's bankai crumble to pieces. It did not seem like a thing that would be possible to survive."

"Indeed," agrees the Head-Captain. "A great loss for the Gotei."

"Agreed, sir."

Iba draws in a long breath, but says nothing.

"Anything else, Lieutenant Hinamori?"

"No, sir. That is all."

"Captain Hirako has declined to give testimony. He said he didn't think he had anything to add."

"Probably not, sir. He was unconscious for most of it."

Kyouraku nods as he finishes writing. He puts his brush in the holder, and folds his hands. "Thank you both. I'm sorry we had to go through all this procedure for something so simple as a death in battle, but he was a captain, after all. Usually, the Central 46 would hold a hearing, but I think this--" he pats his stack of paper-- "should suffice."

She has done it. It's over. Kuchiki was right. It was barely a lie. It was a careful arrangement of true things. Hinamori feels like she has run a thousand miles and bench-pressed the Soukyoku. She wants to throw up. She wants to go to sleep for a million years.

"It was an honor to serve under him," Iba says.

Hinamori has no regrets.

---

Okay, it turns out that Hinamori does have regrets. Not about the statement. She receives a short note from the Captain Commander several days later informing her that the ruling of "Killed in Action" has been accepted, and thanking her again.

She wishes she had said more to Iba.

Hinamori is very busy these days. There have been three wartime actions in the last two years, and for once, Hinamori has come through relatively unscathed. She wants to make the most of this by helping everyone she can. She and Captain Hirako take on paperwork from the Tenth while its leadership needs extra treatment to purge out the last after-effects of the zombification. It's only fair. Hitsugaya has done enough of the Fifth's paperwork. She goes to PT with her Third Seat, who ended the war with a pair of prosthetic legs. She volunteers once a week at the Pop-Up Mess Hall the Ninth has been running to help out the squads whose facilities were destroyed, or who simply can't spare the manpower (also, the Ninth has a lot of talented cooks, and it's as good an opportunity to socialize as you can get these days). She tries to make time for all her friends, but especially the ones who are injured or grieving or overworked.

Hinamori is friendly with Iba, but she's not sure they are friends. He's not quite part of the close-knit core of the lieutenants that she hangs out with. He has his own friends, she's sure. He's pals with Abarai (who isn't?) and Madarame, who finally showed up to a lieutenant's meeting this week, even if he did so with a facial expression like he'd just drank a glass of slugs. Hinamori just isn't sure…well, it's not that those guys aren't sensitive to each other's feelings--scratch that, Madarame is definitely not sensitive to people's feelings--but Hinamori can't help but wondering if anyone has extended Iba any sympathy that didn't come the form of a moment of manly, stoic shared silence or possibly a punch on the shoulder.

Hinamori intends to swing by the Seventh shortly before the end of the work day. She isn't sure how this is going to go, and she wants to leave her options open. Her plans are derailed slightly when, on her way out of the door, she runs into Ise with a pile of new forms and feeling chatty to boot. By the time Hinamori walks into the Seventh's administrative building, it is half an hour past quitting time. The hallways are already pretty empty, and even as she knocks on Iba's door, Hinamori resigns herself to trying again tomorrow. "Lieutenant Iba?" she calls tentatively. "It's Lieutenant Hinamori. Are you in?"

"Ah, yes! Come in!" Iba's gravelly voice calls back.

Hinamori slides the door open and steps through. Iba is hunched over some paperwork. "Sorry!" he says. "Just a moment! I'm trying to finish up--there!" He looks up. "What can I do for you, Lieutenant Hinamori?"

For a long, long moment, Hinamori stares at him.

Iba has brown eyes. He blinks them once, then suddenly scrabbles around on his desk, shoves over a pile of forms that looks suspiciously like the one Ise just foisted on her, grabs his sunglasses, and crams them on his face. "Sorry!" he croaks. "Sorry!"

"No, no!" Hinamori waves a hand frantically. "It was my fault! I didn't-- I didn't see anything!" Her stomach clenches. Why is she always seeing things she isn't supposed to see? She looks away, frantically, and her eyes land on the floor next to Iba's desk. There is a pillow there, and on the pillow, a handsome dog regards her judgmentally. "Oh!" she says. "Hello, Goro!"

Iba clears his throat. "He's, uh. I don't keep him in here all day. He just had his dinner, and I'm going to take him for his walk as soon as I…" He looks at his stack of papers and then looks at Hinamori. "I'm sorry, what did you need? Are those more new forms?"

Goro puts his chin on his paws and sighs.

Hinamori looks down at the pile of paper nestled in the crook of her arm. "This?" she says, trying to get her thoughts together. "Oh! Right! No, no new forms! I got some flyers printed up for my weekly meditation circle! Do you remember, I mentioned it at the last lieutenants' meeting?"

"Oh…oh, yeah," Iba manages. "Yeah, that's not really my…"

"For your squad," Hinamori emphasizes. "I was hoping you might be able to post them in a common area. Or you could hand them out to anyone in particular you thought might benefit. Everyone's working so hard and dealing with so much right now. It can be, well, sort of a subtle way to suggest that someone takes a little break. I got a little stipend from the Fourth, so we have snacks afterward, now!"

Iba nods. He obviously does not need even one more thing to think about. "Ah, okay! Yeah, great idea! Thanks, Lieutenant Hinamori."

Hinamori slides the stack of flyers onto an extra table that Iba has pulled up next to his desk, apparently for increasing its paperwork-holding capacity. "You can have someone deal with these tomorrow," she says gently. She kneels down to scratch Goro's head. "Are you doing all right, Iba-san?"

Iba misinterprets her and immediately begins to bluster. "All of this looks much worse than it is! I'm getting the important stuff done! Ask anyone in Squad Seven--who have been champs, by the way! You see how empty this place is? It's because I make everyone go home on time, that's why! They'd be working night and day if I didn't make them take a rest. Maybe I'll send the whole lot over to your meditation whatsit!"

"That's not what I meant," Hinamori cuts him off. Unlike the Head-Captain's office, this is a place where she doesn't need to be parsimonious with the truth, so she goes on to say, "I only brought those flyers over as an excuse to come see how you were doing. You must miss him so much, and you can't even talk to anyone about the way it really happened."

Iba's mouth opens as he starts to say something, but then he closes it again. "I do," he says finally. He jerks his head towards an extra chair sitting along one wall. "You wanna pull up a seat?"

Hinamori does so. "Have you…heard anything?" She knows that Captain Komamura is still alive because Iba told her when he came to ask her to testify at the hearing. When he came to ask her if she would help him tell the story the way Captain Komamura would prefer it to be told. All the same, she is wants to let Iba be the one to say it out loud first.

"Ah, one of his relatives is a regular at the weekly market outside the eastern gate. There was a letter." Iba is silent for a moment. "He's healed up from his war wounds. He says there are some faces he's glad to see again." Iba reaches down to scratch Goro around the ears. "The cousin, he sells mushrooms, actually, really good mushrooms, I guess they sniff them out of the woods or something. Anyway, he says that, ah, well… they're happy to have him home."

Hinamori feels sadness settle on her chest like a stone. She barely knew Captain Komamura at all, but she knows he must have overcome so much in order to join the Gotei, in order to live in the city. She loves Junrinan, and yet she remembers feeling the cold terror that she might be sent back there after…when it seemed unclear whether she could still be a shinigami. "I'm sure it will be an adjustment," she says slowly. She wishes she could think of something else to say.

Iba regards her for a long time. "You get it," he says. "I can tell." He groans and leans back in his chair. "Aaah, Hinamori, you're right! It's been agonizing not bein' about to say anything! Everyone thinks I'm sad 'cause he's dead, and I gotta pretend that's true, but I'm actually sad 'cause all I can think about is his wolf-mom given' him a bunch of grief about wastin' his time on shinigami shit!"

"Does he have a wolf-mom?" HInamori asks, suddenly curious.

"Hell if I know! He never talked about werewolf stuff, so I've just been coming up with stuff in my head. I'm sure it's all wrong."

"I feel like if he has a wolf-mother, he would love her very much," Hinamori said. "He seemed like that type."

"You're right, Lieutenant Hinamori," Iba said, wagging a finger at her. "You're absolutely right." He cleared his throat. "While you're here. Listenin'. Well--there's something I been wanting to say so bad I feel like I'm gonna explode sometimes. You, ah, don't mind, do you?

"Of course not," Hinamori agrees. "Go ahead."

Iba leans forward, crumpling some of his paperwork. One side of his mouth curls up into a boyish grin. Goro looks up, curious. "He was awesome, there at the end, wasn't he?"

"Oh," says Hinamori, "oh, my, yes."

"For the length of that fight, he was immortal. Untouchable."

"I will never forget how I felt when I saw his bankai," Hinamori blurts out. "It gave me shivers."

"I know! It was absolutely incredible. I've--I've been working on my own bankai and I just…it's never going to be that."

Hinamori tilts her head to one side. "It might be," she says.

Iba frowns thoughtfully. "He gave me something to shoot for, for sure. What a captain he was!"

"Mm," Hinamori nods, thinking about captains she has loved.

Iba looks away for a moment, then looks back. "Hinamori, I gotta ask. You saw my captain. In his human form."

Hinamori is momentarily shocked to hear the secret thing, said out loud and in such a casual way. "Yes," she says eagerly.

"He was…he was, like, better than average on the looks scale, right? I'm not…I'm into ladies, you know, I'm not much of a judge of that kind stuff. But, like. Wow."

"Oh, yes," Hinamori, who is generally very circumspect when offering opinions on other people's look. "He was--well, that's not really my type either but--" She clears her throat primly. "Whew!"

"Whew!" Iba agrees.

Goro whines and puts his paws over his nose. Iba laughs, the kind of big hearty one that comes from getting something off your chest. "I know I've already taken up too much of your time, Hinamori, but, uh…I don't spose you'd like to help me take this guy on his walk?"

Hinamori smiles. "I'd love that."

[sunderingstars]

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ 𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 ⌝

pull back your eyelids / i’m lost in your iris

— iris, pastel ghost

ao3

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4k, teen & up

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: wriothesley gets caught in the rain.

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐚𝐥: genshin impact, wriothesley/neuvillette, wriothesley pov, oneshot, present tense, angst, hurt/comfort, canon compliant, introspection, sad old man neuvi, i started writing this before we knew much about wriothesley so apologies if anything ooc slips through

— happy 100 followers !! 🎉

It’s not that Wriothesley dislikes rain. By all accounts, rain is a good thing. It’s helpful for watering flowers and sustaining oceanic life and ushering in cooler weather, but as all good things are wont to do, it sours in excess.

As a man, Wriothesley finds the low rumbling of an oncoming storm calming. As a warden, he finds it a welcome deterrent for criminals. As a Fontainian citizen, however, Wriothesley finds it more cumbersome and, quite frankly, annoying than the previous two, especially when delivering documents to the Palais Mermonia.

A light drizzle is doable. Atmospheric, even; mesmerizing, the way water dances slowly against windowpanes and newly-locked shop doors, the way his boots sing softly against stone and the air hangs with a thin, cool sheen of mist, dappled with the early life of street lamps under a darkening sky. Despite Fontaine’s penchant for sudden weather changes, Wriothesley usually appreciates the ambience.

Today, however, the sky does not share this sentiment. He’s less than halfway across the lower fountain square when he senses a crackle of electricity in the air, hears the low rumble of thunderous intent from above. When he looks up, he finds light gray replaced by an ever-darkening steel. It doesn’t take an expert to know his day is about to get worse. There are only a few minutes at best before he’s caught in the downpour, which isn’t nearly enough to cross the distance to the Palais Mermonia with the papers tucked under his coat still intact. All that’s left is for the maw above to split open and pour — and pour it does.

In a shorter amount of time than he feels dignified disclosing, Wriothesley finds himself completely soaked and taking shelter under an awning, cursing himself (and by proxy, his overconfident nature) for leaving his umbrella back at the Fortress of Meropide. None of this would even be happening if he’d stuck to his core tenet: never go outside. It’s short. It’s simple. It’s there for a reason. It’s why he sends his documents by carrier instead of dragging himself topside at the whim of anyone — no matter how attractive they may be — who doesn’t have firsthand experience working in the Fortress. Unfortunately for him, he is not immune to Fontaine’s justice system. He is also, apparently, not immune to the Chief Justice of that system, at least not as far as fatigued letters asking for personal favors go. It seems Neuvillette being slightly inconvenienced is enough to get Wriothesley running errands these days.

