#you are my north star when the waves of the world threaten to sink my vessel

[ashtraysystem]

moss under my feet

tiny dogs on the street

my fingers through your hair

soup and sandwiches

the catnip flourishing

my snail crawling around and splaying himself out in the moisture

the smile on your face when you talk about going back

the hug that I never wanted to let go, even though I know you won't be gone long.

I'll see you again soon, Starshine. Have a safe flight. 💙💚🧡

[croookvillin]

This was from an rp yes I’m extra but no I will not make my rps shorter *TomTord* ( half monster Tom btw)

The dead leaves crunched under the heavy weight of his feet as he ran.

The world was silent, the only real noise reaching up to his ears was the constant pounding of his heart and the swooshing of the wind passing by him.

Tom didn’t dare look back, but either way, he knew no one would be able to reach him at this rate; and even through gritted teeth and short bursts of breathes, he continued to run straight ahead into the open, grassy fields.

He didn’t know where exactly he was headed to, but his body and mind both cried at him to continue, to continue to zoom past the giant nicotine-brown trees blocking the way, and to continue on through the throbbing, searing pain of his legs as they urged him to stop.

The eyeless Brit did not alter the quickness of his pace, even as the branches distorted looking into twisted limbs and reached out for him, trying to keep him away from his goal that even he was not certain what it was. Tom didn’t let them slow him down, and he cut and clawed anything in his path, tearing down twigs and other things to clear his way onward.

And then he came to an abrupt descend, his legs pressing harshly down onto the ground as to not accident swing him forward harshly onto the ground. Tom extending his arms out beside him, trying his best to restore his balance and ground himself onto the solid dirt.

The voices had long since came to an abrupt decease, and only now Tom was left alone with his jumbled thoughts as he recollected his breath.

He took in a long breathe through his nose, enjoying the sweet smell of fresh air and crisp waters as the sound rattled in his ears.

The water constantly pounded onto the rocks below, only to be silenced as it joined the rest of the stream ahead. The bliss pool at the bottom was varnish clear, and dozens of trees surrounding around, almost as if shielding away the beauty from the world; and Tom found himself removing the rest of his shambles he still called clothing as his eyeless eyes focused entirely on the beauty infront of him.

The water below seemed to call out to him in its soothing waves, and the flowers scattering around nodded their heads through the wind in agreement.

Tom could not deny them.

After removing the last piece of clothing from his body, (you know already ain’t no explaining needed) the Brit let his instincts overcome as he raced forward, ignoring the pain of his legs again as he launched his upper body forward and dived into the clear waters.

——-

“Thomas!” He’d called out again for what was the hundredth time that night. (Bro imagine though he’s living his best life and Tord gotta be looking for him smh.)

The grey eyed male continued to trek forward, still making sure to follow the path of the deep set tracks that lead into the dark forest ahead. The trees were still bared and naked from their usual mint green leaves, and Tord was thankful for the winter season still in motion that now allowed him more view ahead.

Still, he couldn’t deny the creepiness of it all as he stalked forward, his head raised and held high as he stepped a tentative foot into the unlit forest.

The naked trees were practically staring him down like silent sentries, and Tord took that as a silent threat as he continued. He wouldn’t let a handful of scary looking trees halt him from his ongoing search for the stupid Brit.

He continues to walk ahead, making sure to keep a sharp eye out, not wanting to risk getting spooked by anything secretly popping out at the most unnecessary times; but still making sure to check if Tom was nearby. His tracks stated otherwise though, since they seemed to stretch on towards the farthest north side downwards. The trees in the forest loomed over him, and during the day, Tord would have found it quite relaxing as the shielded him from the violent UV rays of the sun, but now, in the middle of the night with not even the stars guiding him, the Norski found it rather terrifying.

His heart raced, and he took a couple minutes to recollect thoughts from the rising panic.

Oh how his anxiety could be such a dick, and making him see things that aren’t even there to begin with. And if he wasn’t scared of Tom, then really-he had no excuse to be afraid of anything else.

So he marches onwards, his guard on high and the silence deafening to his ears.

Tord was leery about the whole situation, more so now that he had zero means of self defense. He tried hard not to breath in so much, as the musty air surrounding him made it almost painful to breath in, and luckily for him, the tracks were coming to an abrupt end, and Tord could faintly make out the sound or running water somewhere nearby.

He followed the sound, trying to make out whether it was all real and not just some hallucinations. The sound was more distinct every time he got closer. A waterfall.

The Norwegian picked up his legs and ran, his pace quickening with every step he took. His vibrantly red shoes hit the earthy ground with loud thumps, his heart quickening its pace as the tracks finally ended up ahead.

Tord gasped, the sight alone enough to blow the rest of his breath away as he stood in awe.

It was loud enough to get even Tom’s attention, who was busy showering himself in the clear waters underneath. His ears perked up, and stopped splashing the water around him as he swung his head around to stare Tord right into his blazing grey eyes.

He looked beyond pissed now.

“Are you fucking kidding me!? I have been going through this scary ass forest and looking for your over exaggerating ass-while you, deeming yourself worthy of some form of award, have been bathing here this whole time!?” He stepped closer with every complaint, his face reddening out of anger as he waved his hands around in gesturing motions. “I always have to be the big person in the group! Always! You never care about MY feelings, and you never care to ask how I am! Even before in highschool, you abandoned me like I was some sort of toy for your entertainment! Like I wasn’t good enough for you anymore-even when I had put myself through hell and back!” Tord took in a sharp inhale through his nose, “I know I’ve always stated ‘Put yourself in someone else’s shoes’ and even as I’ve done so, I still don’t understand why you’re such a dick to me! I always got the shorter end of the stick from you, and you never seem to even be bothered by it-always acting like we’ve never even been best friends before! Like everyone else matters except for me!” His lower lip quivered a fraction, and the Norwegian tried to man through the tears of rage that threatened to descend downwards, “And here I am! Slaving myself for you and your selfish needs and I always end up labeled as the bad guy! You know what Thomas! I’m so-!”

His ongoing rambling speech was cut to a halt as he felt something, a claw like hand tug at his ankle. Tord doesn’t even get a chance to cuss the other out before he’s being pulled and dragged into the water underneath his feet. He’d unknowingly stepped so close to Tom that he practically almost submerged himself into water.

Tom lets out a roaring laugh, the water splashing around his face and wetting his hair a bit. He keeps a hold on the Norwegians armpits and hoist him back up, not wanting to accidentally drown the poor man to death.

The Norwegian raised his head, his chin just barely above the surface of the water as he stared at Tom with full blown panic. His strawberry blonde hair plastered flatly onto his head, and Tom was able to now see the full length of it. It went down gracefully past his shoulders, and he had the urge to twirl one of the strands around his finger-if he could of course.

Tord tried to blink away the beads of water that had collected onto his long lashes, his mouth slightly agape as he gasped for short spurts of air.

His clothes were weighing him down and Tom’s clawed hands are the only thing keeping him from accidentally sinking downwards.

The Norski had barely let himself fully recollect himself before he’s pulling away, his wet brows furrowing again in rage, “Hva er galt med deg!”

Tom seriously had no idea what he’d said, but he pulls the other back forcefully.

“I couldn’t find another way to keep you quiet.” The Brit starts, before shushing the other and continuing with what he was saying, “-look Tord,” god it felt weird using his first name and not something snarky, “..I know we haven’t been on the best terms, but I care about you. I know I’ve been the biggest douche bag to you, but I always hated how I felt around you. How you of all people made me feel something others could not. It’s why I pushed you away, because I just didn’t want to get attached and risk getting my feelings hurt in the process. I was scared you leave like the rest, and even more now that you know the darkest parts about me. So if I pushed you away, I wouldn’t be so upset if you up and left because it was my doing.”

He carries the Norwegian back to shore, setting him down onto the dirt as he kept a bit of space between them.

Tord doesn’t say anything at first, he just kind of looks around before he’s letting his entire body slam into the ground behind him.

And then he’s laughing aswell, his stomach bouncing slightly as let’s the laughter bubble out of him.

The laughter soon dies down, and the Norwegian continues to lay there with his arms extending at his sides, the now moist dirt stinking to his clothes. “I always thought I did something wrong. That maybe I just wasn’t amusing enough for you. But this, this is rich.” He whispered out, grinning from ear to ear as he peeled open his eyes.

Now he was finally able to get a better look at the sky, for the stars were in fact out tonight, and they scattered like white paint over a black canvas. It was a sight, a beautiful sight that always had Tord gushing like a hopeless romantic.

The full moon looks like a giant cheese ball, he notes, as he props his elbows onto the dirt and heaves himself up. (God he’s a fatass)

Tom hadn’t said anything after that, but he did in fact, continue to stare at Tord the whole time. Their eyes met again, and the Brits ears perked up a bit unknowingly as his roommate softly smiled.

The Norwegian raised an arm above his head as he pulled the hem of his signature hoodie upwards, trying to pry away the clothing that clung tightly to his skin.

The eyeless Brit could only watch as the other undressed himself, tossing the red hoodie carelessly to his right as he made move to remove his grey shirt. Tom decided to look away, instead staring a bit too hardly at the water that cascaded down onto the marbled stones.

“I’m not a female. You didn’t have to look away.” Tord’s voice reasoned, laughing lightly again as he stood up to unbuckle his pants. “How’s the water?” He asks, shimmying out of his way too tight dark black skinny jeans.

“It’s nice..”

“Make room for two.” Tord stated simply, tossing his clothes carelessly to the side.

Tom hated to admit,

But he smiled so hard when he heard the splashing of water right behind him.

[sworn-unbeliever]

12 - Tooth and Nail

wc: 1,371

Leviathan appeared from out of nowhere.

