Let this adorable Meryl and Amanda moment be a good omen for Mamma Mia! things to come in 2024.

Friday 1 June 1832

8 ¼

12 50

fine morning F59 ½° at 8 ¼ - down at 9 25 - Mrs M- came in about ¼ hour - we both looked serious and I with parched lips and as she acknowledged as if I felt deeply and too much she said she had something to say to me so said I I have to you and I began said that after a night’s reflection I doubted that I could make her happy and that tho’ she could make me so yet I doubted her being steady doubted her constancy and then I should be miserable past my strength of endurance I knew a great deal about her owned that π-  knowing my partiality had told me much for my good hoped I was not always sso bad as I seemed hinted that I was peculiarly situated towards her that she was the last towards whom I could do an unprincipled thing (she understood me that I could not amuse myself or the moment should be miserable ever afterwards I believe she would willingly try me for curiosity’s sake) and perhaps this was more for the sake of others than for her own  she said perhaps I was right she could not be constant she should be very sorry to add to my unhappiness she did not know how it was she thought she could not help it but she thought I despised her declared not etc etc but it was a great consolation she thought me right she said something about not leaving William and I said if sure of my being made really happy I should think so legitimate an anxiety no stumbling block however I suspect that if my say had not prevented hers she would have told me a very different tale she would have run off with me or got me into the scrape and laughed at me if she could I pretended her influence was overwhelming and certainly looked and acted the part of passion well enough perhaps to her heart’s content I said indeed it was no joke to me no said she with satisfied air I see it is not but we kissed rather fervently and I think I played my backward game inimitably what a woman she is! she would be bad with any man and try me too rather than not. Breakfast at 10 ½ and till 2 ½ up and down stairs dawdling away the morning reading a few pages of the natural history of enthusiasm and wrote 3 pages of ½ sheet note paper to Mr and Mrs Duffin (after having talked over the last year’s annoyance about luggage with Mrs N- and Charlotte and Mrs M-) to propose going to them for a couple of days if they could take me in but not fixing anytime Mrs N- having offered my leaving the imperial’s at her house in Petergate - Mrs Milne took my note and went in the gig at 2 ½ - I had been in and out of her room by stealth several times and had abundance of kisses as empassioned as I could be in the humour to take them she said in her light way ‘I think you had better take me’ yes thought I but I know you too well I had again this morning stuck to the tale of π-‘s immaculateness but when Mrs Milne wished me happy said that was more than I expected and owned that π-‘s conduct had ruined my happiness and that as for Mrs M- I should neither be happy with nor without her luckily for me there was humbug enough in all that the ½ hour bell had just rung at 3 ½ when a man was seen running up to the house - what was the matter come for a ladder - the keeper had shot a man in a tree - all in alarm - soon leant it was George - shot in the head - was dying - prepared for the worst - he was soon brought up and laid on a bad in the dressing room downstairs - but the wound did not seem to me so bad as to be decidedly alarming - by 4 ¾ Mr Cobb and his son arrived - no wound of any consequence but from one grain of shot that had entered the socket of the left - small shot - at the distance of about 30 yards in the top of a high tree near carrion crows nest - the keeper shooting at the old birds - this one shot must have pierced the socket from the stupor and insensibility and the catching convulsive clothes pricking motions of the hands and arms - this always taking  place in cases of apoplexy and any pressure on the brain from extravasated blood or otherwise - saw Mr Cobb (dinner at about or near 5) - he seemed alarmed - said the chances were far greater against than for - but he (George) would be better or worse before morning - took 10oz. blood from the right arm, and about 9 two doz. leeches applied to the wounded (the left) temple - the pulse at first very faint, gradually rather quicker till it became pretty good, and then quicker than that by 11 pm - fever would not come on - the change - the harm would not be apparent in the constitution of 12 hours - the eye was fomented with lukewarm water till the leeches were put on and afterwards so that by 11 tho’ the stupor continued the poor fellow looked more himself - yet the catchiness continued at intervals as before - he had thrown up his dinner soon after being brought home and been sick 2 or 3 times afterwards - once brought up blood which his lip being shop he had probably swallowed - he had given a few teaspoonfuls of warm strong brandy and water before Mr Cobb came - but he did not swallow well - tonight (about 10) he had swallowed some medicine well. Mr Cobb left his son to stay all night who has a little bed in the room and 1 or 2 of the servants sitting up with him - he has only once (and that tonight) attempted some inarticulate word since being taken down from the tree - coffee - at the usual hour - then tea - came to my room at 11 - wrote all the above of today till 12 ½ - kind letter this morning 3pp. and ends from Miss H- nothing particular – as I had not written to Lady S- she Lady S- feared she had said too much against my dame de compagnie scheme Miss H- thought it might suit me and therefore begged me to please myself did not see why I should not – finish morning – rain came on at 2, and rainy afternoon and evening F63° now at 12 ½ tonight -

STIRRING

Summary: Remus is enjoying a quiet off season with his husband and newborn son - well, quiet may not be the right word.

SW credit to @lumosinlove

Remus-being-a-good-singer headcanon credit to @fruitcoops

Song: All the Animals by Jewel

Remus had been told - by his parents, by Lily and James, by Pascal and Celeste - to get his rest while he could. But with the new baby on the way, Remus found himself staring at their bedroom ceiling at night, his stomach churning with his many worries over how good of a parent he would be. And over how little sleep he was getting in the months and weeks leading up to their son's birth.