Not that ruminating on it will help him in the short term, though. Right now, all he can do is stand, soaked through like an abandoned dog, and look at the sky with a sort of annoyance he only reserves for those Fonta salesmen who market products to prisoners. He doesn’t have anyone to blame but himself — or more accurately, his spine, which tends to abandon him as soon as he sits down with an envelope and pen.

It’s easy to slip into frustration with each new rumble of thunder. Frustration at himself, his decisions, his godforsaken penchant for leaving the Fortress with nothing more than the clothes on his back. He feels more strung-out than he has in ages. He wracks his mind and pockets in an attempt to find something even semi-helpful for the rest of his journey, only to come away empty-handed. He’s marginally glad the papers tucked under his coat are still dry, but it doesn’t help his mood in the way he’d hope.

Getting wet tends to have this effect on him. A light drizzle does nothing to knock him off-guard, but being genuinely, honestly drenched? It’s a nightmare. For someone who lives his life surrounded by water on all sides, he really doesn’t like coming into contact with the stuff (tea notwithstanding). Something about it just sets him on edge. Even now, he can feel his clothes soaking through. It’s maddening. He’s not even sure who he’s more angry at: himself or the sky.

Luckily for him, salvation comes in the form of a kindly shopkeeper across the street who, after seeing Meropide’s Head Warden suppressing shivers, takes it upon themself to bring him an umbrella. One mildly-embarrassing exchange and a thank-you later, and Wriothesley is resuming his trek to the Palais.

The umbrella helps. It’s a bit loud and the wind shakes it from time to time and the yellow polka dots definitely ruin his intimidation factor, but it’s nice. Nicer than trying to run in a downpour, anyways.

As he walks, he lets himself admire the scenery. It’s not something he gets to do often, far too caught up in Meropide’s internal affairs to even spare a glance topside. The city looks nice like this, he decides — soft and quiet and gray. It seems free, somehow. Caught in limbo. A state of escape from the expectations of everyday life; away from the pressure of being correct in its judgment, from the mountains of paperwork dripping ink and signatures, the cold catch of metal against skin. Somewhere to breathe. Somewhere that reminds him to breathe.

He’s only a few turns away from the Palais proper when he notices something strange. Something different from the graying rock and darkening sky. Something so vaguely off-putting that it stops him in his tracks, puts him on alert, causes years of training to kick in as muscle memory guides his hand towards the handcuffs at his hip.

There is someone standing near the edge of a garden. At first, they’re difficult to see. The city has many gardens in the most unlikely of crevices, and this particular area overlooks the rising sea in a way that cuts half of it from his sight, hidden behind an entry arch. All he can make out is a dull swish of blue. As he draws closer, however, his hands relax, trading places with the tension now emerging onto his brow.

“Monsieur Neuvillette?” he calls out, confused. He half-expects the man in front of him to be a hallucination. That the real Chief Justice is busy waiting for him in his office while Wriothesley is going slightly insane on the street outside.

He walks closer. Despite his attempt to ease the harshness with which he walks — the stomp of his boots, the rattle of his chains, the clank of the cuffs at his side — he can’t succeed in the way he wants. He never can, not with the Chief Justice.

When he passes under the arch enough to see Neuvillette clearly, he calls out again. This time, the figure turns.

Neuvillette’s eyes are clouded over, distant and unmoving. Rain slides from him in small waves, splitting into rivulets down his cane, dripping from the tips of his hair, darkening the hues of his outfit. If Wriothesley was a wet dog earlier, the Chief Justice is nothing more than fur and bones.

A lingering moment passes. When the warden’s presence registers, Neuvillette’s eyes lighten ever so slightly.

“Oh,” he says. “Hello.”

The Chief Justice makes no move to take shelter, only continues to stand, fully humbled, against the onslaught of water.

“What are you doing?” Wriothesley asks.

It’s an understandable question. Not even Lady Furina stands in the gardens while it rains. In fact, most people would consider behavior like this the recipe for catching a cold, moreso a very strange thing to do. If this were anyone else, he’d escort them straight home. He wouldn’t feel right letting someone put their own health at risk without doing something about it. Unfortunately, Wriothesley doesn’t have that kind of authority over Neuvillette — if anything, the Chief Justice should be the one ushering him inside on account of where they are.

But neither of them do that. Instead, they both stand, staring. It’s a strange sort of purgatory, the kind that makes them oblivious to the rain pooling near their boots, makes them stand on either side of the garden arch as if locked in an oceanic standoff. A great being of water and the chained structure of Fontaine, slowly submerging. It reminds him of the last time he found Neuvillette in the rain; the way their world moved in limbo, waterlogged, hazy, until the other man took his umbrella.

It’s not as awkward as he remembers. Just… melancholic. Slow, in the way water rises, step by step, year by year. Wriothesley isn’t sure why the Chief Justice is here, but that doesn’t mean he can’t find out. He regrets not asking last time. He doesn’t want to pry but… well, quite frankly, he’s worried.

He calls Neuvillette’s name again.

For his part, Neuvillette continues to look like he’s coming down from a very high place. When he opens his mouth, he makes nothing clear. Wriothesley isn’t sure what “taking a walk” is supposed to help him understand. It is quite literally his job as a warden to ask questions and get answers no matter who it is. The only reason he’s holding back is because of the Chief Justice’s status. Now, even that is beginning to fray.

“Are you okay?” Wriothesley asks. He doesn’t mention how unusual Neuvillette’s behavior is, or how far he is from his office, or how the bow in his hair is beginning to slip and tangle with the oddly-moving, cobalt strands of hair flattened against his back.

“Why would I not be?” comes the response.

Wriothesley resists the urge to scoff — not because Neuvillette has offended him in any way, but because the words are so rehearsed he can practically hear the Chief Justice saying them in the mirror. It’s a deflection, too, one he’s heard far too many times in his career.

It occurs to Wriothesley as sure as his many years of training: Neuvillette is hiding something. Perhaps not in the way a warden is used to, but in the way a friend might. Although neither of them are partial to vulnerability, he’s learned to pick up on the Chief Justice’s quirks — the downturn of his mouth, the small furrow of his brow. It’s all there. It worries him.

It’s not something he can ignore, either, not a one-time occurrence he can brush off as a fever dream anymore. Two time’s the charm, and Wriothesley decides to take a metaphorical leap. To cross the distance between their positions. He steps over the arched threshold, umbrella in hand, and comes to stand in front of the other man. The gradient Wriothesley’s eyes are met with threatens to swallow him whole. Nevertheless, he persists.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says.

Neuvillette blinks. His eyebrows twitch. “I am not lying.”

“You might as well be.”

It seems the Chief Justice can’t muster a response to that. Gone are the quick wit and decisive motions of his court persona, instead replaced with an almost shy, drowning ocean of a man who can’t tell up from down. This goes beyond the softness Wriothesley has witnessed on occasion. It’s something he doesn’t think he’s seen at all.

When the other man continues to offer no counter, Wriothesley sighs. He does a quick survey of the garden, then brushes past Neuvillette to stand beside a waterlogged bench. In a moment of impulsivity, he sacrifices his fur coat to act as a barrier between him and the bench.

“Rest, then.” He sits and pats the space beside him. “Archons know how long you’ve been standing like that.”

If Neuvillette had the energy, he would most likely be offended at the roughness of Wriothesley’s words. As it stands, he takes the Duke up on his offer, though not without hesitation. By the time he’s settling precariously on the bench’s edge as if he’s worried the wood will absorb him, Neuvillette has managed to look at every single part of the garden besides Wriothesley.

The man in question isn’t surprised. He knows he isn’t the best at comforting people. Never has been, even when he found himself taking on the responsibility of caring for Sigewinne. What he’s learned, though, is that despite his gruff appearance, he still has a way of pulling people into his orbit, making them feel at home. A “nice heart on the inside,” as Sigewinne once put it. It just takes people a while to see.

Wriothesley doesn’t press. He doesn’t continue to ask questions — partially because he’s not sure what to say — and he doesn’t continue to fuss over the state of Neuvillette despite his mind so desperately telling him otherwise. Getting the man to sit was a large enough feat. Anything beyond that needs to come on his own terms.

The silence they slip into feels tentative. Fragile, like the churning clouds above them are glassy, storm-bottled, threatening to shatter at a moment’s notice. Like whatever peace they’ve created can be broken into pieces by a single crack of lightning, a single swell of the sea. The rain continues to wash over them. Though it parts gracefully through Neuvillette, it splatters onto Wriothesley’s umbrella in messy drops, rattling the metal underneath.

He considers offering the Chief Justice shelter. It won’t do much, but it could be an olive branch. He eventually scraps that idea, however, for fear of insulting a man that in many ways could hold a grudge so strong it would impact him for years to come. He’s never been too caught up in the social intricacies of Fontaine’s nobility, but he doesn’t intend to ruin anything because of it.

Instead, against both his common sense and better judgment, he lowers his umbrella, clicking it closed. The cold dart of water assaults him almost instantly. Neuvillette’s incredulous voice follows close behind.

“What do you think you are doing?” the Chief Justice asks. A glance to his face tells Wriothesley it’s genuine.

The Duke shrugs. “Figured if you have to deal with the rain, you could at least use some company, right?”

“Well, yes, but—” Neuvillette’s mouth gapes, open and fish-like, floundering. “I mean— Really— You do not—”

“Relax,” Wriothesley says. “It’s not the end of the world.”

Neuvillette huffs, the first expression of anything other than confusion and despair Wriothesley’s seen since he arrived. Taking this as a good sign, Wriothesley decides to test the waters.

“Standing miserably in the rain isn’t exactly the picture of a healthy mind, you know,” he says.

“I know.”

Neuvillette offers nothing else and Wriothesley fights every urge in his body to continue pestering. Time. It’s just time, he reminds himself. So he waits. And waits. The thrum of the rain and the sea merge into one, into the quiet thud of heart in his ears.

Eventually, Neuvillette sighs. “I am old, I suppose.” He tilts his head upward. The gray reflection of the sky darkens his pupils. “Too old.”

As Wriothesley follows his vision, a low flash of lightning echoes against the rain. When his eyes return, the Chief Justice’s face is half-obscured by soaked hair.

“I feel as if the world is moving on,” Neuvillette continues. “That I am standing still and it is moving past me, and I do not know how to move with it. That I am fated to watch it decay.” Then, softer, “Is that a strange thought?”

Strange… There are many things Wriothesley finds strange about Neuvillette — his bathysmal eyes, his missing vision, his uncanny ability to predict the weather — but the way he views the world is not one of them. Wriothesley has always understood the Chief Justice to be an old soul, regardless of what that means. It’s not surprising someone like him feels this way.

Wriothesley must have been silent for too long, because Neuvillette coughs lightly as if trying to dispel his own mind. “My apologies. I understand this matter does not concern y—”

“No.”

“No…?”

“It’s not strange. Not to me, at least.”

“I—” Neuvillette flounders for the second time, star-split eyes wavering between the sky and the man beside him. “You truly believe so?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Wriothesley asks with a shrug. “That’s life, isn’t it? Looking at the present and realizing how quickly it passes. Watching the world turn around you. Watching it change. The way I see it, it would be stranger to not feel helpless when faced with it all.”

He must have done something right, because Neuvillette allows himself to sag. Only minutely, and only at the shoulders, but to Wriothesley it looks like a puppet being cut from its strings.

“What do you do?” Neuvillette asks. Soft, quiet, unsteady; the rumble of an ocean far beyond what a Duke is capable of handling, some deep ache human hands can never reach. He does not look at Wriothesley.

Wriothesley looks at him, and hopes that even for a moment those waves might part for him to see a glimpse of sea below. “I don’t know,” he says. The rain is so loud it drowns his voice, but Neuvillette hears. He always does.

A resigned smile paints the Justice’s face. “That is alri—”

“I don’t know,” Wriothesley repeats, “but I don’t think we’re meant to. I think we’re just meant to live.”

“To…” Neuvillette furrows his brow, testing the words out. “…live.”

“Yeah.”