A simple ship ride between Kugane and Limsa Lominsa had gone all too swimmingly. Any road to a greater destiny had to have some bumps on the road. What better path to have the Itsubishi family’s supposedly improved financial success than to have the Lord of the Whorl himself test their resolve? While Useless Tia lived up to his name and vanished without a trace, everyone else donned their arms and prepared for battle. Aunt Jocelyn and her gunblade. Mother Yoshiko and her fists. Younger brother Jeremy with his chakrams. And elder brother Teremy with his knives. Punching. Cutting. Slashing. Fire. Water. Lightning. All remaining on deck defended against Leviathan and his minions with their lives.

But none so much as the moment Teremy looked back to see Leviathan dive down directly towards Jeremy. The serpent’s mouth opened, ready to swallow up the younger brother in one single gulp.

“Jer, watch out!” Teremy cried at the same time he dashed forward. His body moved purely on instinct and shoved Jeremy out of the way.

Then darkness. Leviathan’s jaws snapped shut, taking Teremy inside. Whole.

After that, Teremy had no idea what happened as his body reacted before his mind caught up to speed. The miqo’te felt Leviathan descend and found his body sliding away. His twin cinquedea stabbed the closest thing they could latch onto. Sharp metal sank through flesh and pierced what felt like bone. And from there, Teremy’s ears nearly shattered from a deafening roar that shoved him back into his knives.

His ears rang. The stench made him want to throw up. But he clenched his mouth shut and clung onto the handles of his short swords. He had no thought. He had no plan. Just clenched hands, clenched teeth, and a clenched will to survive.

Suddenly, the Lord of the Whorl shot straight up. Teremy felt himself slipping back down, but he tightened his grip. No way did he want to slide further down the serpent’s body. He never wanted to descend to that kind of hell. Another dive down and Leviathan opened his mouth again, not as an opportunity for his very unwelcome guest to leave, but to have water shoot inside. A tidal wave of water threatened to shove him down further. Teremy clamped his eyes and mouth shut. He felt his grip slipping. Again, the miqo’te held steady. Up again. Then down again. Another roar. But Teremy clung to the handles of his twin blades to the point he felt his hands begin to indent in the metal. He couldn’t die. He had to live. He had pushed his brother out of his way to live… so they could live together. Not trade one brother for the other.

Finally, one last rush upwards and Leviathan opened his mouth again. Teremy swung back and forth as the serpent shook its head. One last desperate toss and Teremy’s cinquedea finally loosened its hold on bone and flesh. Teremy went sailing into the air, still holding his short swords like his last lifeline.

‘I am but the hummingbird. I spread my tiny wings and fly away,’ he thought as he sailed up, then down. With no idea what laid underneath except water, he changed trajectory in midair to move his body into a vertical position before his body dove into the water.

Thank Aunt Jocelyn, who had the foresight to teach the brothers useful life tricks like swimming.

Once Teremy fell as deep as his momentum carried him, he swam back up as fast as he could. His head pushed above the water first. He took a deep breath, then exhaled.

He was alive. Somehow, still alive.

Gently kicking his feet to keep himself afloat, he wiped the water away from his eyes with a few extended fingers, and looked over in the distance. He still held his cinquedea at ready in case Leviathan wanted round too. To Teremy’s surprise, he saw the King of the Whorl’s distinct figure swim away in the distance. A shattered, abandoned rowboat became the last known proof of Leviathan’s existence.

Teremy put his cinquedea away and tried to swim after Leviathan, but the struggle to keep himself alive inside Leviathan’s jaws had taken away all the energy he had. Or his adrenaline fervor had subsided. Or both. His body refused to move and Teremy soon found himself lying on his back, his arms spread out, staring at a starry sky.

Bump.

A wooden plank gently knocked him on the head. He forced his body to turn around and take refuge on part of the wood. Somehow said wood acted as a life preserver, allowing him to lean his weight on it safely. Now the rest of his energy left him. And the only glimpse of said starry sky he had left was a shimmering reflection in the water. So much for impromptu sightseeing after a life or death chase. But at least he wouldn’t eventually sink into the water.

Hopefully.

‘Where am I? … Shit, Levi ain’t coming back for round two, is he? My parents, my aunt, Jer, they’re still on there…!’

He saw no sign of Leviathan. But he saw no sign of the boat either.

‘People do good, they do a solid. Me, I did a liquid. Headline: I’m in it now. Hah.’ Teremy thought bitterly.

His eyelids felt heavy. Teremy closed them. Then opened them. No, he had to stay awake. No telling if he fell asleep, he would surely drown.

‘Did I do the right thing? Did I save Jer? Or did I make even more trouble for everyone…’

Nothing but gentle waves brushing against the wood plank answered him.

‘At least… should I die at sea, I’ll go out knowing that at least Jer’s alive.’

He closed his eyes.

Plish. Plash.

He opened his eyes again.

‘The sea is so vast. A hidden world underneath. But above the surface, all anyone can see is more of the same, hoping to find the something else that may not even be there. Do they ever look up to see the stars? Their wisdom? Their guidance? If you can hear me, guide my family to Limsa Lominsa safely.’

He closed his eyes.

* * *

“Stay with us, lad!” cried an unfamiliar voice.

Teremy felt a sense of danger and grabbed onto something. When he opened his eyes, he saw that he had latched onto the wrist of a rogedayn. He saw the sailor’s surprised expression and released his hold.

“Quite the grip you got there. Thought ye’d take my hand off fer a second there.” The roegadyn wrung his hand. “That any way to thank your rescuers?”

Teremy opened his mouth to speak but only unintelligible gargle spat out.

“Anyway, we happened t’find ye driftin’ out like all that other flotsam. Didn’t think ye’d wanna spend t’rest of yer life out at sea.”

Sputtering a few more times, Teremy finally found the words to speak. “Thank you,” he said slowly.

Talking had always been more of his brother’s forte. Teremy’s piano… in more ways than one. But right now, Teremy only had words. Thankfully the roegadyn’s face softened with said word.

Teremy sat up straight. He rubbed his eyes, noticing that he now wore some hempen-spun attire rather than his own wet robes. His previous garments fell on top of his head before he had a chance to ask. He looked around. The area looked unlike Kugane, but unlike anything he imagined Limsa Lominsa to look like, either. Instead, a scorching hot sun bared down heat upon brown and beige stone of building and ground alike.

“Where is this place?” Teremy asked.

“Ye from across the continent or somethin’? Ain’t often to hear a miqo’te speak with a Hingan accent.” the fisherman asked. “No matter. This place be Vesper Bay, part of the region of Thanalan.”

“Thanalan…” Teremy repeated.

Lady Luck had sent sailors to bail him out of his own stupidity. As thanks, rather than send him north, she sent him south for a laugh.

‘Thanks, Lady Luck. Not to sound ungrateful for saving my life or anything, but... what the fuck?’

[plumblossomkun]

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟷:「𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛, 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 / 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚗, 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚎?」

word count: 3.5k

setting: student!Taeyong x writing assistant!Female Reader, University!AU

warning[s]: none for this chapter besides some angst. later chapters will have more sensitive topics and they will be mentioned. 

chapter summary: in which Taeyong reminisces & tries to forget, but doesn’t stand a chance against the stars & their song. or, in which Taeyong & y/n meet again under the same sky, after years apart.

a/n: this is heavily inspired by Love Deluna; a big thank u @starxblossom for the help on this fic, which is VERY loosely based on something between a boy & me that began sweet. here is chapter one, as inspired by my messy [love] life. 

READ ME: this story will contain a LONG series of chapters :) i will italicize flashbacks in their entirety & indicate any changes in scene or point of view in bold. furthermore, chapters will alternate between Taeyong and y/n unless otherwise indicated.

other tags: @bunny-doyounq! enjoy~ ♫ 

moodboard | playlist | main masterlist | a map of the campus | extras | fun facts

previous | next

Exactly 4 years ago—

“What are you looking for?” he asks, leaning into her so that their shoulders are barely touching. She stares up into the dark, cloudless sky, eyes focused on something he cannot see, painted coral lips slightly parted.

He wonders if one day he’ll feel them against his skin, instead of the winter breeze. Instead of the knowledge that her heart is somewhere else, has always been somewhere else.

“The stars,” she replies, abandoning her search in favor of looking sideways at him with a faint smile. Her gaze is distant, though, and it feels like something sharp has lodged itself in his gut, because he can’t remember if she’s ever really looked at him. “I love the city lights. I really do. But I want to see the stars, I want to see the sky covered in them.”

And then her eyes turn back to the heavens.

He wishes he could anchor her, bring her down from the clouds— but he knows she won’t let him. At least, not as they are. 

Not as he is.

So, instead, he places his hand on top of hers, the words he really wants to say stuck somewhere between his heart and his throat, threatening to choke him as he assures her, “We’ll go somewhere you can see them, someday.”

Someday, when I return, he promises silently.

She looks at his hand, then at him, and her voice is tiny, barely audible when she asks, “How far?”

He sees the glimmer of fear in her eyes, and takes his hand away, missing the warmth of her even as he does so. But he knows better than to linger too long and spook her. 

“As far as you want.”

Now —

Daly City, CA

 —in one word, home

How many moons has it been, since he last set foot in this tiny city, engulfed in a sea of fog pierced only by the headlights of the Model Y Teslas that speed away towards the skyscrapers of the big city to the north?

Too many.

And yet, though he’s returned to the place he’s loved most out of all the homes he’s forged, he feels like he is about to make the second greatest mistake of his life. 

He scales the moss-lined steps leading up to the park from the main road, relishing the way the sounds of traffic are muffled by the towering, groaning pines. But when he steps off the uneven dirt path, his heart drops a little when he digs his heels into the earth and finds that the soccer fields have been filled with fake grass and rubber dirt.

He shuffles towards the library, passing through the playground and its vacant swings, sparing a wistful glance for the sand pit, which is filled with mud and litter and not a single child to dig through it. It’s early, the sun hasn’t even started to peek its head over the horizon, but he remembers when he was a child, the seesaw was always creaking away, and the swings were never left unoccupied.

The jingle of a bell lifts his chin from his chest, though, and he sucks a breath in between his teeth in disbelief. There’s no way it’s the rickety old ice cream truck that used to come around when he was a kid, the one with the smiling old man and his wife.