After their son came home, Remus found himself somewhat grateful for his sleepless nights. The amount of sleep he was getting hadn't really changed. Now he just had a purpose when he was awake.

It was late July now, Remus and Sirius savoring the last few weeks of their off-season, silently dreading when training and practices would pick back up, and their ability to stay with their son for every second of every day stolen away from them.

It wasn't as though they would never see their son again, but after the near constant contact they had with him Remus suspected they would all three be suffering from the growing pains that came with life's inability to slowdown.

Theodore Rigel Lupin-Black was crying. It was 2:37 AM, and Remus groggily woke up from a shockingly restful 3 hours of sleep.

That was another thing Remus had noticed. He wasn't getting a lot of sleep - but the little time he did get he fell asleep more quickly, and slept more deeply.

"Er-ugh," Sirius groaned from where he was curled up beside Remus, his arm thrown across Remus's waist. "Teddy?"

"I got it baby," Remus said softly, turning in Sirius's arms and kissing his forehead "you got him last time."

"He's probably hungry." Sirius muttered, before promptly falling back asleep. Remus sat up in the bed and throwing his legs over the side.

Theodore, little Teddy, slept in a bassinet in the corner of their bedroom. It calmed their nerves, it was easier to hear him when he needed them, and he wasn't a long walk away. They had a nursery for him down the hall, full decorated in a fantasy forest theme, complete with a mural of knights and dragons Regulus had so thoughtfully painted for them. Teddy took his naps in there, and he would move in full time once pre-season started up. For now, they had him all to themselves.

Teddy was kicking his legs inside his swaddle sack, his face scrunched up in his perceived misery. Remus cooed as he lifted the baby into his arms.

"Oh, my poor baby," he said, "Are you so hungry? Are Papa and Dada so mean and never feed you anything."

Teddy's cries softened slightly, as if knowing this wasn't true and feeling guilty for implying such a thing. His eyes were open and tracking Remus's face.

"I know, I know," Remus cooed, tucking Teddy safely into his arms and making his way out of the bedroom and downstairs to the kitchen.

He took a pre-made bottle from the fridge and placed it in the bottle warmer, and started to bounce Teddy in his arms while they waited. Teddy was decidedly unhappy at the prospect of having to wait any longer, and had picked up his cries. Remus combated this humming nonsensically and giving Teddy firm pats on the back to the beat.

The humming morphed into singing. A song Remus recognized from when he was a little kid.

all the animals

agree, you and me

should be a team

Teddy's cries were soothed slightly, going from wailing to soft whimpers and coos as he listened to Remus's voice, letting himself be soothed.

Remus let himself linger at the calm, aware look of his son's face. Teddy's hair was currently a dark brown color. They had tried to pick a surrogate that looked as much like Sirius as possible, so they had been debating if Teddy's hair would lighten to Remus's lighter, honey-brown hair, or stay dark like Sirius's. Based on the baby pictures Hope Lupin had brought when she had last visited, of a dark-haired baby, Remus had his hopes. But the full head of curls was all to similar to the likes of Sirius.

Teddy was getting chubby in his second month. He was so adorable, covered in rolls of baby fat, his cheeks full and his face round. he had long eyelashes too, now clumped together with the remains of his tears.

and they walk on parade

say that we were made

to be a team

The timer on the bottle warmer went off, and Remus reached for the bottle, carefully maneuvering Teddy in his arms to test the temperature against his wrist, continuing to sing.

and my heart

flutters when you're near

Deeming the bottle safe for Teddy, Remus took the bottle, and placing the nipple against his son's lips, and Teddy sucked eagerly. With his son satisfied, Remus made his way to sit down at the couch in the living room, continuing to sing and rock to Teddy, hoping to get him to fall asleep as soon as he was done with his bottle.

Remus looked down at his son, who's tired eyes dropped as he took his bottle, and his heart swelled with a familiar happiness. His son - his sweet baby boy, in his arms. His husband getting some well-deserved rest in the other room. Remus remembered when not to long ago his current reality was nothing more than a fever dream.

And Teddy was perfect.

and all the rainbows

say that they know

we're a perfect pair

Four Guys Burgers and Fries

Summary: You get a petty Instagram DM, and the boys try to life your spirits.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x GN!Reader (no Y/N)

Rating:  PG-13

Words: ~2900

Tags: FLUFF, friends to lovers, use of Instagram, takes place at a bar but no explicit alcohol mentioned, mentions of a petty ex/animal abuse, bad jokes

Notes: As always, had some BS happen in my life that inspired this short fic. Hope you enjoy! I tagged some relatively heavy topics but it’s more of a precaution, this is pure fluff! Reader is mentioned as being smaller, but only in relation to the rest of the gang, not necessarily in terms of weight/height

PS-I didn’t add anyone in a taglist because I wasn’t sure if those have had contacted me are only interested in Impression, Sunrise! This is a one-shot. Please let me know if you want to be added to a general taglist for all works!

Frankie watches as you make your way back to the booth nestled in the back of the bar, the rest of the boys caught up in whatever story Pope is spinning to convince them of his latest scheme. It was Tuesday, Bar Trivia night, a long-held tradition among the crew to get together and unwind, and mostly, an excuse to keep in touch. You had joined them one night when they needed a fifth player, Santi turning up the charm to get you to acquiesce, but you quickly found your place within the group, eventually calling them close friends outside the dingy walls of the bar as well. Trivia Night always persisted, though; Santiago and Ben tended to get competitive, but you, Will and Frankie were mostly just there for the company, happy to be among friends, even if they didn’t know which state has a cat elected as a town mayor.