The Chief Justice slips back into silence. Whether he’s contemplating, zoning out, or simply thinking about his next import of Snezhnayan water, Wriothesley can’t tell. What he can tell, though, is that he’s bleeding. Not physically, and not somewhere Wriothesley can see, but somewhere deep. Somewhere between his cane and crossed hands. Somewhere under those impeccable robes. Somewhere that, no matter how much he tilts his head away from Wriothesley, can’t hide the tear-tracks of the sky.

Wriothesley doesn’t know everything. He doesn’t need to know everything. But he knows this: the rain feels like grief. It drips from his umbrella, palpable, and when it meets his skin it sobs.

Neuvillette speaks like the rain.

“Wriothesley,” he says, half-grounded, half-lost. His voice is steady. His voice is blood. “What if…”

Rain water catches on his lashes as he drifts them close, merging at the corners and sliding in thin streams down his face. A muted crack of thunder sounds beyond the clouds.

“… What if I do not know how?”

Wriothesley blinks. Shifts in his seat. He wants to reach out and brush Neuvillette’s cheeks, to wipe away that tear-stained sky, but his hands are rough and calloused, and he fears their contact with softness may scratch too deep. Instead, he bridges the distance between them in a different way, soft and insistent; only for a moment, only enough for Neuvillette to feel the warmth of their shoulders touch, to feel the light pressure of Wriothesley’s head leaning against his, cushioned by a barrier of silky hair.

He’d never thought the Chief Justice to be a man wanting of knowledge in anything, much less anything Wriothesley could offer. It stirs a strange pride in him, the feeling he has something to give. Some way to help.

He thinks carefully on his next words. In the end, he comes back to what he does best — honesty. Gut feeling. What he truly wants to say, not what he thinks he should.

“It’s never too late to learn, right?”

Neuvillette hitches. The clouds continue to rumble, but he doesn’t pull away. “I fear I am not the best student of philosophy.”

Wriothesley raises a brow. “It’s not philosophy.”

This time, Neuvillette turns to look at him, confused.

“It’s life,” Wriothesley clarifies. “Just life. The only way to know is to live.”

Neuvillette falls silent.

Wriothesley thinks he’s beginning to see, now. It’s not that Neuvillette’s problems stem from himself, as the Chief Justice seems to think, but rather his circumstance. He doesn’t know how to live because he hasn’t been allowed to. His position forbids it. Perhaps that’s why he sends his letters, pesters the Duke to deliver documents in person under the guise of overwork. He’s lonely, plain and simple. Wriothesley doesn’t know why it didn’t occur to him sooner.

“That settles it, then,” he says abruptly, patting his knees and standing up. It’ll be hell to walk in waterlogged boots, but he’s dealt with worse. It’s not a long walk, anyhow.

“Settles what?” Neuvillette looks as bewildered as the swirling sky above him.

“You’re coming home with me.”

“What?” The other man blinks as confusion startles raindrops into his eyes, hands clenching and unclenching in his lap. A barely-visible shade of pink dusts his cheeks. “Wriothesley, I— I understand a man such as yourself is used to the vulgarity of a prison environment, but I urge you to—”

“—Tea,” Wriothesley says. “I’m inviting you for tea. My townhome is about a block away.” Then, as a purely indulgent smirk begins to play at his mouth, “What did you think it was?”

Neuvillette blanches, then clears his throat. “Tea… of course.”

“Mhm,” comes the unconvinced response.

Despite Neuvillette’s initial hesitance, he stands, now facing Wriothesley. His hair still drips with sorrow and the sky still drips with grief, but his eyes lighten just enough for Wriothesley to see coral beneath those storm-swept waves.

“Do you have water from Springvale, by chance?”

Wriothesley snorts at his excitement. “‘Course I do. I’ve been stockpiling all the bottles you give me as parting gifts.”

“You… don’t like the taste?”

“Nothing like that,” he says, waving away Neuvillette’s concern. “It just didn’t seem right to use them on regular days at the Fortress. Figured I’d save ‘em for special occasions. Today can be one, if you want.”

He turns, clicks open the umbrella, and extends it towards the other man — a futile gesture given the fact they’re both soaked. Much like the first time, Neuvillette stares at its handle blankly, distantly, as if observing it from behind a curtain.

It occurs to Wriothesley that Neuvillette might find him bothersome. Might see his concern as pity, his curiosity as corruption. That perhaps all he wanted was to be left alone. The Duke of Meropide is not an insecure man, but he can’t help it this once. For a moment, he lets his worries take the form of disdain — narrowed eyes, cold stares, buildings with a single set of echoing steps. Solitary, soaking treks across cobblestone. He wonders if he could come back from the aftermath of such a storm.

Yet still, he stands. Rain beats dully against his umbrella.

It’s only when Neuvillette takes a slow step forward, curling his fingers around the handle above Wriothesley’s, that the tension in his chest eases.

“I’d like that,” the Chief Justice says quietly.

As the warmth of their hands bleed through silk and leather, Wriothesley thinks his heart may burst. A strand of glowing hair falls across Neuvillette’s face like moonlight.

“Of course. Great. Cool.” The Duke wrenches his eyes away from the scene in front of him, turning to lead them both out from the garden.

As Neuvillette follows suit, he asks, “Are you… going to give me the umbrella?”

Wriothesley about passes out. “Yes! Yes, of course,” he says, almost dropping the handle entirely as he releases it. “Shit. Sorry.”

Neuvillette coughs in a suspiciously laughter-like cadence. “You are forgiven. Although—” He sighs and tilts the umbrella so they can both shelter underneath (not that it’s much use to either of them — even the documents, long-forgotten against Wriothesley’s chest, are beyond saving), “I should be the one apologizing.”

“What for?”

It doesn’t seem easy for Neuvillette to elaborate, so after a few seconds of the older man’s mouth opening and closing, Wriothesley answers for him:

“Nothing. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

Tension eases from the Chief Justice’s shoulders. He seems hesitant, slightly doubtful, but the words are enough to banish the worst of his stress. He shifts closer to the Duke.

“Thank you,” he whispers. It almost gets drowned by the rain, by the retreating dregs of thunder beyond the sky, but Wriothesley hears. He always hears. And he smiles.

Together, they step beyond the garden arch and onto the stronger weight of stone, Wriothesley leading Neuvillette towards home.

The rain beats dully against their umbrella.

© written by sunderingstars. do not copy, repost, translate, modify, or claim my work as your own.

[irkimatsu]

Not sure if you've already gotten this request, so completely ignore if you have: Husk introducing reader to anal?

(I actually haven't, and I really need to write this kink with Husk more often than I do. I headcanon Husk as liking butt stuff - not so concerned about the rest of your body, regardless of gender or presentation, as long as you've got a nice ass - so why don't I write him doing butt stuff more often?

First time anal sex, obviously, there's really nothing else to this one. Reader has tits and vagina, no gendered words.)

---

Exposing yourself to Husk shouldn't feel this awkward; the two of you have been naked and intimate together plenty of times before. You've just never been in this position before; not for him, not for anyone. Your chest is against the mattress, while your waist - and more importantly to him, your ass - are raised up in the air for his lustful eyes to consume like a tender piece of meat.

The lube chilled your skin when Husk first applied it, but the friction of your fingers against your hole has quickly warmed it up. The slickness against your untouched hole feels strange, but it's a unique feeling you're beginning to like.

If only you weren't so nervous about the next step...

"That's it, rub it in as long as you need. I won't start until you're ready." You can hear the wet friction of his paw against his dick as he applies lube to himself, growling quietly at the sensation. "Mmm... you said you've never done this before? Not even a finger?"

"Nothing," you confirm.

"Fuck..." the wet strokes increase in pace along with his breaths. "It might feel weird at first... might even hurt a little."

Your body tenses at that.

"But it'll feel better if you relax," he assures you as he gently caresses one of your cheeks with his free paw. "Just relax, and trust me... you do trust me, don't you?"

"Of course."

"You trust that I don't wanna hurt you? That I'll stop if you need me to?" You can tell from his concerned tone that he's not just fishing for the "correct" answer; he genuinely wants to make sure you understand his intent.

His sincerity is what makes it so easy for you to give him your honest answer. "I trust you, Husk... I love you."

"I love you too, baby." He rests both paws on your cheeks, slightly gripping them with his claws, and leans forward to pepper your shoulders with kisses. "Fuck, I'm looking forward to this... you're gonna feel fuckin' amazing..."

"Does being my first turn you on?" you ask, your smile shining through in your voice.

He chuckles in response. "Will I sound like an old pervert if I say it does?"

"Yes... but I like that about you."

He playfully nips your shoulder for the comment, then straightens up and begins rubbing his tip against your entrance. "Fuck..." His voice is already shuddering. "Fuck, this is gonna be great..."

Your breathing grows shallow and rapid as he presses against your entrance. Despite the generous lube, your virgin hole still offers some resistance.

"You okay, baby?" he asks, sincere as always. He's still pushing against your hole slightly, but isn't applying any more pressure.

"Mmm..." is the only sound you can make.

"Relax, okay? Relax... focus on my voice and relax..."

Nothing in this world, on Earth or in Hell, surely not even in Heaven, could ever relax you more than his voice.

"You're doing good so far, baby... we're gonna have fun, all right? I'll make sure you have fun... I just want you to feel so good..." He leans forward to gently lick your shoulder again, and your body shudders up against him.

"Please, Husk..." you urge as your nerves slowly melt away. It's Husk, you remind yourself. Husk would never, ever hurt you...

An embarrassing squeak escapes from your lips as he sinks his tip inside you. You bury your face into the pillow in the hopes of burying any further sounds.

"You okay?" he checks in.

You nod against the pillow and make a muffled sound of affirmation.

"All right... I'll go a little deeper. Just let me know if-" He cuts off his own sentence with a moan as he sinks further into your heat. "Oh fuck, that is tight..."

He's right, it is tight. Too tight, it doesn't fit-

"Husk-" you whimper, lifting your head just enough to be heard.

"Should I stop?" he asks. "Just say the word, baby-"

Yes, I want you to stop-

You can't get those words out; instead, you shake your head. "Let me try... a little more..."

Trusting that you know what you want, he sinks further again, urging another squeal from you. "Fuuuuuck..." he exhales. "Fuck, fuck, fuck..." His voice is so low, so lost in awe of you.

You can't lie to yourself; this does hurt. Yet, despite the aching, there's a certain pleasure that rolls through you every time he moves, something no one's ever given you before.

He just has to keep moving...

"More, Husk..." you quietly urge. "Please, more..."

"I'll go slowly," he promises as he slowly rocks half of his length in and out of you. "Even- this- fuck- is a- fuck, fuck, fuck-"

You keep clenching around him without meaning to, and every squeeze knocks the wind right out of him.

"Fuck, baby, I'm not gonna- last-" His final word turns into a high pitched cry as he sinks even deeper into you. "Tight tight tight-"

You don't want him to finish, not yet. You need more of him, deeper, harder. You need to relax, need to stop clenching around him-

You gasp as a few cold squirts of lube drip onto your hole. He rocks his hips again, this time going in much easier. "That better?"

"Yes!" you cry out as he sinks deeper inside you, stretching you, filling you. "Husk!"

Spurred on to by your enthusiasm, he begins thrusting again, sinking his entire length inside you before pulling out halfway. "You're taking me so good now, baby..." he purrs as he takes a few more gentle thrusts. "So...fuckin' hot..." He presses his soft hips against your ass and slightly grinds with his cock fully buried inside you, smearing warmed lube between the two of you.

"Fuck me, Husk," you urge. "I... I can take it now..." Are you sure about that? Your tone doesn't seem so certain...

But you're certain that you need to learn how to take this. For him. For you.

"You're sure, baby?" Husk asks as he leans his chest against your back and wraps his arms tightly around you, right beneath your breasts. "You'll stop me if it's too much?"

"Fuck me..." is all you can manage to repeat. Being filled with him like this is incredible, and yet, not enough; you need that friction again.

At your urging, he begins rocking his hips, slapping them firmly against your cheeks with every inward thrust. "It's opening up..." he groans, more to himself than to you, as he keeps moving. "You're doing good... real good..."

His slow pace is more than enough to make your heart hammer and your skin prickle. "Fuck me, Husk..." you continue to murmur. This is so much gentler than the response you usually get to that plea. He's not growling and pinning you to the bed with kisses, ramming his hips into you with enough force to leave territorial bruises.

Still, his need for you feels no less intense.

He huffs loudly in your ear as he ruts even faster, his balls slapping against you with every inward stroke. He whines your name, surrounded by unintelligible gibberish, as you clench around him once more.