And he’s right, though he’s never wished more in his life that he was wrong. 

It’s a cluster of kids on their bikes, ringing their bells like mad and whooping as they zoom through the parking lot, past the basketball and tennis courts that have always been worn and gray, but seem all the worse for wear without the thud of shoes against the cement to fill the spaces in between the groaning fences. 

He shoves his hands in his pocket and walks back to his car, shoulders heavy with the knowledge that the world he left behind was not untouched in his absence.

You included, though he knows better than to think you’d be waiting for him. You would never have looked back, not when he’d left like that, without warning, without so much as a goodbye.

You probably hate him for it.

So he gets back into his car, grits his teeth, and promises himself, later, he’ll forget about it. He’ll start at a new school, make new friends, focus on his classes, and act as if the past doesn’t still have its claws in his heart. 

Later, he’ll pretend he doesn’t miss the days you’d sit at the top of those steps and drink Arizonas together, wasting the hours until the sun set and you had to decline call after call from your overprotective father, insisting you come home because it was getting too late.

Later, he’ll unpack his boxes at the university apartments, and thank his parents for leaving out the pictures of you and him.

But for now, he grips the steering wheel and takes the I-280 south, all four windows down, using the roar of the autumn wind to drown out the voice inside that says he’s made a mistake, coming back home to California. The voice that insists he came back not for a new start, not because his parents insisted he finish his education abroad, but to see you again.

Santa Clara, CA

— the place you imagine when you think California vibes.

“You know, Taeyong, you didn’t have to come all the way from Korea to bring me flowers.” Johnny eyes the bouquet of violently pink hydrangeas that Taeyong has just produced from the passenger seat of his car like they’ve offended him. “These are pretty, but you know I have allergies, right?”

“They’re not for you,” Taeyong snorts, lifting his computer tower from the backseat with a grunt. “Can you grab the other box from the back?”

Johnny grabs the storage box filled with peripherals and shuts the trunk. “Who else would they be for?”

“My mother told me your mother was visiting.” Taeyong kicks the door closed and locks the car twice, holding his beloved computer tower close to his body and the flowers under his arm. “And that we’re getting lunch together, apparently. Also, since when have you been allergic to flowers?”

“Since I saw these.” Johnny wrinkles his nose at the flowers. “And we’re not eating on campus— I never thought I would say this, but I am sick of burritos.” He shudders as he taps his ID to the scanner at the front entrance, and holds the door open as Taeyong tiptoes through, careful not to trip over the door frame. “There’s a good Korean barbecue place in San Jose, ten minutes out from here. Mom’s checking out the stationery store at Santana Row, said we can call her when we’re ready to go. Have you toured the campus yet?”

Taeyong laughs. “No, I haven’t had the time to look around—”

“Seriously?” Johnny purses his lips in an exaggerated pout. “Okay, come on. Let’s put this stuff away, and I’ll show you around.” He ushers him through another set of double doors, past a small expanse of grass complete with a volleyball net and red flowers draped across a wooden pavilion, shining steel grills polished and ready for the next Sunday playoffs, to the ground floor apartment of a building on the opposite side of the complex.

Taeyong can’t help but already imagine himself sitting on the grass, when he has time after classes, taking the time to watch the sun sink below the rooftops, coffee in one hand and music filling his ears. He can imagine himself mapping the skies, searching for stars.

He catches himself there, shakes his head at his own foolishness. “Lee Taeyong,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair, “this is no time to think about stargazing.”

“Stargazing?” Johnny echoes, emerging from the bathroom with his hands still a little wet, waving them about to dry them. “We have an observatory, if you’re interested in that.”

Taeyong tries to act like the idea hasn’t excited him, bending down to tie his shoes to hide the grin splitting his face. “We can check it out if it’s not too out of the way, I guess.”

Johnny chuckles, closing the door behind him. “Of course. Last and least on the list.”

Palm trees overlook the majority of the campus, leaning low over the buildings and casting long shadows along the pavement. And where there isn’t red or gray brick, there is carefully curated grass, neatly clipped hedges, and collections of too-perfect, too-saturated flowers highlighting each walkway.

It’s a little artificial, a little unreal, but Taeyong can’t deny that, with the afternoon sun beating down on his shoulders, casting golden light without a single wisp of fog in the air, and a slight breeze nipping at his fingertips, it feels like a slice of paradise, straight out of the movies.

Near the end of the main road, Johnny points out a pastel rainbow of roses that lead to a side path that wraps around the church, under a canopy of vines and branches and ornately wrought wood. “I like to come here instead of on the quads; it’s quieter. Some people even take wedding pictures here when the weather is nice.”

Taeyong spots a bench a little ways down the path, surrounded by roses— the perfect spot to take a picture, one to remember his first day back under the California sun. 

When he turns back to ask his friend to capture the moment for him, Johnny is already motioning for him to hand over his phone, a knowing smile playing across his face. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask me to take a photo earlier.” Taeyong laughs, brushes rose petals off of the bench before he sits, squinting as he finds a spot that is both well lit and doesn’t have the sun blazing directly into his eyes. “This is too pretty to pass up.”

“Ready?”

Taeyong nods, smiling chastely into the eye of the camera.

“Okay, three, two, one—”

Click.

“Another pose~ three, two, one—”

He adds a peace sign. He knows his mother will definitely ask for one of him and Johnny later, and makes a note to take one at lunch.

Click.

“Last one, look sexy, Taeyong-ah, say mwah for the camera~”

Taeyong bursts into laughter at that, but Johnny snaps the picture anyway.

Click.

“That’s the candid I was looking for,” he says, clearly pleased by his work, handing Taeyong’s phone back to him. “You look good.” And for all his teasing, Johnny is right about the photos— he looks sun-kissed and happy. Nothing like how he’d felt earlier that morning.

He takes a deep breath, taking in the rich scent of the roses around them as the church bells sound, signaling noon. He gathers a handful of pink petals and marvels at their unmarked, silken beauty. “I feel good, too.”

“What did Seoul do to you?” Johnny asks thoughtfully, looking him up and down as if this is the first time he’s really looked at him all day. 

Taeyong tosses the petals in the air with a chuckle. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, when we were teenagers...” Johnny snaps his fingers, looking for the right words. “You look like you know yourself better. Is that it?” A girl’s wail splits the air before he can answer, followed by the pitter-patter of quick footsteps. “Excuse me, I’m laaaate—” 

Taeyong steps aside automatically, and as the girl runs past him, long hair whipping him in the face despite his quick reflexes, he catches a whiff of summer, of wildflowers, jasmine, and something of the ocean breeze.

And while he doesn’t recognize the perfume, his heart sinks when he realizes he does know that voice. 

Your voice.

His phone drops from his hand, and he jumps to his feet.

There’s no way.

Luckily, Johnny snatches up his phone before it hits the ground, and when he sees the expression on Taeyong’s face, leans in front of him with a concerned look, waving a hand to catch his attention. “Whoa. You good, buddy?”

Taeyong’s eyes don’t even register the movement. He presses a hand to his chest to check if his heart is still beating, and has to sit down on the bench again, because he is shaking like a leaf caught in a hurricane. 

He feels like all the breath has been sucked out of his lungs, like the bones in his body have suddenly become hollow and thin like glass. “I… was that...?”

Johnny follows his gaze, staring at the back of the girl who is still rushing down the path. “Oh...” he exhales, craning his head to get a better look. “Oh.”

Slowly, he nods his head, and the confirmation is like a death rattle to Taeyong. “I heard she was here, but, you know... I didn’t really go looking.” 

Johnny places a firm hand on Taeyong’s shoulder, and his voice is gentle when he reminds him, “You shouldn’t either.”

Taeyong closes his eyes and shakes his head, because after all this time, despite the years he’s spent under a different skyline— here you are— here—

The thought chokes him. It wraps icy fingers around his heart and crushes it, crushes him. 

He can’t remember the reason he left, only that it wasn’t right, only that he should’ve stayed.

And though he has only caught a moment’s glimpse, shared a single breath, he can’t deny it, he hasn’t changed at all.

He is still the same boy, praying that a flower that lives for starlight will bloom for him instead.

6 and a half years ago— 

Taeyong did not want to attend Winter Ball— in fact, he would rather have eaten dirt—  but Yuta and Ten ended up buying him a ticket anyway. He had tried to escape after the last bell, ducking towards the door before the teacher had even dismissed them, but Johnny locks an arm around his shoulders before he can escape.

“You can skip every dance after this one,” he bargains, clicking his tongue, and drags Taeyong down the street to his house to lend him clothes for the night. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Live a little. Dance a little.”

“No, it won’t,” Taeyong grumbles, but puts on the white collared shirt and black tie ensemble anyway, Mrs. Suh cooing “So handsome!” a thousand times at them as she snaps photos to keep in her newly-bought scrapbooks, before ushering them out. “Be back by midnight, okay?”

And now, he plays the wallflower in the small gym, watching in faint amusement as the people dancing freeze in confusion as they try to guess at what song is playing next, the DJ’s transitions between songs awkward and stilted. Despite that, towering over everyone in the very heart of the crowd, Johnny dances like there’s no tomorrow. Yuta and Ten had tried to get him out there, too— they had tried to drag him, princess-carry, and Yuta had even tried to throw him— but Taeyong isn’t in the mood to dance.

A flash of silver catches his eye, and he momentarily forgets that he is supposed to be uninterested in everything that the evening has to offer.

A girl strides towards him, sparkling white glitter sliding off her collarbones like someone has poured starlight on her, refracting tiny pinpoints of light onto her face. She is smiling, and her cheeks are a deep shade of rouge, but her smile is more like a lioness baring her fangs, and the rest of her expression is cold and hard. 

Her lips purse as she stares at the half-open door to his left, and the wind whispering behind it. She pauses in the doorway, gaze flicking back to the crowd.  And then to him. 

When she sees that Taeyong’s looking back at her, her expression lightens, the corners of her eyes crinkling in true mirth. 