You, however, looked decidedly unhappy as you shoved your way back to the booth among the crowd. Frankie frowned at the answer sheet in front of him; long delegated the scribe of the group, content to stay mostly quiet while deciphering any answers the others came up with and writing them neatly along the page, becoming almost territorial over his paper and pen. If anything, it was an excuse for him to busy his hands around you, too nervous to channel his energy any other way. Since the day Santi forced you onto their team, insisting it be named “Four Guys Burgers and Fries” like it was the funniest thing he had ever heard, Frankie had all but clammed up. You were breathtaking, and watching Pope flirt with you as the others got to know you practically made him twitch. As quickly as you came you had stolen his heart, leaving him to silently pine week after week, convinced you would never feel the same. He had watched on as Pope tried to make a move on you, you swiftly shutting him down. Unwilling to be your second victim--though the pain would be sweet, he thinks--Frankie resigned himself to being just your friend, to stealing unknowing glances as you walked away, to a platonic head on his shoulder during movie nights, to the soft smile and look of relief you would give him every time he came into view. He quickly wormed his way to the title of “Best Friend,” beating out the others with some sick sense of pride; you knew everything about each other. Every falter, every misstep, every little habit, and unfortunately for Frankie, that made him love you even more; that you would still be his friend, be his anything despite all that, chatting or coming over most nights just to bask in each other’s presence. Trivia Night was by far his favorite night of the week; he always let you slip the pen from his fingers between rounds, to bring him back when he was lost among the words, as you would scribble little doodles in the margins of the sheet. Sometimes little hearts or stars, sometimes a short note to make him laugh—“Table by door-Siblings or dating?”—and when you got bored enough, time between rounds stretching on for scoring, tic-tac-toe and Hangman, which Frankie happily partook in. Your favorite seemed to be a little cat face, followed by a crude fish, a plus sign in between. Catfish. Every time, you would draw those little pictures, and he would watch your hand move along the sheet, meeting you for a shy smile when you handed him the pen as the round started, the same soft smile reflected back to him. The rest of the boys seemed to notice your presence as you approached angrily, but were unable to get a word in before you threw down your phone on the table. “Look at this!” Opened on the screen was your Instagram DM’s, a recent message pulled up from @SikeItsMike. Before any of them even registered it, Santi had the phone in his hands, opening the image that was sent to you to reveal the larger version; it was a meme of a remorseful looking man, the caption on the picture “God watching you fall for an emotionally unavailable person he’s sent to use and hurt you for character development.” Pope showed the rest of the table the picture in slight confusion as you sat down next to Frankie with a huff. “Is this an ex?” he asks gingerly. “As if you could even call him that, Santi! But yes,” you groan. “I haven’t spoken to him in two years and he’s really gonna send me a message out of the blue to tell me I was emotionally unavailable? Me?” you ask incredulously. Frankie’s face fell as you spoke; he knew about your would-be ex Mike, but the other guys seemed to look at each other in confusion, Benny breaking the silence. “You’re gonna need to give us more here, I have no idea what’s going on,” he chuckles. “Ugh! We were kind of dating, right around when I met you guys. But he never wanted to commit, didn’t want anything ‘too serious.’ Basically he wanted to be friends with benefits, but I wanted something more than that…” you start, and Frankie stiffens in his seat. “He told me we couldn’t be exclusive because his parents had recently gotten divorced and he ‘didn’t believe in love.’” You were throwing around air quotes as you spoke, extra animated in your anger. “Then I found out they divorced when he was 5. Five, Benny! And he was a grown-ass man when I met him!” The table chuckles as you roll your eyes. “But he’s gonna sit here and tell me I’m the one who’s emotionally unavailable? Do you think that’s true?” Your eyes are searching each of their faces as Pope hands you back your phone. “No, Fry, of course not,” Frankie coos to you, and you crinkle your nose, looking back at the opened message. He was talking you down, using the nickname he had coined on the first night you met the group due to the team name; they were the four guys, you were the burgers and fries; a name stemmed from Santi’s liberal use of the name “Small Fry” when it came to you and your smaller stature to the four army men. “Last week during the movie you cried during an ASPCA commercial,” Benny rolled his eyes. “Most emotional person I’ve ever met,” he admonishes as you give him a hard punch to the bicep across the table. “Those dogs are sad, Benny, and you are heartless!” you joke back, not denying your emotional outburst at the sad commercial. “That’s what I’ve been telling Mom and Dad for years,” Will retorts, and Benny shoots him a look over the table. “Look, clearly this guy is trying to get a rise out of you,” Pope replies, ignoring the brothers. “He’s trying to hit you where it hurts.” “But why now? Two years later?” “Well how did you leave things?” Frankie asks, biting his tongue. He didn’t really want to know, but he had gone too long with nothing to say. “Bad,” you chuckled. “He came to my house, and my cat was rubbing at his legs, and I guess he got annoyed and he threatened to kill her. I got mad, and he tried saying it was a joke, but I was done. So I kicked him out,” you explain sheepishly. Benny and Pope exchange a high five over your actions, Will letting out a mumbled “What the fuck?” as you told the story. “Who threatens a cat?” Frankie asks, and you chuckle. “A psychopath, clearly,” you retort, unlocking your phone again to see the glaring message. “So what do I do? Do I respond?” you ask innocently, and all the boys almost answer in unison, loud enough that a hush falls over the bar. “No!” You sheepishly wave off the other patrons who were now staring, Pope speaking again as the hum picks up. “He’s clearly lonely and desperate. He wants you to respond, to get you back on the hook. The best thing to do is ignore it,” he advises. “God, I hate social media,” Frankie sighs. “This makes no sense.” “Yeah, that’s because you’re an 80-year-old stuck in a young person’s body,” Will jokes, and Frankie glares at him. You knock the brim of Frankie’s familiar cap on his head, dislodging it and bringing his attention back to you. “But I’m so mad!” you practically pout, and then seem to form an idea in your head. “I want him to know that I saw it and I’m ignoring it. If he can be petty, I can be petty too,” you say, lifting your phone again to start recording a video. “What, something to make him jealous?” Pope asks, and you shake your head. “No! I mean maybe a little, but just to show I’m on Instagram and saw his message and I’m choosing not to respond,” you explain before hitting record. You take a slow panning shot of the busy bar, making sure to get Pope, Benny and Will in frame across from you before turning the camera down to the trivia answer sheet Frankie has already titled “Four Guys Burgers and Fries.” You miss the way Santiago shoots Frankie a look, silently urging him in your direction as you flip the camera on the phone and lean into Frankie’s shoulder. He smiles sheepishly, connecting the side of his head to yours as you grin widely, and he can’t help but to think how easy it would be for him to turn and kiss you on the cheek like this, but instead, you grab the hat off his head and put it on your own, covering your own head as you scrunch your nose. Frankie runs his hand through his hair, then sneakily taps the brim down over your eyes as you laugh, and you stop the video, adjusting the hat back on your head properly while tagging them all and posting the video on your story. Frankie ignores the notification as all their phones ping with the alert, not noticing you saving the end product before posting it. “There,” you announce, proud of yourself. “Good, now can we get to some trivia?” Benny asks, and the rest of the table groans. The rest of the night goes as it always does; Pope talking of his latest conquest while you pretend to gag, Will and Benny discussing the next fight coming up, Frankie talking about his job. At one point Santiago tries to grab the pen from Frankie to mark an answer while he’s distracted by you, but Frankie quickly slaps his hand away and writes it himself, protective over his job as scribe until you slide the pen from his fingers easily to start your weekly doodles. “What, you let her take it?” Santi asks, and Frankie kicks him under the table as you draw. Like always, a cat face plus a fish, followed by what looks like a basket of fries with a smiley face. “That’s a new one,” he says under the hum of the bar. The rest of the group is caught in some other conversation, and despite being surrounded by other trivia parties, he swears you’re the only one in the room when you let out a small laugh. “Well, I figured you all have call signs, might as well embrace mine,” you chuckle. The rounds of trivia were over, and the host was counting up scores by hand, taking an extremely long time. You use the sheet to draw a quick game of Hangman, eight open spaces under the gallows. Frankie immediately starts guessing the same letters he always does—Q, Z, X, U—just to get a rise out of you, to hear your melodic laugh as you playfully hit his chest, urging him to be serious despite the fact that U was one of the letters in your word. He doesn’t get to guess any of the more normal letters before the host comes back on the loudspeaker, announcing the standings for the night. Four Guys Burgers and Fries came in dead last, much to Pope and Benny’s chagrin, and you snort at the revelation, third week in a row of being the worst in the bar. Following trivia, the bar clears out quickly, and your group dawdles to avoid the crowd as you rib Benny over last place. He only huffs as he takes his leave, announcing an early training in the morning that has Will following on his heels, followed by Santi, who follows on the heels of a girl at the bar he seemed to make eyes at from across the room. “Want a lift home?” Frankie asks as you stand from the booth; he moves to help you put on your coat, and you agree, happy to stretch the night a little longer. You’re still wearing his hat from earlier, and it makes his heart flutter and his gut stir to see it on you. Walking shoulder to shoulder through the parking lot, you take it off and put it back on his head, purposely pulling it down too far to cover his eyes before he laughs and readjusts it. Hands no longer busied, he wrings the paper between them as you make your way to his truck, sliding easily into the front seat while he shuts the door behind you before taking his place on the driver’s side and throwing the answer sheet in the cup holders. An easy silence fell over the car as Frankie drove the worn path to your apartment, you watching as the buildings rushed by under the streetlights. He tried to admire you secretly, the way the lights danced over your face, your fingers curled under your chin, but was still surprised when you spoke. “ Do you think that it’s true?” you ask quietly, not looking away from the window. “That what’s true?” Frankie asks. “That I’m emotionally unavailable?” You sound small as you ask, clearly rattled by the earlier conversation. Frankie’s body seems to pull him in separate directions; one part of him wanting to pull over and shake this out of you with a deep kiss, the other to keep driving and talk it out as friends. He decided to keep driving. “Of course not,” he scolds, stealing a look at you. You’re toying with your fingers in your lap, eyes trained on them. “Fry, no,” he practically pleads. “That guy didn’t deserve you. If I had known him then I would have really given him something to believe in after he treated you the way he did,” he says, and you roll your eyes. “I just—what if that’s why it didn’t work? Why I’ve been single all this time?” Frankie’s lips purse to a straight line. “Listen, you’re one of the most empathetic, passionate, responsive people I’ve ever met,” he says, and you roll your eyes. “The night I told you about the drugs, about me losing my license, do you remember what you did?” You nodded, but he continued anyway. “You crawled across the couch and hugged me, and forced me to repeat your phone number until I had it memorized, so I could call you anytime in case I ever felt like going back into that shit.” You only nod again, the answer sheet making its way to your hands as you toy with it in your lap. “You think Pope would do that? Or Benny or Will? They’re some of my closest friends, and I like them and they like me, but you—” he stops himself before he admits too much. “Any guy would be lucky to have you, Fry.” “Please, Frankie,” you scoff, back to doodling on the paper in your lap. “I’m serious! Please believe me,” he admonishes you as he pulls up to your building, idling over the gearshift to continue the conversation. “I don’t want any guy Frankie,” you reply, putting a hand over his on the gearshift. He looks at it, then to you, but before his brain catches up to his surroundings, you’ve said goodbye and are out the car door and walking to the front of your building. His eyes land on the paper you left in the passenger seat; a heart was added between the fish and the fries, and the Hangman game was fully filled out. I love you.