"Touch yourself," he commands, somewhat out of nowhere.

"Wh-" It's hard to finish your question when moans keep interrupting your thoughts.

"Touch yourself," he repeats, voice raspier. "Want you to- to cum- fuck-"

As soon as it occurs to you exactly what he wants, you reach your shaking hand between your legs. Your immediate instinct to finger yourself is swiftly dismissed; you don't know if you can take something so intense. Not yet. You instead settle your fingers between your folds, and are surprised to feel how fucking wet you are from this. You moan his name needily as you stroke yourself, and as soon as you run your slick fingers over your clit, you can't pull them away. You rub furiously at your clit as Husk continues fucking you, moaning louder and louder by the second.

"Fuck yes- yes, baby-"

You're starting to clench again, but all discomfort and pain has faded by now. Your grip on him now is so deliciously tight, and fuck, now you understand why he loves this position so much.

You gasp out his name again, voice thin with lack of air.

"Cum, baby, cum, baby, cum-"

His voice is the trigger point for your release. The pillows do nothing to cover your screams as you cum, your waist spasming against him as you gush all over your hand. You're clenching so hard around him that he's struggling with his own breaths.

"Fuck-"

He hugs you more tightly as he ruts faster and harder, slamming into you with enough force to make the bed loudly creak.

"Tight-"

Within seconds of your own climax cooling off, his is just beginning, as wave after hot wave of his seed drains deeply into your ass. His moan is so strangled, so animal- and, you can tell through your haze, so fucking satisfied.

Before long, he falls limp over your body, taking breaths so heavy they sound painful. He murmurs your name so softly, so reverently, as he gently licks your shoulder again. "You doing okay...?"

Your legs wobble, and you respond by collapsing down to the bed and off of his softening cock. He gently lowers himself over you, lightly pressing his weight against yours. "Baby...?"

"So good," are the only words you can get out. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, every part of you is growing sore, especially the hole you just let Husk use for his own pleasure.

The ache is so fucking worth it.

"I know it didn't last a long time," he says, somewhat apologetic. "It's just been a while since I... and, you know, thinking about being your first..." He laughs softly to himself, possibly at himself. "I got carried away..."

"You are a pervert," you tease, clearly not too drained to be a bit of a brat.

"You like it," he counters, and you can't argue with that. "You like when this old pervert teaches you how to have fun... like learning how to be good to me..."

Your skin heats as he nuzzles his head against your shoulder. He's not wrong, but he doesn't have to say it...

"I'll try to last longer next time," he promises. "Maybe see if we can go faster, too. Get you really into it. ...that is... if you want a next time...?"

"Please," you breathe out. "I'd... love doing that again..."

"Good. I would too." He kisses your shoulder one last time, then rolls off of you and lies on his side so you can cuddle into his chest. As he holds you close and kisses the top of your head, you can't help but feel a strange sort of pride... you tried something new, something that he loves. You did a good job at it, and it felt good for you, too... good enough that both of you want a next time... it's worth celebrating, in a way.

"Maybe I can really make you cum next time," he says, and even without looking at him you can hear the devious intentions in his playful voice. "How about I get you a real nice vibrator for next time? I can hold it to your clit for you, so you can relax and focus on taking me... how's that sound, baby?"

[dicenote]

touta matsuda

discuss

omg YES ty! This is gonna be a long, disorganized ramble, so bear with me!

Touta Matsuda. My blorbo, skrunky scrimblo, love of my life, etc.

There are so many things about Matsuda's character that I could talk about. His impulsivity, his loyalty, his uncertainty... All of it makes a very real and very interesting character. And I think that a lot of his traits shine in one of the most horrifying scenes from his perspective: the Yellow Box Warehouse.

Like, let's take a step back and look at the numbers here. On one side of the warehouse, we've got a guy claiming to be L, and the three members of the old Kira Task Force that he brought with him. On the other side, we've got a different guy claiming to be L and three members of the SPK that he brought with him (oh. and the guy from the Task Force that got kidnapped in the mix). Outside, Kira's accomplice is lying in wait. So we've got ten people in all who are ready for the final showdown. The reveal. The evidence that will finally end this years-long nightmare and point to the true identity of Kira.

And of those 10 people, only one of them doesn't have a clue who Kira really is.

Light is Kira. Mikami is X-Kira and finds out who Kira is as soon as he looks in the room. Near and the SPK are all on the same page. Mogi and Aizawa know. Ide's a bit more on the fence but he wasn't completely in the dark. So Matsuda is the only one who goes in totally blind.

If anyone were to re-write Death Note purely from Matsuda's perspective, the Warehouse scene would go from tense to horrifying. To (nearly) everyone else there, this confrontation isn’t meant to reveal an unexpected truth, it’s to confirm something that they already know. But for Matsuda? Near's request to meet at the warehouse is, at worst, a tactic to once again frame Light. Because Light obviously can't be Kira, right? Light will show Near that he's wrong, and the investigation will continue as normal until the real Kira is caught.

But then Near presents that irrefutable evidence, and everything that Matsuda knew for over five years comes crumbling down. Light starts monologuing about how the world had to be fixed and how no one could ever make it as far as he did. Kira and Light are one and the same. Matsuda always thought that Kira was a well-intentioned person who was helping change the world. Ide and Aizawa and Mogi believed that Kira was evil, they were much stronger in their resolve than Matsuda ever could be. But Light had confessed to him once that he too questioned if what they were doing was right. If Kira was doing right.

Light has always been Kira.

And then comes the absolutely tasty part where Matsuda shoots Light. I love how chapter 106 is called "Intent to Kill", because it reminds me of how Matsuda and Light are foils to each other. Better yet, they can be compared against a man they both held such deep respect for, Soichiro Yagami.

See, Soichiro threatens to kill people a good couple times, and even holds a gun to his son's face, but he never has any intent to kill. In fact, he's never killed anyone, as (I think) Mello points out. It's almost kind of silly. Like, Soichiro draws the line at firing bullets or writing full names in the Death Note, and that's it? Everything else is fair game? Weird line to draw, but go off I guess.

Light, meanwhile, justifies killing thousands. But only with the Death Note. With the Death Note, his intent to kill becomes a righteous one, another step on the path to becoming God of a New World. The criminals deserved to die. Those who get in Kira's way deserve to die. Because Light isn't a serial killer. He's doing the right thing! Crime is going down, war has stopped, and Light is the only one who could have possibly gone this far and done this much good.

And then we're back to Matsuda. I believe the mafia raid is the first time we see Matsuda using a gun, and we see that he's damn good at it. So good, in fact, that he's able to fire only non-lethal shots to get the Death Note back. (Also, fun tidbit: I'm pretty sure he's the only one who doesn't go into the raid with a rifle, he's just got like, a standard-issue cop pistol with a light on it.) The same thing happens in the warehouse, at least initially. He fires at Light's hand to get him to stop writing. Then he and Light yell at each other for a little bit about (who else?) Soichiro. Light demands that Matsuda shoot the others, because he's the only one who understands Kira. When Matsuda hesitates, Light resumes writing Near's name. Then Matsuda fires again and again and again. Anything to make Light stop. Anything to make it all stop. But it becomes obvious that he's not just shooting Light as a deterrent. What does Matsuda say as he's doing it?

"He needs to die!"

The others literally have to drag Matsuda away before he can execute Light on the spot.

Matsuda is a character full of contradictions. He dedicates over half a decade to fighting Kira, but he doubts the whole time. He tries to follow in Soichiro's footsteps but in the end makes the same justification that Light did when he first started writing in the Death Note. This man is a criminal. He deserves to die. The Yellow Box Warehouse not only exposed Light's true colors, but Matsuda's as well.

[finniestoncrane]

hiya finnie! congrats on 2k! the good ol' autism has locked onto rdr for me so if there's still slots i'd like to purchase front row romcom tickets for me and arthur morgan with some fruit juice and a rainbow cookie. (gn/male reader preferably i ain't a woman lol) have a nice day!!!!

thank you friend!! i'm always in the mood to write for arthur, and i think this is the first ever request i've gotten for him outside of a commission a while ago, so i am EXCITED!! 💚🩷 cw: fluff, first kiss, when you're a handsome cowboy and you realise your limited interest in women isn't completely down to past traumas and might have something to do with your desire for cock 🔞minors dni🔞 send a request • masterlist • kofi link • tag: finnie2k (to follow or to block)

Arthur was usually the type to slap his male friends on the back, one solid, brief show of pride or happiness. But you were one for embracing. A long, meaningful gesture that lasted long enough that the meaning behind it could be understood and felt.

It had never occurred to you that his long tradition of avoiding any physical contact beyond a swift pat might have made Arthur a little touch-starved, wanting for more. And despite the fact that his entire body tensed up in your embrace, mostly out of surprise, partly out of his uncertainty about what to do next.

"When do we stop... touching each other?"

You moved back, laughing at him as you sat down by the quickly assembled campfire. He'd been out in the wild too long. He was rough, grizzly, a man's man.

"It's the same as with a woman. You never held a girl in your arms?"

Arthur sat down beside you, sipping at his flask as he considered what you were asking.

"Course, but that's different, ain't it? Besides, I'm not all that familiar with the fairer sex. One or two have tolerated me, but I don't understand them. I can't connect to that. I just... I do what I think is done, and what I think is right."

"But..."

"Not always what I want."

Looking at the side of his face, you watched Arthur grimace into the fire. It might be pushing him too far, but you knew you'd feel worse if you didn't ask.

"And what do you want?"

In the long silence, you decided to turn your gaze from him, knowing that your stare might be putting undue pressure onto Arthur's conscience. But once your cheek was presented to him, he leaned over to you, a clumsy kiss placed against your skin.

And then he had turned again to the fire, cheeks red, but not visible in the light of the flames. You sighed, placing a hand on top of his.

"You might need some practice there, but it's a lot easier to do when you're doing what you want."

[thirdtidemouse]

as i gaze upon your blog i wonder, “what the hell is taskmaster?” i’d journey the lands of safari but its much better to hear the words of insight from the enjoyer. quite interested in the au tho, tempted to watch this thingamabob because of it. i like hearing your ramblings about your fave doodabs and whatchamajigits. i am determined to return to you with the holy gift of a singular hilda but finals are kicking my ass and i’m learning a new art program. while i wait i’d love to be graced by your words :3

HI ANON!! first of all good luck with finals and your new art program i hope everything turns out BEAUTIFULLY for you don't forget to have fun!!

i'm so glad you asked! taskmaster is a ridiculously entertaining gameshow that originated here in the uk with other versions in other countries. it's super fun to make aus/character studies around the tasks because they're so telling of personality!

the format of the show is - 5 comedians per season are set tasks by host greg davies (6'8" ex-schoolteacher, and it shows) and creator/cohost alex horne (the brains behind it, but onscreen is very weaselly/neeky and generally picked-on).

each episode begins with a prize task, in which contestants must bring in prizes to be won by the winner each day - the most high-octane item, the thing that makes the best noise, the most difficult thing to take home. prizes range from body parts to furnished bathroom sets. these, along with every other task, are scored in the studio from 1-5 points. the rest of the tasks are filmed beforehand mostly in one house, individually and sometimes in teams, and are incredibly arbitrary, silly, confusing or difficult:

eat as much watermelon in 60 seconds. eat an egg the fastest (it starts raw). interview, then write and perform a song about this stranger. conceal an entire pineapple on your person. take three huge exercise balls to the top of this large hill. make the biggest mess, then clean it up. get this object as far away from here as possible. go the longest time without blinking.

sarah kendall purposefully, blindfoldedly, throws her own house and car keys into the trees in front of the building. james acaster gets taken aside onstage to be told off by greg like a schoolboy. respected academic richard osman throws a shopping trolley into a river in a fit of rage (it is retrieved). nish kumar and mark watson write a genuinely beautiful song together. bob mortimer makes a floor-size chart documenting the amount of piss produced across britain.

the episodes end with a live task in the studio in front of the audience. the show allows the contestants to genuinely go off the rails with comedic creativity and problem solving, and it's SO fun to impose characters onto this template. person gets presented with task -> completes task as they see fit -> is judged on their actions -> reacts to the judgement. like if you want to develop an oc. look no further!! put them on taskmaster in your brain.

every contestant, whether it be famous comedians, up-and-coming stand-ups, or actors & presenters, really shine in taskmaster. people who i don't really find funny become entertaining and i root for them simply because of the genius format of the show.

it gets gross, argumentative, tense, earnest, and never ever loses the clownish spirit and light-heartedness of the meaningless and hilarious program it sets out to be. greg davies is ruthlessly harsh with points, alex horne is endlessly nitpicky and often bullied, and they frequently bring up fanfiction written about the two of them for some fucking reason. they embody such perfectly fine-tuned characters, only to break them constantly to laugh at the show.

if anyone (no one) wants to know a few of my fav contestants rn they are:

sam campbell, lucy beaumont, sarah kendall, bob mortimer, nish kumar, james acaster, and the ENTIRE freakish family team dynamic of frankie boyle, ivo graham, jenny eclaire, kiell smith-bynoe, and mae martin

thank you anon :-) i'm sorry this was so long i hope you didnt mind reading it all and it told u what u wanted to know!!