And then she’s gone, the door swinging shut behind her with a sigh.

He finds her perched on the railing outside, on the balcony that overlooks the entire campus, watching the last snatches of day start to die away. She turns as he approaches, the light on the horizon line pooling around her, framing her figure in gold and scarlet. The breeze bites at his cheeks, and her midnight blue chiffon dress clings to her body, but unlike him, she does not shiver; instead, she leans into the icy caress of winter like it is an old friend. 

So when her eyes burn into his, he is already half-convinced that she is some ethereal creature. He opens his mouth to speak, but she shakes her head, as if the sound of his voice will break the spell she’s cast, one that blurs the noise behind him in favor of the shifting world before him. 

A wry smile curls her lips, like she’s laughing at some unspoken joke, and she pats the railing next to her, inviting him to join her in the moment.

Mutely, they watch the sky until it darkens and the northern star has begun to twinkle, the last murmurs of gold plunging below the school buildings. So much time passes, in fact, that when she suddenly takes a deep breath, consuming the night air like it is her lifeblood, it startles him, and he almost falls off the railing into the uneven hedges below them.

She laughs aloud then, and says, in a low, almost husky voice, “Are you afraid I might bite?”

His brain fizzles as he tries to think of something to say that isn’t stupid. He settles for the truth. “You look like you might just fly away if I come too close.”

She looks startled, like she wasn’t expecting him to respond with those words, and then shakes her head, that same mysterious smile curving her lips. She tips her head back and lets the wind comb through her long hair. “I wish I could fly. Don’t you?”

He thinks about it, looks up into the sea of gray clouds filtering the moonlight into ivory shards. “Maybe. Where would you go, if you could?”

She leans back a little too far and loses her balance for a split second— and he instinctively reaches out to catch her, gripping her hands in his. 

Her hands are small, and freezing, but still, they do not shake. Her heartbeat thrums against his palms, and she laughs breathlessly, the noise dragging his eyes up to meet hers. 

He can’t help but flinch; her gaze is filled with stone that had not been there a second before. It does not soften until she has extracted herself from his hold, and the cold railing is the only thing they share in common. 

Only then does she answer his question, clearing her throat. When she speaks this time, her voice has lost its airy quality, becoming sweeter, softer. He loses himself there, and openly stares at her, awed by— everything about her. “I think I’d see if heaven existed,” she breathes, reaching towards the stars, cupping the curve of the moon within her hands. “Go as high as I could until my lungs cried out for mercy.”

She slips down from her perch, lighting down quietly on the hard cement. On level ground, she is quite a bit shorter than him, and yet he feels intimidated by her proximity when she leans towards him, face impassive as she studies his.

“What?” he asks, jutting out his chin in challenge.

The girl rolls her eyes, unimpressed. But whatever she finds in his expression, she clearly doesn’t dislike because she says carelessly, tossing the words out at rapid-fire speed, “I’m going to go find a better view, and real food. Feel free to tag along, if you want.” 

And then she’s walking away before he can even accept the invitation, tugging off both her heels in one fluid motion and dangling them off of her shoulder as she starts heading down the five flights of stairs leading down to the main entrance, completely barefoot and humming a tune he does not know.

He looks back at the gym. He doesn’t see Yuta, or Ten, or Johnny through the glass— in fact, he’s sure they won’t notice him leaving, either, not while they’re dancing— so he makes his choice. 

He can be back by midnight, if he keeps track of the time.

“Wait—” he calls after her.

She pauses, and their gazes lock. For a split second, something flickers to life in her eyes, summons a peal of laughter from deep within her throat. She licks her lips, head tilted up towards him, and he understands it then. She is lovely, and the moonrise suits her, but she is no ethereal being, no angel, no goddess.

“Catch me if you can, then.” 

Still— he can’t look away.

He can’t help but chase after her.

a/n 2.0: feedback of all kinds is appreciated! ♥ luv y’all

[bloodlinevalentine]

Helena (1)

Some nautical krii7y written for my personal aesthetic mostly that I thought I may just share with you guys. In fact, I was so hyped that I didn't even really proofread lol :)

[BTW, if you like my writing (by whatever miracle) you can expect an unholy amount of BBS and GBG Christmas stuff incoming in the next month and a half:]

Ice cold. That's what Smitty's mind screams the moment he regains consciousness.

He gasps twice very hard, once as his face is flooded with the feeling and taste of salty seawater, and again when he feels the overwhelming pain in his chest. His eyes take a moment to adjust to the stinging and darkness, blinking chunks of mucus and foggy tears away, before they allow him to see the ship around him.

He registers quickly that the wooden splinters in his back prodding at his skin are from the deck of the ship, which is not even his ship he notices, and twists into a sitting position. He is lying face up in a slight divot, the boards pushed in no doubt from the force of his body slamming into them, if the already deep-set pain in his bones was anything to go by. It was also likely what knocked him unconscious, he realizes absently.

With some difficulty, he manages to completely pull himself from the creaky floorboards, but not without jostling a bloody gash in his arm. He pauses and tries to assess it, but it's more or less out of his field of vision, the only evidence of it being the spotty drops of blood staining the light wood red, just now beginning to ebb away. How long had he been out cold?

He shakes his curiosity away and stands, finding a much better vantage position on his feet. Right now, what he needs to focus on is strictly getting back to his ship and helping his crew with the recovery. He couldn't remember much, but he could at least gather that this fight must have been a nasty one. They were probably strung somewhere worried and furious at his disappearance. He needed a compass, but right now he would have to make do with using the north star. 

Above him, the sky is a mess of puffy clouds, dim yet plentiful stars, and their weak light competing with the reflective moon. He catches himself staring for a moment, and realizes that the lights were slowly getting further and further away: he had to be falling very slowly. 

He runs over to the rails and looks over to discover that yes, the ship is sinking, and the nearest island is too far to simply swim to if he wants to live. He plops down right where he's standing, panting in a panicked sweat. This was how it would end for him, lost aboard an enemy ship with an island just close enough to be a blue blur off to the distance and nothing more. His heart hammers inside his chest so hard he thinks he might be able to hear it.

Suddenly, a harsh wave strikes the ship, almost knocking him overboard as it forces it into a near-horizontal tilt. His fingernails split and his knuckles go white as he grips the rail for his life, fear lacing his blood like oxygen. The severity of the wound in his arm is still unidentified and screams sonic protests that he is forced to ignore. There must be a whirlpool just off the distance, spinning and sucking water into it and causing some sort of backlash pulling system, his brain supplies weakly, but it does little to quell his rising panic. He forces himself to catch his breath as the ship is uprighted and left to rock in place. He needs a plan and he needs it fast.

Smitty looks over at the island again, really eyeing the distance and chewing his lip in thought. Brown eyes flicker back between the railing and the dense line of trees, counting paces, praying to deities he hasn’t thought of since childhood. After a moment, he decides that if there is anything he needs to do, it's try. It seems like the only chance he has at surviving right now, but even the thought makes him swallow thickly.

Well, the very least he should do before he goes is to search the ship.

He dashes over to a ladder and hatch near the wheel, but pauses short on the steps. The second floor had long since begun to take on water, and now was over halfway full, still rising. The only things still visible were the barrels that this crew had used to likely store food, and a chest full to the brim with riches. He toys with the idea of wading through the water, but ultimately shrugs and settles for a bag hanging haphazardly from one of the ceiling beams. A quick rummage inside shows a few gold coins and a beaded necklace, but nothing overly personal. Perfect.

Next, Smitty makes to run into the navigation port and pick up something like a compass and a map, but he quickly realizes that those are useless after they’ve been wet, and there are no small rowboats in his vicinity. They would be ruined after the swim.

And that’s where his mind is when he sees the man.

It’s not until he turns back to cut his losses and head down the ladder that he spots another figure, slumped in half on one of the planks leading up over the edge of the ship. He can’t see much from this angle, but the body spasms and twitches with life even though it appears so dead.

Carefully, he approaches and watches for any sudden movements, but the person, distinctly male he can see as he nears, is completely unconscious. He can’t help but feel a tug on his heartstrings.

Smitty winces, but drops his bag and reaches down, dragging thin arms around his shoulders to hoist the body up onboard, but stops short. God, the guy is heavy.

It’s odd, considering how normally sized the person seems, but he just shakes his head, squints down at the rising water levels, and pulls with all of his available strength. The body follows, and he gets the wind knocked out of him under the force with which it comes crashing onto his chest. He lies there for a moment, panting and staring up at the sky again before he rolls himself free, only to gasp at the creature lying next to him.

The upper half was just as he had become well acquainted with, curly brown hair and oddly bare chest aside, the figure looked strikingly human. But the bottom half consisted of a long, thick, and shimmering tail where legs should have been. What he had thought before was a man had turned out to be a merman!

It's a slight wrestle between Smitty’s self-preservation instincts and his inner curiosity, but in the end, he knows that he cannot bring himself to leave the being there to die, no matter the species

He finds himself chewing his lip again, but there is really nothing he can do in such little time, but jump and hope for the best. Unceremoniously, he leans over and angles the torso to rest over his shoulders and around his neck, perhaps his best option for transporting it. Then, he pulls the string within his bag and secures it to the threadbare loops in his pants so that it safe while he swims. With that done to the best of his bloody and shaky ability, there is only one thing left to do.

Smitty feels the wooden planks with an awakened sort of clarity as he climbs off the edge of the hull. The soggy rope, frayed and waterlogged, threatens to tear under his weight as he rocks with the waves. His eyes bounce between the restless ocean and still unconscious face next to his as his nerves spike again. He feels another deathly tilt, and this time the boat really does tip so far that there's no going back: it's going to capsize for sure. It takes more strength than he sure he has in all of his body to gather his faith in himself. The deep breath is not nerve-steeling enough to reassure him, but he leaps off the ladder and plunging into the water anyway, the lifeless figure gracelessly falling from its perch around his neck and following him down, the rope tethering him to the bag dancing wildly in the air.