Frankie’s out of the truck, paper in hand, before your writing even registers, leaving it idling as he runs to catch you before you enter the locked door. He gets to you just as you scan your key fob, whisking you around to face him, holding you there with his hands on your shoulders, one still holding the rolled answer sheet in his fist. He looks at you under the streetlight for a moment, the golden glow making you look almost ethereal, watching your eyes flicker to his lips before diving in himself, breathless and passionate as his lips meet yours for the first time. His arms snake around your neck to hold you there, and you reciprocate, giving him as much as he is taking from the kiss until he pulls away, blocking the lone light source with his broad body. “I love you, Fry. I’ve loved you for years. Probably since I met you,” he admits sheepishly. “I never knew you felt the same.” “No wonder we always come in last in trivia,” you chuckle lightly. “I’ve been trying to tell you the same since that night Santi asked me to your team. He may have asked, but it was you that made me want to join—I wanted to get to know you.” “Me?” he asks breathlessly, still crowding your space, unable to believe his feelings were reciprocated. “Yeah, Frankie. You. It’s always been you,” you admit. “I love you, too.” Frankie leans in at your admission again, the answer sheet balled in his fist as he tries to pour every missed opportunity from the last two years into another kiss. When he pulls away again, you rest your forehead against his. “Next week, we’re forming our own team,” Frankie says resolutely, and you chuckle. “Fish Fry,” you offer as a team name, and he laughs again as he pulls you to his chest in a tight hug, never more thankful for bar trivia and petty Instagram memes than he was in that moment.