[the-tmnt-ficfinder]

What is your favorite fic that you have read so far?

Also do you have any suggestions for writing angst / anything in general?

Have you written a fic before?

Sorry for multiple questions.

Ooh these are all good questions!! This one might be a bit of a long answer lol.

Oh goodness, I've read a lot of fics... This one is a hard one...

Well, I answered an ask a few months ago, when someone asked me my favorite fanfics, if you'd like to look at it ^^ and to actually answer your question, um... Well, my favorite fanfic changes monthly, as I am reading so many fics currently!! So, for now, I'll give you my top three!

The Day The World Broke by @saladmix Its Not Abuse if They're Family by @sketchiefoxie So, I guess…we all have issues by Author Unknown

Becasue I have so many fics to read, I'm sure those will change soon enough. Ask me again in a month, and my answer will be different! ^^

Ok, to answer your second question, when writing, practice makes perfect. Pay really close attention to the past and present tense, and keep them from getting mixed up. You can't be using "is", and then "was", if you know what I mean. Often while I write, I'll listen to it, like in audio book format. Our minds are really good at telling us what good grammar is supposed to sound like, and surprisingly bad at reading it. If you listen to what you write, you'll be able to pick out typos mistakes, and even identity your writing style!!

Now, as for suggestions for writing angst, I'd say pay really close attention to the angst you see in other fanfics. How is pain described? How is emotional damage described? You'd be surprised to find a lot of those descriptions, (such as pain so intense it feels cold, or emotions so heavy, you fall to the floor) are actually correct. I find a lot of fanfic writers, when it comes to pain, and emotional pain, write from a place they've been before. Meaning personal experience.

Now, it sorta sucks, but nothing really cuts it like personal experience. So, if you've ever gone through anything traumatic, physical, or emotional, use that and write with that energy. It'll translate into true passionate writing!!

Also, yes, I have written fanfics before!! Multiple in fact!! I used to be a part of the Undertale UTMV fandom, so I've got multiple oneshots written from then. I'm also currently in the process of writing multiple tmnt fanfics ^^ I absolutely adore writing!!

Don't be sorry for sending in multiple questions, thank you for asking them!! <3

[michaelandersen0]

The Lion, the Boar, and the Vultures

I wrote this piece for the 2023 edition of @theslenderversezine! It was an honour to work with so many amazing, talented, and kind people on this year's iteration, and I was so honoured to get to write a short story about a series that's very important to me, The Record of Stan Frederick. I hope you enjoy it! The story is below the cut.

He knew what he had to do. He had been planning it for weeks, after all. 

What he was planning to do… would be going too far. Way too far. He couldn’t just say that. It would never go over well, Connor would simply take it personally, not seeing the fact that if they went out and killed people… it would be going too far. He sneered as he pulled the plug from the kitchen sink, letting water drain down in a whirlpool as he stepped back, arms crossed. How could he even be sure it would help? They had been haunted and hunted for years, they had all thrown around ideas, and nothing ever stopped it. It was always there, and as far as Evan was concerned, it always would be. There would be only one way to end their suffering and only one way to stop Connor from carrying out his plans.

He just hoped Connor wouldn’t pick up on a smell. 

It wouldn’t be much longer now. Evan began to set things in motion, pulling two mugs out of the cupboard and putting the kettle to work. He navigated under the sink, looking for his tool of choice. Some no-name drain cleaner. It didn’t matter, it would do the job he needed it to, after all. He didn’t know when Connor would return, so he needed to be quick. If he were caught in the setup… it would end poorly.

He measured some of the powder into the bottom of each mug, quickly dumping some instant coffee powder alongside it. Now he just needed to wait for the water to boil, and wait he did, a million things on his mind as he picked at the hem of his shirt. His time knowing Connor… was a mixed bag. Being able to share this with someone, to have someone Evan could genuinely call a friend in all of this… it had been amazing. He wasn’t alone anymore, and for a long time, it had been enough. Of course, he wanted it gone, it made sense Connor would too, but… this whole idea had shifted his perspective on the other boy. He wasn’t willing to kill someone else for the vague chance that it would stave it off, and the fact Connor was…

The kettle clicked as the water came to a boil, snapping him out of his thoughts and back to the present. He quickly poured the water, stirring the mix of cleaner and coffee together. There was a bit of an abnormal foam at the top, but he could explain that away by not rinsing the mugs thoroughly enough if the question even came up. Connor was already in the other room, watching Back to the Future III on the old television they had set up in there. Evan took the time to stir the coffee up again, hoping that it would hide some of the residue that had floated to the top of the coffee. He was nervous as he brought it over, tense. If this went wrong, he wouldn’t have another chance.

“Ah, thank you,” Connor said, glancing at him briefly as Evan set the mug down on his end of the table. He returned his attention to the movie quickly, not paying much attention to the drink he had just been offered.

“Yeah, no problem.” Evan stated, a tension in his voice that he hoped Connor would read as anything but ‘I am trying to kill us, please don’t notice.’ He sat down himself, eyes on Connor as the other began to drink.

“You ready for tomorrow?” Connor asked, stopping right before he began to drink from the mug. Evan’s heart dropped. Did he know, somehow? Did he smell something? See the residue? Did he pick up on the nerves and figure something was wrong? 

“Yeah.” Evan responded, that tension still there. Connor simply smiled at him, and for a brief moment, he thought the jig was up. But it wasn’t. “Think about it like this,” Connor stated, that smile still on his face, “first good night’s sleep in years.”

“Cheers to that,” Evan responded with a shaky smile of his own, gesturing to Connor with his mug, one that was promptly returned. Connor didn’t know, and Evan couldn’t be more relieved, even as he knew he was facing death himself. Even in that, there was some sense of relief. He wouldn’t be dealing with the monster anymore, and he could be satisfied with the knowledge Connor wasn’t carrying out his plans with no one around to stop him. He turned to watch the movie, seeing Connor take a drink out of the corner of his eye, and following suit himself. 

It was a messy affair, that was obvious enough. Blood, vomit, one reaching for the other, eyes glassy and face limp against the floor where he had fallen, the other still seated in a chair, limp himself. Teacher looked at the scene as unreadable as ever, arms crossed behind their back as they navigated through it. He turned toward the camera, offering it a wave as he stepped towards it, stopping the recording. The camera had seen enough. It always saw just enough. Teacher knew someone, somewhere would be seeing this someday, and they didn’t need to see the extent of how it ended. Teacher stepped around the bodies once more, peering around the room again, questioning if there was anything else to be done. They supposed there wasn’t. Evan had done his part, and the story was over. This chapter had ended. It was time to move on from here, and allow this place to settle.

With that Teacher left as silently as he had arrived, the scene no longer calling for his presence. Things were sure to play out differently now. Someone who had touched so many others in so many ways was gone before he could begin. A plot that would lead to many lives lost had been stopped before it could begin. Then, there was the matter of the girl. Susan. Things would be different for her, that was true already. Her path had been forever altered, and Teacher was sure it was for the better.

The only other certain thing was that this chapter had ended, once and for all.

[silvfyre-writings]

Fukuzawa Struggles to be a Parent (BSD Fanfic)

This was supposed to be another 3 in 1 story, but it uh... kind of got away and just linked itself together? Oh well, haha.

I'm both happy with the way this turned out, but also not. After writing TMAS (which is in present tense) I've struggled to get back into writing past tense, and I think it shows, but I'm also hoping it hasn't showed. But we'll see I guess.

Either way, I hope you all enjoy the story! If you did, feel free to leave a like or a reblog! They truly make my day! :D

Fukuzawa considered himself skilled in many things. He was skilled with the sword, even though it’d been months since he’d last held it in his hands—he still had it of course, kept hidden, but safe, just in case he needed to use it again in the future; which, he hoped not to. He also considered himself skilled in martial arts, and had used the techniques he’d taken the time to learn and master several times over recent months, no thanks to a certain child of course that seemed determined to wind up in trouble more often than not. But for all that he was skilled in, there was one thing that wouldn’t consider himself overly skilled at.

And that was parenting.

Fukuzawa had never planned on having children if his own, had never sought out a relationship to even consider that option in the first place, and he’d certainly never planned on children—well, one child in particular—becoming a part of his life. His previous job as an assassin had made it far too dangerous to care for another person, and his current bodyguard job was no different, yet here he was, with a teenage boy in his care.

A teenage boy that was not like any teenager Fukuzawa had ever encountered in his life; he was yet to know if that was a good or a bad thing. It wasn’t like he’d wanted the boy in the first place—in fact, he’d tried everything to find the boy somewhere else to stay that was better suited to him. But no, Edogawa Ranpo had latched onto Fukuzawa, both physically and emotionally, and there was no getting rid of him.

At first, it’d been hard on the both of them; Fukuzawa didn’t have the space for a growing boy, and Ranpo was more than willing to voice any complaints he had about his new living situation. You’d think, after spending a year on the streets, the kid would be at least a little grateful about having a roof over his head, but oh no, the one bedroom apartment was far too tiny for him. Fukuzawa had shot down Ranpo’s complaints immediately though, stating that he was more than welcome to sleep outside again if he didn’t want to stay with Fukuzawa.

Ranpo had fallen quiet, and taken residence up on the couch for one night, and one night only, before he took over Fukuzawa’s room. Fukuzawa had gone to kick the boy out onto the couch after the third night of losing his futon, only to have the argument die before it could even form when he saw how peaceful Ranpo looked while he slept—how he looked like the child he was supposed to be.

It wasn’t just the new living situation that was a problem either—Fukuzawa had started looking for a bigger apartment to move in to when it became clear that he was stuck with Ranpo—it was everything else that also came attached to the boy. Really, Ranpo should’ve had a neon sign attached to him labelled ‘high maintenance’ because he was, at least by Fukuzawa’s standards. He was almost certain that if he had any actual parenting experience, it wouldn’t be so hard, but he didn’t, so it was. It also didn’t help that Ranpo didn’t tell him whenever there was a problem.

If Fukuzawa cooked something that Ranpo couldn’t stomach, the kid would just stare at the bowl until an opportunity arose to dump the meal.

If Fukuzawa so much as raised his voice or said the wrong thing, Ranpo flinched away from him, and would fall silent whilst Fukuzawa tried to figure out what he’d done wrong.

And if Fukuzawa wanted some time to himself—because he’d spent years alone and now he suddenly wasn’t—then Ranpo would cling to him and not let go until Fukuzawa begrudgingly let him tag along.

But over time, things got better. Fukuzawa and Ranpo moved into a bigger place where they could have their own rooms. He learnt what foods were safe to cook and what ones would be a waste of time. They both learnt how to properly communicate with each other to avoid misunderstandings, and Ranpo’s fears of being abandoned were slowly placated until Fukuzawa could finally leave the house for some peace without worry.

One thing that did not get better though, was Ranpo’s social skills.

Ranpo was intelligent; he knew it, Fukuzawa knew it, which meant that everyone they ever met also had to know about it. Which often led to… complex situations. Passerby’s could be placated with a few words, and a speedy escape, and store clerks were avoided until a suitable amount of time passed where the incident had been forgotten about in the first place. But the police force… that wasn’t as easy to deal with.

Being a genius capable of solving crimes in less than a minute, Ranpo had quickly made a name for himself in doing so, and was often requested by the police to come to various crime scenes and give his opinions with Fukuzawa trailing behind on bodyguard duty, because despite his best efforts, Ranpo was still a scrawny boy who could easily be knocked over by a gust of wind.