He begins sinking the moment he hits, the sudden temperature change being the first to register on his skin. It is surprisingly therapeutic, even as it breaks him out in gooseflesh and instates the urge to shiver himself right off of his bones. The salt burns across the deep wound in his arm, pulling a hiss from his parted lips, but the sound is swallowed up by the bubbles in the ocean. He pries his eyes open and heads to break the surface, but just as he gasps, he feels an agonizing impact from above. Through the fireworks exploding throughout his vision, Smitty sees the distorted image of the prone figure come crashing down onto him before the world goes black. 

Overhead, a flock of birds split apart from their formation and slowly drift until they're all going their own directions.

🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸

The ship was going down very quickly now, taking his last hope of survival with it. If anything, he was lucky to be alive after that encounter but was doomed because of it, and maybe he had done more bad than good "rescuing" this man. If he perhaps had more time to salvage what he could maybe gather some food, he may have had a better chance. The real question was how quickly would he this end for them.

John feels every muscle in his body screech for relief, but he forces himself to keep going. The wind is foreign on his soft skin, and his very bones seem to creak under the weight they are forced to support, bent akimbo to hold the body over the water. 

However, he ignores the pleading and continues above the surface. The pirate is limp and heavy in his arms, even heavier when his muscles are so weak, but he knows that the creature is a human, and too much water inside them kills. His lips fall open idly and he squints to see the hazy alcove before him. Hope rises in his chest the closer they manage to drift towards it, but they're still too far to make it before he succumbs to fatigue.

With wobbly arms and a slight prayer to whatever would listen, John straightens his arms into the air and sinks below the surface, hoping the angle is enough to keep the human’s head out of the water. Immediate relief bustles through his system as he gasps heavily. His muscles thank him as the water eases the load, but he knows he can't stay like this. Nothing above the water is visible, and he can't navigate around the pesky schools when it's so dark. The air bites harshly at his fingertips, which have long since lost sensation aside from the fiery heat of the pirate's rough, dirty flesh. He takes a few more labored breaths before his arms threaten to buckle and he's stuck breaking out above the waves.

John doesn't know for sure how long he does it, or how he does it at all, but eventually, he's flapping his tail in short, sharp movements to carefully maneuver through the entrance to the cove. Dragging the lifeless body felt lighter than the bag locked between his teeth with all the euphoria thrumming through his blood. He felt like he was on fire, and he didn't need to touch the clammy skin of his comrade to know he was probably stone cold. In a sweep of pride and pure unadulterated joy, he swings the body past his own and onto the black sand. His shiny green eyes roll back as he sinks into the water to just stop and breathe. He'd saved the human!

He rises up to look at the figure, triumphant grin still locked in place, but the person is still and lifeless in the sand. Fear traces John's features, and he pulls himself up onto the shore to get a better look. He runs a hand across the face and presses his head to the cloth clad shirt, but the human is indeed breathing, if shallowly and in small pants.

That alone makes him feels grateful, but the thought doesn't last. The human is cold, injured, and perhaps even starving. He’ll need a fire if he doesn't want to freeze to death, and desperately needs something to cover that vicious cut for the night. The only thing the human has to protect himself is a short, dull dagger, chipped and dirty from what must have been years of use. John's teeth clench; it seemed like just when he thought he was out of hell another gate opened up. In a somewhat childish fit of rage, he curls his still hot fingers into a fist and slams it onto the human, hoping to will him awake.

And, it works. Sort of.

Water spouts out of the pirate's mouth like a geyser and his brain snaps into consciousness. John watches in slight fear as the human coughs and sputters more and more murky water filled with mucus and other fluid slime, dragging himself onto his side. It seems to help, as the human's fit comes to an end and his eyes finally fall open.

🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸

Smitty flops bonelessly onto his back and stares wide-eyed and shocked at what must be the roof of a cave. His chest burns just like his skin in that way that suggests it's from extreme cold, and a subconscious groan escapes his lips. He takes a moment to just breathe and feel his heartbeat hammer away at his chest. A shaky hand raises to wipe the salt caking the area around his eyes push his hair out of his face. Well, it looked like he’d survived anyway.

A shuffling off to his side brings him to the present, and a quick glance over makes him do a double-take. Laying next to him in the dark sand is the gorgeous merman, sprawled out with arms protectively curled around Smitty's own form.

"You're a mermaid." He says, voice hoarse and scratchy, and it sends him into another coughing fit. The merman pulls himself away from his prone figure but holds a hand out to help steady him, even after Smitty's natural flinch in response. He allows himself to be dragged into a proper sitting position, which also gives him the ability to properly breathe.

The creature watches him take a few breaths before deeming him not on the verge of death and nods hesitantly. A closer look reveals familiar wisps of brown hair and moonlight pale skin. It was indeed the merman he'd dragged off the enemy's ship before he blacked out.

"You saved me?" He asks, but it sounds less like a question and more like a comment. The merman's eyebrows draw together at the words, and he shakes his head.

"I was only returning the favor. It was you who saved me first." He says quietly, but his voice reverberates heavily through the empty cove, although it is just as scratchy as Smitty's.

"Well thank you anyway." He concedes, clearing his throat and running a hand through his knotted hair, but the merman only shakes his head back.

"You don't need to thank me.” He says, voice much clearer now, as he re-positions himself into a crawl. Smitty watches delicate hands find purchase in the dark sand and begin dragging his ill-suited body back into the pool. “What you need is to get out of those wet clothes and get a fire started."

"You're right," Smitty says and winces into a stand. He makes it a good twenty seconds of attempting to shuck off his lone boot, having long since lost the other one in his impromptu trip, but finds that he’s not quite ready to be entirely upright just yet. He sits back down and his head thanks him as he slips his jacket over his shoulders and pulls his shoe off. His ripped brown shirt is next, but he hesitates with pants.

When he realizes why the human is staring at him so expectantly, the merman feels the strong desire to roll his eyes.

"Alright. While you do your thing, I'm gonna go find us something to eat." He sighs, face darkening slightly as he speaks. He opens his mouth as though to add something else, but gives up and turns to dive into the shallow pool.

"Wait!" Smitty calls, and he pauses for a moment, confusion crossing his subtle features as he twists back to face the human. Smitty crouches into a seat at one of the higher edges of the shoreline.

"What's your name?" He asks softly, now that they were so close. The merman stares up at him for a moment in consideration before seeming to mentally shrug and cock a brow.

"You can call me John."

Smitty nods lightly and brings a calloused, bruised hand to grip at the cold stone. "Well John, I'm Smitty," he conjures up what he hopes is a charming smile, "And I really do mean it when I say thank you."

John's eyes widen ever so slightly and fierce violet rises into his cheeks. He nods once before finally sinking into the water and taking his leave. Smitty watches him swim away until there is no trace of him in the cave, before he finally allows himself to attend to the agony of his cut.

All that aside, however, he can’t seem to wipe the grin off his face. He’d met a real mermaid today.

:)

[achtung-attitude]

Chapter 29: Hotel California - Part 1

“Marsellus!” cries a woman’s voice. The big-eared black man turns towards the reception desk, where a middle-aged woman is stationed. “What are you doing standing around for? Go and collect our guests’ luggage!” She claps twice, quickly, “Luther! You come out here and help as well!”

At the call, an elderly white man appears, wearing the lobby boy uniform, with a large red birthmark over his right eye, uncannily shaped like the state of California. He and Marsellus rush to take the luggage off the hands of the grateful driver. Even between the two of them, it is a lot to carry, arranging them into a tower of cases. The old man struggles especially, breathing heavily, shaky on his feet. He must be at least 80 years old.

In spite of Marsellus’ help, the tower inevitably begins to topple, just as the pair pass Kilo, the bags threatening to land on his head. Their descent is suddenly halted as SATURN BARZ appears, pushing them back in place with its back and shoulders. Kilo walks past, following Jerome and Shizuka, who are still rapt in awe of the hotel.

Kilo looks all around the lobby, frowning at the immaculately polished tile floor, the fine art, the architecture that seems to glow. Even the small decorative pool is gorgeously clear, without a single flaw. He wrinkles his nose and sniffs, catching up to his friends at the reception desk.

“You’re in luck, honored guests,” says the receptionist, “This just so happens to be our last vacancy for tonight. We hope you enjoy your stay.”

“Ohmygosh, Jerome, I can’t believe we’re gonna stay here!!” Shizuka exclaims in awe and excitement. “It’s such a lovely place!!”

“What did I say?? Is this place tight or what?” Jerome says, chuckling to himself, happy he’s bringing number one fan somewhere nice. He collects the room key from the woman standing behind the reception desk. The pin on her magenta blazer says the name “Martha”.

“If you say so,” Kilo assents, “Yo, you said you booked at the last minute right? Between this and getting your house fixed, what kinda dollars are you spending?”

“Don’t ask questions when you ain’t prepared for the answers, my man…” Jerome says slyly, keeping his golden grin.

The elevator dings open, and the trio catch their breath at this sight within. The occupant of the metal box ducks under the rim of the entrance and stands to his full height, towering over Kilo. The man is big in all directions, his crisp blue suit failing to contain his protruding bulk. He may have trampled right through them had he not spotted them at the last moment, his leathery face darting down. 

“Well!” he booms, “new guests! Pleasure to meet ya!” His hand shoots down and grabs Kilo’s hand, shaking it with the grip of a champion. Talking the whole time, he moves to do the same to Jerome, rattling his whole body with the force of his greeting. “Real genuine pleasure to meet my future constituents! I’m sure you don’t need me to introduce myself, but why shouldn’t I, this being our first official meeting!” He pauses in his stream only to stoop and plant a kiss on Shizuka’s hand. “Paul Mann’s the name. Businessman, and future governor of California! Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourselves?! What brings to this lovely establishment?!”

“Oh uh, we… my crib’s getting refurbished so we hanging out here for a while…” Jerome stutters.

“Ah, I’m visiting from New York…!” Shizuka chimes in.