/sidles in with yet another omega!WKX prompt/ WKX feeling insecure about not being a typical petite demure omega and needing some reassurance from ZZS

A/N: I had plotted the beginnings of something and then abandoned it for this instead. I'm turning in early. The eye is still scaring me 😅

--

A flower blooms without wondering about the others around it. How could they? Each bloom has their own points of attraction and each has the ability to draw the eye to them. But Wen Kexing is neither a blooming flower, nor is he decidedly unaware of his flaws.

If anything, loving his Ah Xu has clawed out every single grain of insecurities he never thought he had.

In his mind, he can almost list out every last one; too tall, too aggressive, too manly, not soft enough, too much of himself when he is around his Alpha. What can he do? He had learnt to survive above all else and honing and cultivating skills to be a perfect Mate was never part of that. Wen Kexing had wanted revenge on the world that betrayed him and now...

And so here he was, the Lord of the Ghost Valley, getting upset about being not enough for his Alpha.

Lao Wen unfurls his fan, hiding his unhappiness behind the gentle fluttering. Up ahead, Ah Xu was smiling at a pretty Omega selling trinkets, leaning in to bargain over some bauble or another. He doesn't know why Ah Xu would bother. It isn't as if Chengling can use them.

The said child was next to him practically inhaling the bowl of noodles. It's his second and Lao Wen takes a quick note of how they are being made so that he can try replicating it later at home. "Eat slowly, silly boy, are you a hungry ghost or something?" He chides, lifting his sleeve to dab away the beads of sweat on Chengling's brow. Really, he is the last person to be talking about manners but sometimes this child of theirs worries him.

"Shishu, do you still want your noodles?"

Sighing around a laugh, Lao Wen pushes his bowl to him and turns back to where the pretty Omega was very obviously flirting with his Ah Xu. The sight makes anger and nausea boil in his gut, but above that, it twists at his heart.

Ah Xu deserves a good Omega. Someone he can feel proud about walking next to, someone who has less scars and demons dogging their every sunny day. Ah Xu deserves someone who he can rely on and trust. Someone who hasn't lied to him and will keep lying to him to protect him.

He should have someone who can care for him, who can help raise Chengling with him.

Someone who isn't him.

"Lao Wen? Are you alright? Is it the headaches again?"

He startles out of his spiralling thoughts to see Ah Xu's worried eyes looking into his own. He quickly plasters on a smile and shakes his head, gesturing to Chengling to finish his food. "I'm fine, don't worry. Just a little tired, is all."

Ah Xu's brows knead together as if in some concentration. But he doesn't say anything about it, instead seats himself next to Lao Wen taking his hand and pushing back his sleeves. Carefully, he slides a simple leather bracelet tied in an intricate lover's knot onto his wrist.

"Ah Xu, this is..."

"I know we haven't talked much about it, but you know that I consider you my best friend, my soulmate," Ah Xu says, fingers tying the leather securely to his wrist. "I'm not much of an Alpha. I'm half the man I should be and I don't have much to offer you. Even this is something that I bought as a placeholder for when I can make a proper one for you."

Pausing, his dark lashes flicker, hiding his eyes. Gentle fingers turn Lao Wen's hand, warm palm sliding over his. "But you have given me the brightest moments in a very long and dark road. You have made me happier than I ever thought I could be. If you don't mind it, would you want to spend the rest of your life with me?"