However…

Ranpo’s intellect, along with his inability to be socially aware in the slightest, often led to clashes with the officers in charge of the crime scenes. Words of ‘how stupid can you be?’ and ‘even a toddler could solve this’ thrown about without any regard to the feelings of others, Fukuzawa was often left doing damage control, doing his best to calm down officers that grew irate and upset at Ranpo’s words. Most of the time he succeeded, and the rest of the time they spent at the crime scene went by without further problems, but sometimes, he would fail, and they’d be thrown off the crime scene entirely.

And no matter how many times he warned Ranpo to watch what he said to others and to consider how others might feel in regards to his harsh words, Ranpo never learnt, and continued to berate and ridicule those around him when they couldn’t find the answer as fast as him.

Yeah, Fukuzawa didn’t have a handle on this parenting gimmick in the slightest.

“Fukuzawa-san, I’m bored.” Ranpo sighed, nearly throwing himself off the couch as he leaned out the back of it to watch as Fukuzawa read the newspaper at the dining table.

“And?” Fukuzawa raised an eyebrow, placing his finger at where he’d been reading before looking up to make eye contact with Ranpo. “You have the means of occupying yourself.”

“Yeah, but, they’re boring. Don’t we have any cases?”

“No, we don’t. We haven’t since the last time you asked me that either.” It was Fukuzawa’s turn to sigh, and he closed the paper in his hands, knowing that he wasn’t going to get a chance to continue reading, not when Ranpo was in such a mood. “You’d probably get more requests if you were a bit nicer to the officers.”

Ranpo’s face scrunched up in disapproval. “Bah, why? If they want me to be nice, than they shouldn’t be so stupid, should they?”

Fukuzawa sighed again. This was an argument that he’d long accepted he wasn’t going to win, but it didn’t stop him from trying at least. Maybe one day, Ranpo would understand what it was that he was getting at, but until that day came, it was his job to try and guide Ranpo to the solution.

“What? I’m not wrong. Even you thought that last officer we worked with was being stupid.”

“I may have thought he was… foolish, but I elected not to say it to his face. Unlike you.” Fukuzawa levelled Ranpo with a look, and took satisfaction when Ranpo actually looked like he regretted his words just a few days ago. “We were barred from the crime scene before we’d even set foot onto it.”

Ranpo gained a sullen look, and his face disappeared from view as he returned to sitting properly on the couch. There was a silence, and the sound of fidgeting before a quiet voice drifted towards him. “It’s not my fault that adults are so complex. I’m trying my best.”

Fukuzawa bit back the sigh that was seconds away from voicing itself. “I know. Just… try not to insult them so much when they don’t understand you, alright?”

Ranpo nodded, but didn’t say anything more.

He could only hope that the boy took his words to heart for a change.

Ranpo did, but he also didn’t, take Fukuzawa’s words to heart; he still insulted the officers of the cases they worked on, but he kept the insults more… tame; well, tame by Ranpo standards at least. Fukuzawa wanted to tell Ranpo to take it that one step further and cease the insults entirely, but he knew when to pick his battles, and right now, he’d take mild insults over what it had been previously. He’d try again in a couple of weeks; for now, he’d just settle for playing damage control.

“Oh great, who invited the brat?” Fukuzawa’s eye twitched at the displeasure in the young police officer’s voice as he and Ranpo approach the crime scene they’d been asked to attend. The officer in question was doing nothing to hide how much he disliked Ranpo’s presence. He wasn’t one that Fukuzawa recognized, and looked a bit on the young side. A new officer perhaps?

Ranpo didn’t notice, striding straight past the officer and Fukuzawa without a care in the world. “The greatest detective in the world is here! Try and keep up with me if you can, haha!”

Fukuzawa sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose at Ranpo’s antics. He could see some of the officers—the older ones—rolling their eyes, but only a few seemed to actually take offense to Ranpo’s words. Good, maybe they’re finally understanding this is just how he is. He was thankful, when the officer in charge—one of the ones that’d rolled their eyes—approached Ranpo and began running through the case with the boy. This was where Fukuzawa would take a step back, and observe as the crime unfolded itself beneath Ranpo’s eyes; Fukuzawa considered himself observant, and quite often, managed to at least keep up with Ranpo at times, but he was nowhere near the level of skill that the kid possessed.

While Ranpo continued to spout off his deductions and reasons behind them, Fukuzawa made sure to stay close—just because the crime scene was sealed off from public eyes, didn’t always mean that it was safe. There’d been too many times, where there’d been a close call with Ranpo and an unhappy criminal, so Fukuzawa had taken to sticking close to Ranpo, but not so close that he was overbearing.

“What do you mean, ‘it was suicide’? He was murdered, we have evidence!” The officer from before interrupted, cutting Ranpo off from what he was saying. The officer’s glare was filled with animosity as he stormed up to Ranpo, coming to a stop just in front of the kid.

Both Fukuzawa and Ranpo frowned at the interruption, but only Ranpo chose to say anything about it. “What? Are you that stupid you can’t see a set up when it’s right in front of you? It obviously wasn’t a murder, even if all the evidence you found pointed towards it being one.”

“If it’s a set-up then who was the victim setting up and why?” The officer asked, fists clenched angrily as Ranpo insulted him.

Oh no. Fukuzawa could already see how this was going to go, and he stepped just that little bit closer. Just in case.

“His best friend.” Ranpo said, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world, and he frowned at the officer. “They had an argument over some stupid thing that the friend owned, so the victim took his parents credit cards, bought all the ‘evidence’ and then set it all up to look like a murder before killing himself in a way that made it look like he’d been murdered. Although, he probably didn’t intend to actually die, but make it look like he’d died, and then ended up actually dying.”

“That’s bullshit. There’s no way that that’s possible! He killed himself, but he didn’t want to? What kind of novel do you think we live in?”

Ranpo continued to stare at the officer with an annoyed look, and then sighed and placed his hands on his hips. “It did happen, I know it did. My skill doesn’t lie after all, but you are new, so I guess I can’t expect you to know just how great my skill is yet—”

“I don’t give a shit about some skill you have. There’s no way a skill exists like that! If there was, then there’d be no point in even having us here!”

Ranpo blinked. “Why do you think they call me every time you idiots can’t do—”

Fukuzawa reacts, but not fast enough to stop the officer from letting out a shout and throwing his fist, watching helplessly as it connects with the side of Ranpo’s face, cutting the boy off from whatever he’d been saying. Ranpo yelped, throwing out his arms to catch himself as the force of the punch sent him to the ground. He hits the ground, just as Fukuzawa grabs the arm of the officer to stop him from lashing out again.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing, Oshikawa?” The head officer—Yamamoto was his name—jogged over with an unimpressed look on his face.

“Sir! He was disrespecting the police force!” Oshikawa shouted, face red in anger as he pulled free of Fukuzawa’s grip to face his supervisor.

“He always does that!” Yamamoto retorted. “We accept that whenever he place a call for his assistance. I even warned you before they arrived what he was like, so what do you think you’re doing hitting him?”

“But he—”

“He’s a child, Oshikawa. If you have a problem with Edogawa—” Yamamoto moved his arm to directly point at Fukuzawa, who froze from where he’d been moving to check on Ranpo. “—then you tell Fukuzawa-san and he’ll deal with it. Not you, and not me either—”

Fukuzawa tuned out the argument now that he knew it was being dealt with and hurried over to kneel beside Ranpo, wanting to make sure that his ward wasn’t hurt too bad. “Are you alright, Ranpo?”

Ranpo turned his head to look up at Fukuzawa. There are tears forming in his eyes, although Ranpo seemed to be forcing them back through sheer will, and the red mark rapidly forming on his face promised to become an impressive bruise later. His hands were scuffed and bleeding slightly as well from where Ranpo had had to catch himself against the dirt, and the boy is holding them close to his chest. Ranpo sniffed unhappily. “He hit me!”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you stop him?” It’s an accusation, and a well deserved one at that. Fukuzawa should have been able to stop Oshikawa’s fist before it even connected in the first place.

“I didn’t expect the biggest threat to be an officer.” Fukuzawa said, trying to placate Ranpo before upset himself even further. “I apologize though, I should’ve paid closer attention. I saw him getting angry and didn’t react accordingly.”

Ranpo nodded after taking a couple of minutes to ponder over Fukuzawa’s words. He doesn’t say anything more, so Fukuzawa took it as a sign to help Ranpo up, and guided the boy to his feet, making sure to only grab Ranpo by the elbows, because until they can get home, he had no idea how hurt Ranpo actually was.

“Fukuzawa-san, I apologize for Oshikawa’s actions. He will be dealt with accordingly.” Yamamoto sighed as he approached, coming to a stop when Ranpo ducked behind Fukuzawa in order to hide himself. “We appreciate the both of you coming out, so if you wish to leave, you may do so.”

“Thank you, we’ll do that.” Fukuzawa didn’t wait another moment before he guided Ranpo away from the crime scene and the two of them begin to head back home.

Ranpo is silent as they walk, and his head his pointed at the ground, Fukuzawa’s hand on his back the only reason that the kid doesn’t trip over his own feet or walk into something—or someone. Fukuzawa too, remained silent; if Ranpo didn’t want to talk until they were back home, then he was willing to wait. It shouldn’t take them too long to get home anyway; they’d walked to the crime scene this time instead of taking public transport, a decision that Fukuzawa had begun to regret.

I knew something like this would happen… Fukuzawa thought as they walked, letting his mind play back the incident so he could devise a plan on how to handle it. There’d been many a time where Ranpo had irritated officers to the point of aggression, but they’d always restrained themselves, or taken it out on some poor inanimate object—never had one of them physically struck Ranpo. He glanced down at Ranpo, able to see the impact the officer’s fist had left; a red mark that reminded Fukuzawa of the last time Ranpo had been struck in such a manner.

When he was the one to strike the boy.

And while he knew that the situations were completely different, that when he’d slapped Ranpo, it had been something he’d done out of fear of the boy not understanding just how close he’d been to losing his life. It’d still been wrong, and he’d apologized for it several times over since they’d started living under the same roof, and Ranpo had never seemed overly bothered by it, but it would be something that Fukuzawa always regretted.

But this? This was nothing but anger and cruelty, and Ranpo had done nothing to deserve being hit by someone that was supposed to protect kids like him. Yes, he probably could’ve tried harder to get Ranpo to understand why he needed to be kinder to people, and he should’ve talked to him about it before they’d entered the crime scene just to remind him. Doing that may have prevented this from even happening in the first place.

That was why Fukuzawa didn’t consider himself to be the ideal parent to this child.

“Let me see?” Fukuzawa asked gently as he came to sit on the table he’d dragged closer to the couch just so he could do so. The first-aid kit he’d brought with him is placed beside him as he reached out to grab one of Ranpo’s hands, now clean and free from dirt and grit, but it’s not the hands he’d been asking about.

Ranpo let out a whine, but pulled away the ice pack he’d been holding against his face for several minutes now, revealing the mark underneath. The injury had begun to swell on the way home, and Ranpo had complained a little about how it was hurting, but he hadn’t said anything more when Fukuzawa had tried to ask. Fukuzawa leaned closer, eyes narrowing as he studied the injury. Ranpo’s eye was puffy and nearly swollen shut, and there was some dried blood on Ranpo’s nose where the skin had been split, and the surrounding skin was already starting to bruise. Ranpo replaced the ice pack when Fukuzawa pulled away and went back to disinfecting the scrapes on Ranpo’s palms. “Ow…”

“Sorry.” Fukuzawa apologized, lightening his touch just that little bit. “Your face doesn’t look too bad, considering how hard he hit you.”

“It hurts.” Ranpo grumbled.

“Getting punched tends to.”

“You don’t sound very sympathetic right now.” Ranpo pulled his hands away once Fukuzawa finished bandaging them and watched as he got up to throw away the supplies he’d used with a cautious look

Fukuzawa sighed as he moved about the kitchen, grabbing some painkillers before he returned, sitting on the couch beside Ranpo this time as he handed the pills over. “I’ve warned you before to watch what you say when interacting with the police, so you are at fault for what happened, but—”

“So what? I deserved to get hit?” Ranpo interrupted, glaring up at Fukuzawa angrily. “That’s stupid!”