“Are you real?” Kilo asks.

“I’m as real as you are, my friend! Well, if it’s a vacation you’re after, you certainly came to the right place! I’ve lived in this great state my whole life, and I’ve stayed in every hotel from San Francisco to San Diego, and this is without a doubt the best I’ve ever been in! It really is a lovely place! The penthouse where I'm staying at is unlike anything in this world!! Listen, I’m heading off to supper now! If any of you find your way down to the dining hall, you be sure to come on over, so we can have a proper conversation!” 

“Uh… sure, we’ll do that…!” Jerome says, raising a thumbs up.

“I’m looking forward to it!” declares Paul Mann, who it seems to only declare things, not say them. He leaves, waving at them as he heads across the lobby. It is Marsellus that breaks the trio out of their daze, beckoning them into the elevator.

“We are not eating with that guy,” Kilo says as they step inside, making a declaration of his own.

The bellboy presses the buttons Kilo catches sight of two people entering the hotel: a man and his son. They are the same man and son that have appeared in proximity to the gang the whole time, though neither party is aware of this.

“I can’t believe any of this!” the man mutters loudly, storming towards the empty reception desk, “So we broke one TV, they can just buy another one... Where do they get off kicking us out…? Hey, hello?! Anybody there?! I need a room for me and my son, right now!”

The woman, Martha, quickly slides behind the reception desk. “Apologies for the delay, sir,” she says, “How may I--”

“A big TV!” the kid shouts, “I wanna big TV, tell her Daddy! I wanna watch Fist of the North Star!”

“I got it, I got it!” His father responds, “You heard him, big TV. And thick walls, while you’re at it. I don’t want to have to listen to the neighbours banging in the next room, comprendé?”

Kilo, watching this scene unfold from the elevator, scoffs silently. “Too bad for you,” he thinks, “They booked out just about now.”

“Certainly, sir,” Martha says in her phonograph tones, “We have a room exactly suiting your needs. You’re in luck, it so happens to be our last vacancy.”

Kilo frowns and starts to say something, but then the elevator doors slide shut in front of him, closing with a metallic crunch.

                                                             ***

Shizuka’s first action upon entering the room was to bound inside, throw off her shoes and leap onto the king-size bed, squealing as it rebounded her two feet into the air before landing again, sinking into its soft embrace. All this, before Marsellus the bellboy could finish saying “Welcome to the Presidential Suite.” 

“Dope,” Jerome says, immediately running to open the mini fridge, then flicking on the television.

“We didn’t ask for a suite, we wanted a double room,” Kilo says, grimacing.

“I’m afraid this was the only room we had available, sir,” Marsellus explains, never dropping his photographic smile, “And after all, we have nothing but the best for the one and only C-King.”

“Word! This is the good life, Kilo!” 

“Indeed. As your companions have already found out, the Presidential offers a king-size bed, and interactive multimedia system, a fully stocked drinks cabinet. In addition,” the bellboy continues in a speech that is clearly rehearsed, “you’re provided with complimentary 4G WiFi and panoramic views of the Beverly Hills area. Last but not-”

“Inglewood.”

“... I beg your pardon?”

“We’re in Inglewood,” Kilo says, “Not Beverly Hills. You’re off by 10 miles.”

“... My mistake. Please forgive me.” Kilo says nothing in response, as Marsellus produces a bottle of wine from one of the cabinets underneath the TV monitor. “As a final feature, a bottle of Châteauneuf Du Pape 1969, a premium French red, compliments of the house.”

“That sounds so fancy!” Shizuka exclaims, rolling off the bed and skipping towards him. The bellboy produces three wine glasses and places them on the table next to the TV. He pours with practiced efficiency an equal amount into all three. 

The bellboy places the bottle on the table. Jerome and Shizuka pick up their glasses. “The Hotel California invites you to enjoy your stay. If there’s nothing else, I will take my leave--”

“Hold it,” Kilo says. Marsellus stops in his tracks, and turns to see Kilo raising the wine glass in his face. “You drink first.”

“Kilo--!” Shizuka protests.

“Hold it. Go on. Drink.”

Marsellus raises a hand. “Ah, sir, the wine isn’t for me. As I said, it’s complimentary for guests--”

“Call it a tip. How often do you get a break, anyway?”

“Sir, I appreciate it, but drinking is strictly prohibited on the job. I’d have to consult my supervisor if I were to--”

“It’s one sip. You ain’t gonna fall down drunk…” Silence falls, for a moment. “Either you drink, or we’re out of here.”

Silence falls again, tenser than before. Seconds tick by, agonizingly slow. Kilo levels his glare at the bellboy’s photograph face, which betrays no emotion at all.

“If you insist, sir,” Marsellus says finally, taking the glass. Without hesitation, he tilts his head back and sips the wine. He savours the taste for a moment, then swallows. He exhales, handing the glass back. “A gorgeous vintage. Will that be all then, sir?”

“... Sure.” Kilo says after a moment, taking the wine back and laying it on the table.

“In that case, if you have any further need of me, I’m one phone call away. Please don’t hesitate.” Marsellus exits the room on this note, closing the door behind him. 

“What the hell was that about, man!” Jerome yells, punching Kilo’s arm. Shizuka follows suit, kicking his shin. “You made us all look bad! I gotta be sure to give that guy a huge tip…!”

“I was making sure there wasn’t anything in the wine.”

“There was no need to be so rude. You have to be nice to the service staff!” Shizuka yells.

Kilo grits his teeth. “Do I need to remind you that we are in the middle of some gang war shit?”

“War?” Shizuka asks.

“Don’t tell you’ve forgotten already! Less than a day ago, you beat down one of the leaders of the Congregation! There could be Stand users in this hotel right now, waiting for the order to kill us all! We don’t have time to relax!”

“You’re being paranoid, Kilo!” Shizuka talks back. “What are the odds that there’s a gang assassin that just happens to be at this hotel, out of thousands in all of LA? This hotel is such a lovely place, there’s no way anything bad could happen here.”

“Bad shit can happen anywhere, at any time, to anybody…” he replies, somewhat melancholic.

Jerome sighs and steps forward. “Alright, alright. Tell you what, we stay the night, then come morning we find a new place. That sound good? If we move around, it’ll be harder for them to track us down, right?”

“…It’s a start.”

Jerome nods, smiling kindly. “Well, while we here, let’s try out that fucking restaurant the big guy was talking about!”

“I want fried rice and butter chicken!” Shizuka chimes in.

Kilo can only continue to grimace.

[sweetsoursugarcube]

The Ghost Ship

I wrote this to celebrate Eren’s birthday, but it’s been over a week since the big day D: In my defense, I’ve been busy translating it from Swedish to English.

Please read the original story, Spökskeppet, if you can, either on AO3 or on FF.NET

You can also read The Ghost Ship in English on AO3 and FF.NET

Summary: The sea rages and Eren awaits a visitor. Jean tells Marco the ghost story of the captain and the lighthouse keeper in the stormy night. And through the mist sails the ghost ship; the Captain’s coming to meet his lover. ~3k

EDIT: tumblr is having problems with the “read more” feature and some strange symbols might pop up if you read the post on desktop, but if you view it on my blog it should be fine :) i didn’t put them there myself lol

Once again the clock strikes twelve and it’s the thirtieth of March. The light of the crescent moon and the stars waltz across the smooth surface of the sea and the heavy air rests. A thick mist from the north glides over the calm waters. Above it rolls the clouds. And the world slumbers.

Standing on his islet, Eren looks over the sea. When he catches sight of the gray mist wall in the horizon, he hops down the cliff and slides down to the water’s edge with wildly flailing arms. There he sinks to his knees on the small, charcoal stones covering the beach and stretches his hand over the water. It’s hardly comfortable despite that the stones have been polished smooth by the waves, but he doesn’t register the pain. He’s only interested in the rippling surface and how the tips of the tiny waves lick his palm.

These waves aren’t common. The sea outside of Shiganshina bay behave like this only once a year, on the thirtieth of March. A hundred years ago or so it might have done so more often, but it’s been long since then and the circumstances have changed over time. Eren doesn’t remember the details of his past very well either, so maybe he’s mistaken. It doesn’t matter.

He wipes his hands on his pants. Visitors are on the way, they must be. The ship has never missed his birthday, but that’s not enough to put him at ease. “The sea has its own mind. You can’t control the damned thing,” Levi used to say. And when Eren’s temperament exploded, he’d say “you’re just like the fucking sea” in that special tone of voice with a tenderness only Eren could hear.

He runs despite the lighthouse door being thirty scarce steps from the beach and he could make it walking as well. Leaving the door open behind him, he rushes through the lighthouse keeper’s apartment and to the stone stairs. So often have they been plodded up and down that the edges have become slanted and the surface worn into slipperiness. Hence why he kicks his shoes off before climbing two steps at a time all the way up.

Lighting the lamp in the lighthouse is like second nature to Eren. Once the light is on, he pushes the balcony door open and gazes northward.

The enormous waves heave greedily. Some break against the cliffs, while others throw themselves over the stone beach to leave thick stripes of sea foam behind, over and over again. It’s a game for them. Sometimes their tips glimmer when the crescent peeks out from between the clouds. The wind that had been mild all afternoon pulls now at Eren’s clothes. It blows through him and nips at his soul as it passes.

The mist is thick and the clouds dark. Eren shields his eyes from the wind and his own hair that whips him in the face. He has to confirm that the travelers are going to pay him the visit he’s been longing for every day, every minute, all year long.

But there in the distance flutters a flag. Not wildly like Eren’s hair, but proudly. It’s green, with a pair of white and blue swords painted across it. Or maybe they’re wings? Hard to tell, because the picture is as worn as the lighthouse’s stairs. Worn and familiar.

He leans over the balcony railing and peers in the mist. Its damp, silky lips have reached the lighthouse and are prepared to swallow him. And all he wishes is to make sure his visitor has arrived.