Lao Wen gapes.

"Me?" He manages to cobble together in a croak. "You... You want that? With me?"

At this Ah Xu looks back up at him with a slow smile, lifting his hand to his lips with a kiss. "You're the man I chose. You're the Omega I love. There would be no better one than you."

"But," Lao Wen cannot help to say. "I'm too tall!"

"Too tall?"

"Yes! And too aggressive! I'm not petite or demure, or soft or sweet-- Ow!"

Lao Wen tries to pull his hand back but all it does is make Ah Xu's teeth sink further in to the skin of his hand. "You're not allowed to talk about yourself that way. I forbid it," Ah Xu growls. The sound does something to Lao Wen's insides and he almost feels like swooning.

"But you want me?"

"Yes, you silly man," Ah Xu laughs, pulling him closer, pressing his hands to his waist. Wrapping his arms around his shoulders, Lao Wen inhales the way he radiates happiness and begins to relax, basking in that warmth. Their brows brush against each other, noses nuzzling. "Will you have me?"

"You couldn't have done this in private?" Lao Wen sighs.

"I know precisely how shameless my Omega is and I know what you like," Ah Xu points out. "So, is that a yes?"

"Yeah, it is," Lao Wen says in a rush. "I might as well stick with my Alpha and be completely shameless with him."

At that, the whole stall bursts out in cheers and loud hollars of well wishes. They break apart, hands still holding on tightly at the way everyone in their vicinity was either toasting them or congratulating them.

Only Chengling remains unperturbed, content to finish the last of his third bowl of noodles.

Upon meeting their incredulous and inquisitive gazes, he merely shrugs. "Shifu, Shishu, if you're both done, can we go to the youtiao stall?"

After everything is said and done

This is dedicated to that one Nie Huaisang hater out there, who takes precious time out of their day to read about a character they hate and then also leave a (sometimes detailed and insightful) comment, not only increasing hits and comments, but also showing every Sangcheng writer out there, that their writing is good enough to even keep someone interested who hates one of the characters!

I'm sure you inspired a lot of Sangcheng fics out there by now and I would like to thank you for that. I hope you enjoy this too!

Jiang Cheng thinks that he should probably stop with the pacing now.

It’s been several weeks—almost months, by now—since the events at the Temple and with every passing day it gets more unlikely that Nie Huaisang will drop by to rekindle their friendship.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t even dare to hope for anything more than friendship—and that seems wildly unlikely already—but it still stings that Nie Huaisang had called off whatever they had all those years ago without an explanation or even a face-to-face conversation.

He had just let it dwindle to nothing, no matter how hard Jiang Cheng tried to keep him, and in retrospect Jiang Cheng understands, but still.

It really goddamn hurts.

“You need to stop this,” Jin Ling suddenly says from behind Jiang Cheng and Jiang Cheng is less surprised than he probably should be that Jin Ling is here.

He’s busy taking over his own Sect, salvaging whatever reputation is left after the crimes of Jin Guangyao were revealed, but Jin Ling is almost more often at Lotus Pier than he was before.

Jiang Cheng suspects it’s to keep an eye on him and Wei Wuxian, to make sure that they actually rekindle their relationship and don’t kill themselves, but Jiang Cheng is not going to complain.

He always thought he wouldn’t get to see Jin Ling at all once he became Sect Leader and it’s great that he’s still around. That he still cares enough about Jiang Cheng to regularly come by.

“Stop what?” Jiang Cheng says, and picks right back up where he left off, mainly wearing a path into the pier right behind his sleeping quarters.

“That,” Jin Ling says with a nod to Jiang Cheng’s movement. “He’s not going to come by, you know,” Jin Ling tacks on more quietly and Jiang Cheng frowns.

“Who?”

“You damn well know who,” Jin Ling snaps out.

“Language,” Jiang Cheng says out of reflex and Jin Ling only rolls his eyes at him. “What would you know about that?” Jiang Cheng asks belatedly and Jin Ling stares out over the water.

“He’s not talking to anyone,” Jin Ling finally tells him with a whisper and it only makes the frown on Jiang Cheng’s face more pronounced. “He’s answering letters about Sect business, but he foregoes any personal matters, and he doesn’t answer letters that contain no business at all.”

“You’ve been writing him,” Jiang Cheng summarizes from that and Jin Ling nods.

He doesn’t seem too happy about it, but there’s a stubborn twist to his mouth.

“And what of it?” he dares Jiang Cheng who gives him a sad smile.

“Nothing,” Jiang Cheng reassures him. “He was almost like an honorary uncle to you. It’s understandable that you’d want to stay in contact if you can forgive him.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Jin Ling rushes out and then works his jaw. “He exposed Jin Guangyao’s crimes. That’s a good thing. There’s nothing he did wrong.”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t quite think the same, but he has to agree with the overall sentiment. It’s a good thing that Nie Huaisang took actions against Jin Guangyao when everyone else was too busy happily following his lead, even though Jiang Cheng doesn’t agree with all of Nie Huaisang’s actions.

Mostly the ones that put Jin Ling into danger, if Jiang Cheng is being honest, but he also knows Nie Huaisang well enough to know that he most likely did the best he could to protect him.

And since Nie Huaisang isn’t coming by and apparently not talking to anyone else either, that has to be enough.

“I think you have to make the first step,” Jiang Cheng says to Jin Ling, who clearly seems unhappy with the whole situation but it only earns a scoff from Jin Ling.