“If you’d let me finish.” Fukuzawa narrowed his eyes at the interruption. Ranpo ducked his head and refused to meet his eyes as he continued to speak. “It was your fault for antagonizing the man, but it was his fault for resorting to violence. It is never okay to hit someone, no matter how much they push your buttons.”

Ranpo was silent for a moment before he looked up at Fukuzawa with uncertainty. “You hit me, once.”

“An action I will forever regret.” Fukuzawa admitted, shifting to drape an arm across Ranpo’s shoulders. “And one that I have already apologized for several times over.”

“Why did you hit me then?”

Fukuzawa frowned, trying to understand just what it was that Ranpo was trying to get at. They’d already talked about that night extensively, and the emotions that had—ah. Realization dawned on him then, that Ranpo was trying to find the non-existent link between the two incidents, since both had resulted in Ranpo being hit. “You don’t understand why you were hit, do you?”

Ranpo jerked in his seat, cheeks turning red, and Fukuzawa knew he’d figured it out. A genius, he may not be, but he was learning. Ranpo nodded. “I don’t get what I did. I solved the crime for them just like I always do.”

“The issue isn’t in you solving the crimes, it’s in your attitude when you speak with them.” Ranpo looked at him in confusion and Fukuzawa faltered. This wasn’t a conversation he was confident in having. “Some people... don’t react well when you call them stupid or an idiot. Or when you tell them that they aren’t smart enough to figure things out when you do it in a few seconds.”

“I have an ability—” Ranpo began.

“But the officers you work with do not.” Fukuzawa pushed on as if Ranpo hadn’t even spoken, giving the boy a look to make sure that he listened. “They are all people without gifts who are plenty smart, but simply need more time to figure things out. They would have figured out that death in the end if we hadn’t been invited. It may have taken them longer, but they would’ve.”

Ranpo remained silent.

“What I’m getting at, Ranpo, is you need to be a little more aware when it comes to dealing with people. The officers are starting to learn about you and your antics, but not everyone you work with or meet is going to be like them. You’ll come across people—like Oshikawa—who will lash out suddenly, and you’ll find yourself getting hurt.”

“But… they are being stupid…?” Ranpo frowned, tugging at the bandages around his hands. “Why are they getting mad… when I tell them the truth?”

“Sometimes the truth hurts more than it helps, and that’s something you have to learn.” Fukuzawa said, and watched as Ranpo sighed and hunched in on himself like he was prone to doing when he was unhappy. “I’ll help you, okay? And if you never understand it, that’s fine, I’ll make sure to stop any further punches before they happen.”

That draws a laugh from Ranpo, and a smile, and Fukuzawa figured he’d finally done something right.

Fukuzawa should’ve known that that one run in with the police wouldn’t have been the end of it, that it would be the catalyst that would confirm just what his role in Ranpo’s life was supposed to be, and that it would be the reason into allowing him to finally understand the boy he’d taken into his care only a few months ago.

“I don’t want to.” Ranpo huffed and turned away from Fukuzawa, with a pout that did nothing but make him look like a temperamental child. Which, technically, Ranpo still was, but that was beside the point. The point was, that Fukuzawa had been arguing with the boy for several minutes now, trying to get him to accept the latest job that the police had offered, only to be refused and rejected no matter what bribery he tried.

“Ranpo…” Fukuzawa sighed, raising a hand to drag it down his face. He was about to tell Ranpo to accept the job, when he paused and decided to take a different approach. “Why don’t you want to take this job?”

Ranpo hesitated before he rolled over and looked somewhere that was in the direction of his face, but not directly making eye contact. “That Oshikawa officer is the one asking.”

“I see…” Now it made sense why Ranpo was so hesitant, what with the memory of being punched still fresh in the boy’s mind, even though it’d happened almost a month ago at this point. Fukuzawa didn’t blame Ranpo for feeling the way he was; but the officer had apologized—even though he’d sounded reluctant to be doing so—and Ranpo had, surprisingly, apologized in return. The incident was behind them, or at least, Fukuzawa had thought that was the case. “As long as you mind yourself, and stick close to me, you’ll be fine.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side.” Ranpo muttered.

“I am on your side, Ranpo, but you cannot let one bad experience stop you from working.” Fukuzawa said with a raised eyebrow. He watched as Ranpo turned away from him once again, and bit back the sigh that threatened to follow. It really was hard, trying to figure out how to best handle the moods that Ranpo often found himself in. What would soothe him one time, would make him angry the next; it was like playing a game with an unbeatable boss; there was no right way of ‘winning’.

But, Fukuzawa had made a promise to Ranpo the night after he’d taken him in, that he’d take care of him and keep him safe from those that didn’t understand him. And if Ranpo didn’t feel safe going to the crime scene, then there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He sighed. “If you really don’t want to take the job, I won’t pressure you into it. We can stay in today if you’d like.”

Ranpo turned back to face him, with a grateful look on his face that told Fukuzawa all he needed to know, so he moved away for a moment and explained to the officer on that had been waiting patiently on the other end of the line, that Ranpo was unavailable to take the case, and in an even quieter voice, explained why he wasn’t taking the case. Oshikawa seemed to understand and thanked him, even if he sounded a bit disheartened to hear Ranpo’s decision.

Hopefully, Fukuzawa’s explanation would be enough for the man to understand that if he wanted Ranpo’s help in the future, it would be best to get someone else to make the request.

It was another week before Ranpo took on another case he was requested on, but the entire time he was at the crime scene, his eyes would flick between the officers that were also at the scene, apprehensive, as if he feared one of them would lash out at him. The boy had also taken to pretty much standing on top of Fukuzawa, sticking so close to him that Fukuzawa was surprised he could even breathe. But he didn’t tell Ranpo to give him space, or to stop being frightened, because that wouldn’t do anything but make it worse; he just stood tall and firm, and allowed the teen to cling to him.

Ranpo seemed to have finally taken his words to heart as well, for the insults against the police and their supposed incompetence died down greatly, the insults only slipping out when they were actually due—when Fukuzawa too, agreed that the police were being idiotic in their guesses. It was only when they were heading home from cases, that Ranpo would speak his mind, telling Fukuzawa about everything he’d thought but hadn’t said, and after he was done ranting, Fukuzawa would smile and tell him he was proud of keeping his thoughts to himself.

It didn’t last long though, and as time passed, and the punching incident was pushed behind them, Ranpo began to fall back into old habits, but unlike before, the police didn’t seem to care about Ranpo’s sometimes cruel insults—most of the time they ignored the words as if they hadn’t been said in the first place, but those that did react, would just loudly shout Ranpo’s name and walk away. Ranpo always looked confused when that happened, but quickly put two and two together and learnt that when it did happen, it meant he’d gone too far for that particular officer, and he’d tone it down.

It was a bit of a strange dynamic, but it seemed to be working, so Fukuzawa wasn’t going to complain.

“We have a bit of a complicated case here today.” The officer in charge explained as he allowed Ranpo and Fukuzawa to enter the most recent crime they’d been called out to solve. “We’ve been unable to determine the cause of death, so it’s left us a little out of the loop.”

Ranpo opened his mouth, yelping instead as Fukuzawa gave him a harsh nudge, a warning look on his own face. Ranpo frowned, but changed what he’d been able to say earlier. “Well, that’s why I’m here isn’t it? To… help you figure that out.”

If the officer was surprised at Ranpo’s words, he didn’t show it, and instead, led them towards the body.

It was only because of his past occupation, that Fukuzawa didn’t flinch back at the sight of the body, the state of it leaving much to be desired, with no discernible features, and like the officer had said, a clear uncertainty as to what it was that had killed them. At first glance, it looked like the gunshot wound to the head was what had killed them, but then a further look revealed deep gashes up the forearms that could’ve just as easily been the cause of death with how much blood there was. But then there were other things that could also have been the cause of death, and Fukuzawa understood why the police were having so much trouble with it.

He watched as Ranpo studied the body for a moment, glasses already perched on his face. He could almost see the gears turning in Ranpo’s head as he ran through all the information that he was taking in right now. The rest of the officers were watching intensely, because as much as they were at odds with Ranpo’s personality, none of them could refute the skill the boy had in finding the things they had missed.

One minute passed, then two, then five, and still, Ranpo had said nothing. Fukuzawa stepped closer, able to see the growing panic on Ranpo’s face as the boy’s eyes flicked up to meet his own. “What is it, Ranpo?”

“I… I don’t know.” Ranpo removed the glasses as if they were the reason he couldn’t figure it out, and then placed them back on his face. “There’s no cause of death.”

“That’s not possible, something had to have killed them!” One of the officers exclaimed. “Are you sure you’re using that ability of yours correctly?”

But it’s not an ability. Fukuzawa thought as Ranpo shouted. “Of course I am! And I’m telling you, there’s no cause of death!”

“Then what killed them?”

“I don’t know!”

“That’s enough.” The officer in charge spoke, coming to place a hand on Ranpo’s shoulder. “It’s okay if you can’t figure it out. You’re still just a kid, and I’m sure your ability has limits you don’t know about yet. We’ll take over from here. Thanks for coming out.”

“But—” Ranpo sputtered, eyes wide as he frantically looked between the body and the officer again and again. “I can solve this!”

“Ranpo.” Fukuzawa interrupted, stepping forward to guide Ranpo away. “We’ve been asked to leave. We can’t do anything more here.”

“We’ll contact you if another body shows up.” The officer said, walking away to fall into discussion with the rest of his team, even though they didn’t understand the situation any better.

Meanwhile, Fukuzawa led Ranpo away, keeping a watchful eye on the boy as they walked. He didn’t like the look in the kid’s eyes; it reminded him too much of when he’d first met Ranpo, when the kid hadn’t been able to understand that he was different from the rest of the world and thought that everyone was making one big joke of him, when he’d thought of everyone else as monsters. Fukuzawa kept his hand on Ranpo’s shoulder as a way of providing him support; this was the first time that Ranpo hadn’t been able to figure out a case before, so he wasn’t sure how Ranpo would handle it in the first place.

He wasn’t surprised at all when they got home and Ranpo pulled away to shut himself in the bathroom.

Ranpo didn’t come out for the rest of the day.

That body ended up only being the first of many bodies. There was another body that popped up a few days later, and like before, Ranpo was called out to assist. But like before, Ranpo had been unable to figure it out, and he’d returned home looking even more dejected than before. And then there was a third body, and then a fourth, with no answer still as to what was killing these people. And with every body that showed up, it was easy to see how frustrated Ranpo was becoming; he snapped at the officers for more information and grew angry when they had none to give, he stared at the body for minutes on end—the longest being a full hour—hoping to find the one thing that would help him figure out what he was missing, only to gain nothing.

The worst part, Fukuzawa found, was watching as Ranpo pulled away from him. The moment they got home from the crime scenes, Ranpo would go to his room or the bathroom and just hide away until the next day, and no amount of coaxing seemed to be enough to get him to come out and talk to him. Fukuzawa didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to handle this. Ever since he’d first met Ranpo, the kid had always been able to see straight into the truth of matters, so to see him stumped like this… it wasn’t easy.

Any attempt that Fukuzawa tried to make at talking to Ranpo about it, even to just offer another set of eyes that might help find a clue, was met with straight up refusal, Ranpo either changing the subject or just rapidly leaving the room.

“What if it’s an ability?” One of the younger officers suggested on the seventh body that appeared. Immediately, all the heads in the vicinity snapped towards the officer, including Fukuzawa and Ranpo, who’d been called out despite being of no help the last six times they’d been called for. The officer faltered at the sudden attention, but continued to explain himself. “We’ve—We’ve seen it before, where despite an obviously murdered body, there appeared to be no actual crime, and it turned out to be because an ability was at work. It could be a similar case here.”

“If it’s an ability, then wouldn’t Edogawa have seen through it with his own ability?” Another officer speaks up, and the attention is thrown onto Ranpo, who remained crouched beside the body, refusing to lift his head, although he was clearly paying attention to what was being said. Fukuzawa stepped closer to the kid, uncertainty filling him at the direction this conversation was taking. The last thing he wanted was the police to start throwing accusations that Ranpo didn’t have an ability at all—which was true, but only Fukuzawa knew that.

“Edogawa’s ability probably needs information to work properly, but if there’s no information to gleam, then that would explain why his ability hasn’t been working.”

“You would be right!” Ranpo smiled and leapt to his feet, hands on his hips. To anyone else he looked ever the confident and arrogant boy he was, but Fukuzawa could see through him; Ranpo was bluffing. “But now that I know there’s an ability involved, I know who you’re looking for!”