Surrounded by a bubble of stillness, despite being the eye of the storm, glides the ship across the sea. The mist hangs over her like a bridal veil, but the wind is mild and the air is lukewarm. The floorboards and masts creak, and on the starboard side gapes a hole so big you’d think the ship should’ve sunk a long time ago.

But she has not.

The wind blows away but Eren and the lighthouse remain. They’ve been swallowed by the ship’s private bubble.

“There she comes,” he whispers to himself. “There comes Kuchel and her crew.” And her captain. Kuchel’s son, who has named his most important belonging after he. If only she knew how far away he’s sailed and how much he’s seen and done. The world’s strongest captain, they call him. She’d be as proud as Eren is.

The mist following the ship lies heavy as a curtain and the sight is poor, but there’s nothing wrong with the sound. If you get close enough, you’ll hear the ship creak and the ropes beat the masts, and if you get even closer, you’ll hear the men sing and laugh. In the commotion a command may ring. “Order aboard” or “scrub the decks” will a low but silky voice yell then. And always will it be answered by a “yes, Captain!”

Shanties echo over the calm water. Eren’s heart pounds. Fluttering wild against his ribs, like a flag in the September storm.

Vaguely sung words about storms and sea monsters are carried to him on the wind. The crew has changed course since they’ve caught sight of the lighthouse light. They’ve avoided grounding and are on their way past the islet. The shanty fades away and the low but silky voice shouts “do you call this clean? Deck’s covered in shit, redo it!”

Afterwards it’s silent. Not even a small ”yes, Captain!” rings through the night.

The ship has passed Eren without anchoring. He squeezes the balcony railing so hard his knuckles shine white.

“Wait,” he yells. “Wait!”

Now he’s running again. Down the lighthouse stairs, two steps at a time. He trips, but gets a hold of a window aperture and continues without missing a beat.

This can’t happen, it can’t be true. For the first time ever the ship passes the lighthouse on the thirtieth of March without stopping. Has the old Captain gotten senile? Has he forgot what he came here for? Or does he not have the time to take a break? But Eren’s waited for this night! He’s waited for it for a whole year, every day and every minute, he cannot wait another year. He just can’t.

The lighthouse door has locked itself. Without yanking on his shoes, Eren twists and pulls the lock. He kicks the door.

“Open up, you old bastard,” he says and jerks the handle. The door groans but obeys and Eren falls out onto the cliff.

The pier lies in the southeast. If he waves and shouts from there perhaps the ship’s crew would hear him. And if not, at least he can threaten their captain with what’ll happen the next time his collar is within reach of Eren’s fist.

“We’ll see how much you love the uncontrollable sea then, all right,” he hisses from between his teeth.

The islet is slippery after the mist and the great waves washing the cliffs. The chance of falling into the sea is high, especially if Kuchel continues onward and the storm following her gets a hold of Eren before he gets inside. But he’s not afraid of drowning for he’s been the lighthouse’s keeper for decades already and he can take care of himself. Besides, the legend says that if you drown, you’ll grow a tail over your legs. Though that sounds more like a beautiful tale told to comfort the parents of the hopeless girls who’ve drowned themselves.

When Eren reaches the pier, something splashes at its end and he halts abruptly. An oar pokes out from behind it. In the background sits Kuchel surrounded by her heavy veil.

A man disembarks on the pier. Kicking the rope that keeps his rowing boat in place with the tip of one boot. He raises his gaze and meets Eren’s with an emotionless expression.

Short and pale as a ghost, he is. The hair’s inky black and his eyes light. A few wrinkles sit in the corners of his eyes with black bags underneath. He’s dressed in shiny, knee-high boots and around his neck hangs a white cravat.

The awaited visitor has arrived.

“Levi,” Eren shouts. His legs are numb and yet he runs. On the last step he jumps despite being at least half a head taller than his guest.

They stagger but Levi gets a grip of Eren’s waist and holds him up, unaffected. He tilts his head back to study Eren’s grin.

Eren squeezes the cravat in his fist. “You little bastard, I thought you’d leave without seeing me.”

A small smile pulls at Levi’s lips. “Never. Congratulations on your birthday, love.”

  Jean and Marco sit wrapped in a blanket on a fallen pine trunk. The weather had been calm all evening, but around midnight a storm blew in and Marco confessed that he was too nervous to sleep. Together they left the tent to watch over the sea, sheltered by the forest. The shared blanket was Jean’s idea.

“I wonder where this wind came from,” Marco says. Only his eyes peek out from behind the blanket.

“Who knows,” Jean mumbles. Gravity pulls at his eyelids, even though his company has an uplifting effect. It wouldn’t be all that knightly of him to fall asleep in the middle of the storm that worries Marco, so he fights bravely against the Sandman’s temptations.

“It shouldn’t be this windy by the end of March.”

“The end of March. . .” Jean blinks. The sea raging outside of Shiganshina. . . by the end of March. . . A vague bell rings somewhere at a distance, but his brain is too tired to remember what it wants to remind him of.

“Oh but look, someone turned on the lamp in the old lighthouse. I didn’t know it was back in use. Who’s the keeper?”

“Huh? Where? The old lighthouse has been empty for at least a hundred years, why would anyone turn on the lights there?”

“I wonder as well. But since the light’s on someone has to have done it. Look.” Marco shoves his hand out from the blanket fort and points before he quickly tugs it back into the warmth. How cute he is. Jean can’t help his feelings. He wants to say something, but peers northward instead. And as it is, the light from the lighthouse shines through the thick mist.

And then it hits him.

“Oh shit.” Gravity gives up on Jean’s eyelids, because now he’s wide-eyed. Goodbye, Mr. Sandman. “Someone’s playing us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you heard the ghost story?”

Marco pales. “No, which one?”

”The one about the captain and the lighthouse keeper?”

“Sounds scary.”

A wide grin spreads across Jean’s face. ”Not really. Come closer and I’ll tell you.”

Marco squirms until he sits pressed against Jean’s side. Hip to hip, arm to arm. He pulls the blanket closer around them.

“It’s said that the old lighthouse is haunted. It’s the crazy son of a doctor, Eren Yeager, who lives there. He’s the last one to live in the lighthouse before it was shut down. Eren died on that islet on the thirtieth of March, on his twenty-eighth birthday. He turns on the light in the old lighthouse every year, on the night before the thirtieth.”

Sorrow weighs Marco’s voice. “In his own memory?”

“Nope. He’s showing the way to passing ships.”

“Only once a year? The lighthouse isn’t used anymore, it’s not needed.”

“No, but it’s more of a signal to one ship alone. Or to its captain. When Eren turns on the lamp, it’s to say ‘here I am’. He’s hoping for visitors, you see.”

Marco gasps. ”The Captain.”

Jean nods with a serious countenance. ”Yeah, that’s his lover. Eren was barely twelve years old when he met the Captain for the first time here in Shiganshina. He was known as a merciless pirate before he was employed by the state. They said that he was the strongest man in the world, that he was invincible. When his ship Kuchel arrived to the battle, it was already won, because she was the quietest ship in the world, and her crew the most skilled. The Captain always led his men himself.”

“What was his name?”

“No one knows. Eren probably was the only one who was allowed to call him anything else than Captain. He was known to be very strict and tidy. And short. It made him scarier, you couldn’t get a good grip of him.”

“Did Eren become a sailor as well?”

“No. His father made him a doctor. And Eren was young, the Captain didn’t want him coming along either. It wasn’t until he turned fifteen that they started to seriously socialize. It’s a bit unclear with all of that. Some pages have been ripped from Armin’s book.”

”Armin’s book?” Marco frowns. ”Is this a fairytale?”

“No-no. It’s Eren’s childhood friend’s diary. That’s where everything’s written. People were worried when weird things happened on the sea and wanted answers, so they dug up some old books. But I personally think it’s only little boys who’re playing around. They probably row out to the lighthouse once a year to turn on the lamp and then they come back again. It’s all in good fun, I know it.”

“Yeah. . .”

”Anyway. The Captain and Eren were in love and Eren goes with Kuchel as the ship’s doctor. One time, when they return home, they’re told that there are many sick in Shiganshina and that Eren was more needed here than on the ship, so he stayed. Kuchel and the Captain sailed away. But they were supposed to return on the thirtieth of March because the Captain insisted on being here on his lover’s birthday.”

“How romantic.”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe.” Jean rubs the back of his neck and looks over the sea. The mist is thicker and heavier than before, but the lighthouse lamp shines bright. “Problem is, they never came back. People said they must’ve lost their way. Or that maybe the Captain had grown tired of Eren and left him for good. That maybe he had found some nicer and more handsome ship’s doctor. You see, Eren was known for his temper and stubbornness and the Captain was invincible, so it was unlikely that he would’ve died. We still don’t know where Kuchel is, but it’s known that she and her Captain visited the city she was supposed to. She disappeared after that with all of her crew aboard.”

“Do we really not know their fate?”

Jean shakes his head with pursed lips.

Marco shivers. “What do you think happened?”

“Some people blamed sea monsters. It was the only thing people thought could’ve overpowered the Captain. But it’s more likely that he upped and left to a faraway country, painted his ship and lived there for the rest of his life. Eren didn’t want to believe that of course. He insisted that the Captain would keep his promise and sat down to wait. ‘Crazy, he’s completely lost it,’ people said about him. So Eren decided to become a lighthouse keeper instead, since no one trusted him to be their doctor anymore.”

“People are terrible. He was just mourning, poor thing.”

“Yeah, maybe. He was a lighthouse keeper for four years, but then he drowned. No one knows how, but it was on this night, between the twenty-ninth and thirtieth, after he had turned on the lighthouse lamp. It’s said that it was terribly misty back then. The next day Armin and Eren’s sister went to the lighthouse to celebrate Eren’s birthday. They found him dead on the beach by the pier.”

“No, that’s too horrible. I don’t like this at all.” Large, brown eyes stare out at the sea, pause at the lighthouse and turn then pleadingly toward Jean. “It was his birthday. How can something like this happen?”

“Take it easy, it’s just a story.”