“Like you’re making the first step?” he asks and Jiang Cheng narrows his eyes at him.

“Careful, brat,” he advises but Jin Ling doesn’t seem impressed at all.

And maybe he’s right about that, too; Jiang Cheng isn’t one to make the first step when it’s important to him. He relied on Wei Wuxian to take that first step towards a reconciliation, and Wei Wuxian thankfully did so that their relationship is slowly mending.

It’s possible that Jiang Cheng used up all his luck with that though, and that it’s on him to take a first step towards Nie Huaisang now.

“But?” Jin Ling asks and Jiang Cheng sighs.

“Maybe you’re right,” he then admits and rolls his eyes when Jin Ling beams at him. “But after I’m done, it’s your turn,” he then warns him but Jin Ling is clearly too happy to listen to him at all.

“I love you, jiu-jiu,” Jin Ling says and darts in for a hug, before he skips away.

Clearly Jiang Cheng’s mood the past several weeks grated on him as well, and Jiang Cheng knows his nephew well enough to know that he wants to wait for the outcome of Jiang Cheng’s reconciliation attempt before Jin Ling tries it himself.

Jiang Cheng can’t even be mad at him; he would do the same if he had the chance, after all.

~*~*~

Jiang Cheng tries his very best to not feel like an intruder when he walks up to Qinghe but it’s a lost cause.

People are staring at him left and right and Jiang Cheng’s skin crawls with it because he can’t quite decipher if they are hostile looks or friendly ones.

He’s hoping for the last of course, but you never know with the Nie’s.

Jiang Cheng tenses when someone approaches him, but he returns the bow he receives.

“Sect Leader Jiang,” the Nie soldier says and Jiang Cheng raises an eyebrow. “Please, let me introduce myself, my name is Nie Yahui, I’m Sect Leader Nie’s personal assistant. Please tell me you’re here to see him,” he adds in a rush and Jiang Cheng relaxes.

So they were friendly looks, then. It seems like Nie Huaisang’s disciples are just as worried about Nie Huaisang as Jiang Cheng himself is.

“I am,” Jiang Cheng reassures him and Nie Yahui let’s out a visible breath.

“Then please follow me,” he says and briskly starts to walk away.

Jiang Cheng follows him, wondering what state Nie Huaisang will be in when he finally sees him and he can’t deny that his heart is beating faster.

He knows it’s stupid to hope for anything, but these past few years Jiang Cheng only hurt when he thought about Nie Huaisang, thinking he stopped whatever they had or were on the brink of because he didn’t feel the same.

Now there’s hope that Nie Huaisang pulled away because of his plan and not because of a lack of feelings.

“He’s in there,” Nie Yahui tells Jiang Cheng when they reached what looks like private quarters so Jiang Cheng gives Nie Yahui a questioning look.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s not going to hold an audience for you—or anyone, for that matter—and if we have to ambush him here like this, then so be it,” he decides and Jiang Cheng has to admit he likes him.

“Thank you,” he tells Nie Yahui and then simply throws the door open.

He sees Nie Huaisang startle, but Jiang Cheng is by no means done, so he slams the door behind him and turns towards Nie Huaisang with a glare.

“You asshole,” he hisses and simply seats himself at the table, not waiting for Nie Huaisang’s permission. “I want alcohol,” Jiang Cheng decides when he thinks it takes Nie Huaisang too long to react and that, finally, startles Nie Huaisang into movement.

He gets out the alcohol on reflex it seems, before everything seems to catch up on him, and before he puts the jar on the table he stops and frowns.

“What are you doing here?” he then asks and he looks painfully unsure of himself.

Jiang Cheng can’t deny that he built up this image in his head over the last few weeks, of a cunning and vicious Nie Huaisang, but this more than anything reminds Jiang Cheng of the fact that this is still just Nie Huaisang.

Nothing much changed after all.

“Alcohol first,” Jiang Cheng decides and simply plucks the jar out of Nie Huaisang’s hands. “Talking about feelings later.”

Nie Huaisang huffs out a laugh at that, and he seats himself opposite of Jiang Cheng, who is already pouring them both a cup.

They drink in silence, until Jiang Cheng thinks that both of them had enough time to gather their wits, and then he very decidedly puts the cup down.

Nie Huaisang startles and his hand flexes as if he wants to reach for his fan, but Jiang Cheng is glad that it’s out of reach for now. He doesn’t like to hold this conversation with Nie Huaisang while he has a chance to hide himself away.

“You didn’t write,” Jiang Cheng starts with. “And you didn’t visit. And here I thought now that everything is said and done, we could be friends again.”

It doesn’t come easy to him to say that, but he wants this to work and he learned from Wei Wuxian that sometimes reconciliations are painful as hell.

Jiang Cheng thinks it might be a good thing.

“I didn’t think you’d want to,” Nie Huaisang admits and Jiang Cheng scoffs.

“Yeah, but you also didn’t ask, asshole,” he shoots back and then sighs. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Nie Huaisang is quick to reassure him. “I promise, I’m not doing anything!”

Jiang Cheng frowns at that.

“Did someone insist you want more power?” he asks and Nie Huaisang flinches.

“Wei-xiong might have indicated something like this,” he then admits and Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes.

“Because he’s afraid that you’ll go after his precious husband. It has nothing to do with you directly. His brain just stops working when it comes to Lan Wangji.”

That startles a laugh out of Nie Huaisang and Jiang Cheng feels very accomplished.