“You do?” The young officer asked. “But it’s not a guarantee that—”

“Have I ever been wrong before?” Ranpo interrupted. Silence and shakes of heads greeted him. “That’s what I thought! It’s an ability, one that—”

“We’ve got him! The killer!” An officer shouted. “We caught him in a warehouse a few blocks over, in the middle of trying to kill someone!”

“How was he killing the victims?” Another called out, and several officers joined in with the questions, desperate to know the truth.

“Some complex machine. Apparently he’s a former engineer or something—”

Fukuzawa stopped listening then, eyes swinging towards Ranpo, who looked very much like his world had just come crashing down, because he’d just been telling the police that the killer was killing these people with the help of an ability.

Only to find out that it wasn’t an ability at all.

“Do you still need us here?” Fukuzawa asked the head officer.

The officer looked at him with a frown. “No, but—”

“I’ll be taking Ranpo home then.” Fukuzawa doesn’t give the man a chance to speak, and walks away before he can try and convince Fukuzawa to hang around a little longer. He knew it was rude, and that his actions would raise questions, but he wasn’t focused on that. No, he was focused on getting Ranpo out of there before the kid had a complete breakdown over the fact that for the first time in his life, he’d been wrong.

Ranpo didn’t say a word as Fukuzawa grabbed his arm and dragged him to his feet, and followed behind obediently as Fukuzawa led the two of them away from the scene. They weren’t going home, not yet. There was something that Fukuzawa needed to say, but it wasn’t something he could very well say in the presence of police; Ranpo seemed to understand that something was happening because he remained silent, and didn’t say anything, even as Fukuzawa turned down a side alley and let go of him.

“You cannot lie to the police to protect your pride.” Fukuzawa didn’t yell, because yelling never helped, and Ranpo was already spooked enough. “You’re lucky that they caught the man before they had the chance to believe you, because then someone innocent could’ve ended up behind bars.”

“But I—”

“No buts, Ranpo!” Fukuzawa placed his hands on Ranpo’s shoulders and forced the boy to look at him. His touch was gentle, but still, Ranpo flinched under it. “You cannot lie. Not to the police, and especially not when murder is involved. The police trust you when they ask you for help. Lie to them and you’ll break that trust.”

“But I’m never wrong!” Ranpo cried out, and suddenly, there were tears forming in the boy’s eyes, and his lower lip was trembling. “I’ve never been wrong before. I can’t be wrong!”

Fukuzawa sighed, and brought Ranpo close to him. He really didn’t know how to handle this. Ranpo was such a complex child on the best of days, but had never outright failed at something before. Fukuzawa had a very strong feeling that the usual placations wouldn’t be enough to soothe him this time, but he’d still try. “Ranpo, you were wrong, and that’s okay. There will be times where you are wrong, where someone gets the better of you. It just so happened that this criminal was a little sma—”

“No! I don’t get it!” Ranpo interrupted, throwing his arms around Fukuzawa, and burying his face into his yukata. There weren’t any tears, not yet at least, but with the way Ranpo’s voice cracked as he spoke, they couldn’t be far away. “I am special! I am gifted! I’m supposed to see the truth to any crime!”

Fukuzawa winced at Ranpo’s words. The smart decision would be to try and tell Ranpo that he wasn’t actually an ability user, that he was just a regular boy that was insanely intelligent. But Fukuzawa wasn’t a smart man, and right now, the child he was supposed to take care of was in his arms, visibly distressed. He couldn’t add to that distress, even though it would probably help in the long run. So, he tightened his hold on Ranpo and brought him closer. “I know, Ranpo. But even gifts have limits, even yours.”

Ranpo sniffed, but kept his face hidden; not that Fukuzawa needed to see it to feel the tears that slowly stained his clothes.

Ranpo hid in the bathroom the moment they crossed the entryway into their shared apartment, and Fukuzawa watched the boy run off with a pensive look on his own face. Ranpo hadn’t cried for long before he’d wiped his eyes and began to walk, although he’d still looked upset. Fukuzawa had tried to cheer him up by offering to buy him some sweets, but Ranpo didn’t even respond to him. And he’d remained that way the entire journey. Fukuzawa had to admit, it scared him a little. He hadn’t seen Ranpo in such a state since the boy had come into his care, and he didn’t know what to do to help him. And it wasn’t like he knew anyone that could even help him—the few people he’d acquainted himself with were about as good with children as he was.

So, Fukuzawa resigned himself to doing one of the few things he thought might help; cook a simple dinner. He’d cook a meal and use that to coax Ranpo out of the bathroom and then sit the boy on the couch and try and talk to him again. And if Ranpo still didn’t want to talk to him, then that was fine too; they could try again tomorrow. Fukuzawa pottered around the kitchen, putting together one of the simple meals he usually made—one that took maybe ten minutes tops—and separated the dish into two servings.

Normally, Fukuzawa would make Ranpo eat at the dinner table with him, but just this once, he was feeling indulgent, and took the bowl with him as he went to try and coax Ranpo out. If he failed, he’d leave the bowl outside the door, instead of the microwave like he usually would. “Ranpo? I have some food for you.”

No answer, although Fukuzawa could hear soft, muffled cries from within the room. His stomach clenched, and he wanted nothing more than to throw the door open and comfort Ranpo, but the door was closed for a reason, and Fukuzawa wasn’t about to break into the safe space that Ranpo had chosen for himself. “Would you like to come out and eat with me?”

Still no answer.

“Alright…” Fukuzawa sighed, and placed the bowl just beside the door. “I’ve left your dinner outside here. Please try and eat some of it.”

He walked away, back towards the kitchen to grab his own meal when he heard the click of the bathroom door and glanced over his shoulder to see a small hand reach out and grab the bowl, the door shutting again. Good, a meal will help him feel better. But even though he knew that Ranpo was eating, he couldn’t dispel the worry that had built in his chest, and kept one eye on the bathroom door as he ate, silently hoping that Ranpo would come out.

But he didn’t, and the sounds from within the bathroom had ceased, so Fukuzawa could only assume that the boy had fallen asleep in there, and cracked open the door to find that he had been correct. Ranpo lay, curled up on the floor with a flushed face and tear stained cheeks. Silently, Fukuzawa stepped into the room and carefully lifted Ranpo into his arms before taking the boy to his own room, and tucking him into bed, making sure that Ranpo was buried underneath the absurd amount of blankets that the boy kept on his bed.

Fukuzawa took a moment to study Ranpo while he slept, observing how, even in sleep, the boy still seemed bothered by something. Today probably affected him more than he realizes. Fukuzawa sighed as he left the room, shutting the door behind him with a gentle click before making his way to his own room. He was almost certain that today was only the start of something bigger; he didn’t yet know what, but there was a feeling in his gut that was telling him to prepare himself.

So he would. He would watch and observe, and be there if he was needed.

For two days, Ranpo remained in his room, and ignored every attempt that Fukuzawa made in trying to talk to him. Fukuzawa tried not to let it bother him too much, assuming that Ranpo wanted some space to work through whatever was going through his mind. Trying to force Ranpo to talk to him would do nothing but make the boy shrink away from him further. He had to remember that they’d only been living together for a few months; not nearly enough time to have the level of trust that was probably needed in this situation. Because, despite Ranpo’s overly trusting nature, the boy wasn’t actually that trusting, even though he did a good job in making you think he trusted you.

Fukuzawa would be patient, though, knowing that when Ranpo was ready to open up, he would. But until then, Fukuzawa would do what he could, and that was make sure that Ranpo knew he was there if he did want to talk, and also make sure that the boy was eating. As far as he knew, Ranpo had holed up in his room without any kind of sustenance, so Fukuzawa always made sure to leave a few sweets on the tray that had taken residence outside the room, along with some water and a few words, before leaving to do some work of his own.

And every time he came to collect the dishes, they were empty, so that was something at least.

It was the middle of the night when Fukuzawa woke, and he didn’t know what it was that had woken him in the first place, but his instincts were screaming at him, the ones that only came to life when something was wrong. And considering that there was nothing wrong with him, and Ranpo was the only other one in the apartment…

Fukuzawa was worried.

He didn’t throw himself out of bed and dash from his room, but he wanted to, wanted nothing more than to hurry and check on Ranpo, but he forced himself to walk calmly, leaving his room to find Ranpo’s bedroom door wide open, and a light coming from the bathroom; the door cracked open just enough to let the light enter the hallway.

“Ranpo?” Fukuzawa called quietly as he came to a stop outside the door. There’s a noise that sounds like a whine, but not quite, from within.

“Leave me alone.” Ranpo said quietly, his voice muffled.

“Are you alright?” Fukuzawa asked, just as quiet.

Silence.

Fukuzawa hovered outside the room for just a moment, weighing up the pros and cons before ultimately deciding to enter the room. He pushed the door open slowly, giving Ranpo plenty of time to protest but the boy didn’t, and Fukuzawa was allowed entry.

Only, he wasn’t sure what to do now.

Ranpo was sat on the floor, back pressed against the tub with his face buried into his knees. At his feet, laid one of the kitchen knives, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out why it was there in the first place. Fukuzawa’s breath hitched, which seemed to shake Ranpo out whatever thought he’d found himself lost in, because he looked up at Fukuzawa, his eyes reminiscent of people long since passed; eyes that belonged to people who were tired of life.

Eyes that didn’t belong on a fourteen year old boy.

“I didn’t do anything.” Ranpo murmured, eyes falling onto the blade. “I wanted to, but I didn’t.”

“I believe you.” Fukuzawa entered the room and paused. “May I sit?”

Ranpo nodded and Fukuzawa moved to sit beside the boy. Despite Ranpo’s promise that he hasn’t done anything, Fukuzawa still reached over and took away the temptation. Just in case.

“You could’ve come to me.” Fukuzawa said after the silence had dragged on for a while.

“I wanted to try and figure it out on my own.” Ranpo sighed, falling to the side to rest against Fukuzawa’s side. “I’m feeling things I don’t understand, and it just got too much.”

“So you took a knife to… what exactly?”

“I’m sure you can figure it out.” Ranpo huffed, dropping his head back to his knees and winding his arms around them. Fukuzawa was ashamed to admit that he tried to see if there were any wounds on the skin he could see, but was relieved when there were none. “I’ve felt this way before though. Before I met you. It was worse then, though.”

“How worse?” Fukuzawa asked, already fearing the answer.

“I had a plan worse.” Ranpo sighed, a heavy sigh that showed how tired he was. “I haven’t been doing well lately.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

Ranpo hummed, and turned his head so he could look Fukuzawa in the eyes. “What if you don’t understand either?”

“I’ll do my best to.”

Another hum before silence descended upon the room, but Fukuzawa waited, knowing that Ranpo was simply trying to find the words that he needed to describe what he was feeling exactly. Fukuzawa already had an idea of what was bothering the boy; memories of angry police, and an unsolvable case coming to mind.

Finally, Ranpo spoke. “I don’t get people… not in the way you and the rest of the adults do. It was the same before we met, and… it got a little better after I found out I had an ability, but now… I feel like I’m right back where I started, and it bothers me. You kept getting mad about how I talked to the police, and they kept getting mad at me… and then those murders happened and you got more mad at me, and I failed, and… I just don’t know anymore.”

Fukuzawa thought over Ranpo’s words for a minute. He really didn’t have any idea on what he should say, how he could soothe Ranpo’s worries and fears without making things worse. The only thing he could really do was tell the truth.

So that’s what he did.

“I don’t have the answers you’re after, Ranpo.” Fukuzawa said, reaching over and wrapping an arm around the boy’s shoulders. Ranpo let out a sigh, but Fukuzawa continued to push on. “I’m doing my best to guide and raise you, but this is all so new to me; I’m not sure I’m handling it correctly. I don’t yet understand you in a way that I can help you through this without making it worse, but… I will do my best as I’ve always tried to do since you’ve come into my care.”

 Ranpo leaned into the embrace. “I get it. I think. I also think you’re doing a good job.”

Fukuzawa nodded, glad that Ranpo was approving of the job he’d been doing. Maybe he was finally starting to get a handle on this parenting thing. “We’ll talk, and do some research, and maybe, together we can get through this and figure this whole people and emotions thing out.”

Ranpo huffed a laugh, a small smile on his face. “Together then."