“But you said it was written in Armin’s book.”

“I’m sure he’s exaggerated for the sake of drama, it’s okay. So, once Eren had died, everyone thought that was the end of the Captain and the doctor’s son’s romance. No one wanted to move into the lighthouse so it was abandoned. Besides, it wasn’t needed anymore. Everything was forgotten. But then, exactly a year later-”

”The light in the lighthouse was turned on.” Marco swallows. He searches for Jean’s hand beneath the blanket and holds it tight.

“Yeah. Armin and Eren’s sister rowed out on the thirtieth. They’d been warned for the confusing mist that seemed to roll in by the end of March. They were the only friends Eren had and wanted to leave flowers in his memory. But guess what they saw on their way there?”

Marco holds his breath and Jean raises an eyebrow before continuing.

“Kuchel.”

“No, that can’t be true.”

“But it is, according to Armin. Kuchel had been anchored outside of the lighthouse and someone had tied their rowboat to the pier, so Armin and Eren’s sister didn’t have room for theirs. They left their flowers there and rowed away. When they passed the Captain’s ship, they saw an enormous hole in its side and heard shanties sound in the mist. And on the pier stood Eren and the Captain waving at them, side by side. They realized that they’d seen a ghost ship and that Eren had reunited with his lover.”

“But why would Eren still light in the lighthouse if he’s found his Captain?”

“I already told you, it’s not him who turns on the light, it’s just someone playing around. But . . .” Jean bites his lip. ” Armin thought that the Captain’s not done sailing yet. He’s no landlubber you see, he loves the sea. Besides, Kuchel’s disappearance was never explained, so maybe she was cursed.”

“Eren could’ve become the ship’s doctor again,” Marco says.

“But he died as a lighthouse keeper. Armin suspected that he can’t leave the lighthouse and that the Captain can’t abandon his ship either. It’s their destiny to be forever separated and only meet once a year.”

Marco buries himself deeper into the blanket. His eyes glimmer in the light from the lighthouse. “Such a sad ghost story.”

“It’s a myth, don’t be sad because of it,” Jean says. ”It’s just some brats who are trying to trick us with the lighthouse lamp.” And yet he had goosebumps.

Marco sits in silence. ”But it’s misty out here. It’s always misty by the end of March. And the storm began so suddenly too. . . that’s weird, isn’t it?”

Jean rubs his knuckles. ”Ha, no, that happens all the time, every now and then. It’s not weird at all.”

“But a little bit.”

“A little bit, maybe.” And he straightens his back. ”But don’t worry about it. You didn’t get scared, did you?”

“No, just sad.”

Jean grins, but shivers run down his spine again. “That’s so like you. But Marco, shouldn’t we maybe go back to the tent now? Not because I’m scared or anything like that, I just don’t want you to catch a cold.”

“How nice of you,” Marco says and smiles.

“Yeah, haha.” Jean jumps up. ”Let’s go.”

“Okay, I’m coming- oh, but look!”

”What? Where?”

”The ghost ship. It’s there. I swear I can see it.”

Jean laughs, but it sounds more like a cough. He stares wildly over the sea. “No-o, you’re just making things up. It’s so misty, sometimes you imagine seeing things in the mist.”

“No, look past the lighthouse. If you look carefully, you’ll see it.”

He follows Marco’s pointing finger in the thick mist around the lighthouse and its bright light. And he distinguishes a proudly fluttering flag on the top of a mast, and under it the contours of a ship.

“The Captain’s ghost ship,” Jean whispers. His voice is hoarse and so low he barely hears it himself.

“The Captain’s come to meet his lover on his birthday. How nice.”

“You’re the one being nice.” Jean grabs Marco’s arm. “I think it’s for the best if we leave now.”

Into the forest they disappear, Jean and Marco, hand in hand. And out on the open sea rocks the ghost ship, while her captain disembarks on the little islet where his lover has waited and longed for a visit, every day, every minute, for a whole year. As he’s done for many years and will do for many, many more

[harryandlouisarehappilystrong]

When I was just standing there wishing

song

“Harry may be the moon in your sky, but you’re the fucking sun, Louis! You’re blinding, you’re brilliant, you’re warmth and love and sunshine all wrapped in one. You’re . . . you’re my True North. You’re the end of the road.” He shrugs sadly. “The ‘sold’ sign in the front yard. And I--” he pauses to brush the tear that’s snaked down his cheek and looks down at his feet. “I know that I’m not yours. I know that I’m nothing, a lowly comet that could never measure up to the moon and the sun, but I-I would’ve loved you until the day I died, you know?”

He looks up then, Louis’ face completely blurred by the burning tears in his eyes. He feels like a dying star, his chest wants to cave in. He can’t breathe and this is the hardest thing he’s ever done - the hardest thing he’s done in the last two hours, because being around Louis and Harry sickeningly in love takes the cake every goddamn second of the day.

He blinks and the tears splash down his cheeks and Louis is suddenly, startlingly clear and bright - and less than a foot away, staring at him, his own chin wobbling, eyes bloodshot, face wet with tears.

This is hard on him too, Blake knows, just not enough to change anything; he knows that too; and he wishes he could be less selfish, could let Louis go with grace and dignity, without a fight, but it’s just not in him. He just can’t. He can’t let go of the love of his life without fighting with all he’s got until he has nothing left.

Louis licks his lips, and Blake watches the drag of his tongue over his bottom lip, leaving it shiny and wet. Blake aches everywhere, all over his body and goes a little dizzy, because he wants nothing more than to pull Louis into him, kiss him so fiercely he steals his breath, and he has to hold his breath to keep himself at bay.

He wants to drag Louis to the bed that used to be theirs, the bed he knows smells like Harry now; he wants to carry him to the pillows, lay him down, take him apart piece by piece, make him shiver, shake, and whimper. He wants to be inside him so badly his stomach hurts and he knows he’s shaking now, trembling with how much love is threatening to burst out of his chest.

What was it he’d said to Louis all those months ago?

“Because I love you, I’m in love with you, I’m so in love with you that I feel like I could burst with it. And I’m standing here feeling like an idiot because I know you don’t feel the same w--”

He feels the same now, tears and all, like they’re back in the same place and the only thing he’s missing is Louis dragging him in by his neck, kissing him so hard it hurt and silencing any doubt he’d had that this love, this bright and wonderful physical thing burning inside him, was returned.

He won’t get that assurance now. He’s alone on this island, paralyzed by the love he can’t let go of.

Blake feels suspended in time as he watches Louis raise his hand, and he flinches, ready to be slapped, punched, something that tells him off and has him slinking off to lick his wounds while he listens to Harry laughing in the other room - and he shivers with chills, feeling hot and cold all at once, when Louis’ hand cups his cheek, his touch tender.

Blake lets out a strangled noise he doesn’t recognize and Louis’ mouth parts. He looks more wrecked than Blake has ever seen him.

He can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t feel anything but Louis’ hand on his face, his thumb stroking his jaw, and Blake wants to freeze this moment and live in it until the day he dies. Someday, when science has advanced enough to imprint moments on the backs of eyelids, he wants this moment replaying when he takes his last breath.

Blake feels his body bowing to Louis’, curving in to press into his space, and he can’t even stop himself, the movement so instinctive it’s all he knows how to do when Louis is so close his eyes keep crossing just to focus on him. Up close, Louis’ eyes searching his are like a stormy sea, harsh blue flecked with grey like lightning out over the water.

His heart is thundering so hard he knows Louis feels it in his neck, knows he can feel the heat radiating off Blake like waves ready to take him under. He’s never wanted to lose his footing so badly in his life.

One of them has to break first, but it won’t be him. It won’t ever be him.

Turns out it’s both of them.

The clack of high-heels on the hardwood floor have them stepping apart like a gust of wind, and Blake can finally breathe. He spins around to wipe his face of dried tears before she can speak. He knows who it is, knows in the way that his stomach curls with dread and his heart sits heavy with something akin to guilt, if he knew how to feel that.

“Babe?”

The sound of his girlfriend’s voice is like a snake in the grass and it makes his throat burn with a bile because that’s not who he wants to call him babe.

“Yeah?”

She laughs, high and warm, looking between them like she doesn’t suspect a thing; doesn’t know better enough to. “Are you coming? It’s been your turn for, like, years, and Harry and Amara are getting restless.” She looks at his hands hanging limply by his side, prickling with sweat and still trembling. “Where’s your beer?”

Blake takes a deep breath to ask what she means when he feels a cold glass bottle pressing into his hand. “Right here,” Louis says, smiling easily, like it’s nothing for him to be in the room with her, the woman he got left for; Blake knows better. “Sorry, love, we got sidetracked.”

Louis doesn’t bother with an excuse because Kendy doesn’t know she should suspect them of anything; doesn’t believe him every time he tells her that he’s in love with Louis; doesn’t believe a man can love another man; that he could love another man. He hates her and himself in equal measure for that.

He swings his arm around Blake like they’re old friends as they let Kendy walk ahead of them, like that’s something they can do without the heavy weight of everything pressing in on them.

It’s only when they turn the corner that Louis tightens his hold on Blake, bringing his arm up to force Blake to bend his head towards him. Blake goes easily, he always will. Louis’ breath is hot against his ear and he’s speaking before Blake finishes getting goosebumps.

“You were never just a comet, you were a fucking supernova. And then you left me.”

He releases Blake so abruptly he almost trips at the loss of momentum, feels frozen and numb as Louis’ words sink into his brain like a glacier cracking over water.

He watches Louis walk away, the swagger to his hips and lightness in his whole body like he didn’t just rip Blake’s entire world apart all over again. Because it’s both true and they know it.

He takes a beat to catch his breath and then barrels his way into the room, over-the-top loud and obnoxious, frantic and frenzied, overcompensating in a way that he knows is going to grate on everyone’s nerves after fifteen minutes, but he can’t stop himself. The hysteria is better than shattering and letting the silence run him aground like a ship against rocks.

He is on an island all alone and he can’t save himself.