If he still knows Nie Huaisang like this, maybe not all is lost yet.

“You haven’t been talking to anyone?” Jiang Cheng asks next, Jin Ling’s words still in his ears and Nie Huaisang shrugs.

“I didn’t expect anyone to still want to talk to me,” he easily says, but Jiang Cheng can see the tension in his body. “I mean san-ge is dead, and rightfully so, but er-ge won’t ever look at me again and Lan-xiong won’t simply because I hurt his brother. Wei-xiong is more concerned about his husband than any kind of reconciliation we could have and Jin Ling has every reason to hate me. And you—” he trails off and Jiang Cheng groans.

“Well, first of all, Lan Xichen is not looking at anyone, since he went into seclusion, so stop throwing yourself a pity-party over that, because you’re not special. Second, Lan Wangji is not too happy with you—as is Wei Wuxian—because they didn’t expect you to be behind it all. You fooled them quite thoroughly and it will take them a while to get over that. And Jin Ling would love to talk to you, but he says you’re blocking off all attempts.”

“Because I wouldn’t put it past him to only pretend to be nice and then murder me in my sleep,” Nie Huaisang says, his eyes wide and his look innocent and Jiang Cheng narrows his eyes at him.

“Drop the act,” he whispers and Nie Huaisang sags.

“You know, not everything I do is an act,” he bitterly says, and Jiang Cheng’s heart constricts at the pain in his voice.

“I know that,” he tries to reassure him. “But you also know Jin Ling. So tell me the real reason.”

Nie Huaisang looks at him for long moments, before he sighs.

“I fear he’s going to regret it in the end. That he’ll feel guilty over trying to forgive me later.”

“He’s not trying to forgive you because he thinks there’s nothing to forgive,” Jiang Cheng quietly tells him, his last conversation with Jin Ling still present in his mind. “He knows Jin Guangyao deserved it, and it probably helps that he was there to see him in the end,” Jiang Cheng adds, even though he would have loved to see Jin Ling far, far away from that.

“I didn’t mean for him to get hurt.”

“I know,” Jiang Cheng says and stares down at the table.

“What about you?” Nie Huaisang finally asks and he sounds just as apprehensive as Jiang Cheng feels.

“I thought you would write once everything was over and you didn’t have to pretend to not feel anything for me anymore,” Jiang Cheng says before he can think better of it, but the silence that follows is deafening.

So maybe he did read everything wrong. Maybe there wasn’t a deeper reason to Nie Huaisang pulling away; maybe he simply got tired of Jiang Cheng after all.

“Never mind that, then,” Jiang Cheng forces himself to say and he empties his cup. “I’ll take my leave then.”

“I didn’t think you’d forgive me,” Nie Huaisang confesses and Jiang Cheng freezes in his movement. “We were about to become something and then I simply dropped you. It not easily forgiven, and especially not with your history.”

“Fuck you,” Jiang Cheng spits out and he throws a murderous glare at Nie Huaisang. “Yes, it hurt like hell when it happened, and it hurt like hell the years after. But now there’s a reason for it, and it doesn’t make it okay, but it makes it understandable.”

“But is that enough?” Nie Huaisang whispers.

“That depends,” Jiang Cheng says. “Did you have reasons?”

“Of course I did!” Nie Huaisang immediately says. “I would have told you, but you can’t pretend long-term, you’re just not the type for that, and you would have told him, if only so that he didn’t take Jin Ling away from you completely. So not telling you was the better option.”

Jiang Cheng mulls that over for a moment, because he figured as much, but he’s still lacking an important piece of information.

“Did you regret it? Did it hurt you?” he wants to know and he knows himself well enough to know that Nie Huaisang’s answer to this will determine if they can go forward with this.

Even if it is just as friends. Jiang Cheng would still like that; he misses having friends.

“I don’t regret it, because it was necessary to avenge da-ge,” Nie Huaisang whispers and he can’t meet Jiang Cheng’s eyes. “But it does hurt. I loved you and I would have liked for us to be more than what we were.”

Ah, and there it is. It’s all past, apparently, and only Jiang Cheng’s stupid heart keeps clinging to something that is no longer possible.

“I see,” he whispers and tries his best to drown his breaking heart in more alcohol.

He knew it was stupid to hope for anything when he went into this, but he still wasn’t prepared for how much it actually hurts to hear that Nie Huaisang doesn’t love him anymore.

It’s not a surprise, if Jiang Cheng is being honest; it’s been years and they are both changed people, and yet Jiang Cheng can’t stop hoping that at least their friendship is salvageable if the other thing so clearly isn’t.

“And what now?” Jiang Cheng forces himself to ask, but he realizes his mistake when Nie Huaisang answers.

“We don’t really know each other anymore,” Nie Huaisang reluctantly says and Jiang Cheng curses himself, because he didn’t mean that.

But before he can correct himself, Nie Huaisang goes on.

“But I would like to get to know you again, if you’d be open to that.”

It makes Jiang Cheng freeze.

“As—friends?” he asks, furiously not daring to hope for more, but his heart beats faster when Nie Huaisang blushes.

“Or the other thing,” he says, clearly nervous about it and Jiang Cheng can’t help but to smile at that.

Nie Huaisang doesn’t see, because he’s very adamantly keeping his eyes on the table in front of them, and so Jiang Cheng simply pours himself another cup.

Nie Huaisang let him wait for years, a few moments won’t kill him now.

“We don’t have to, of course,” Nie Huaisang finally blurts out when it clearly becomes too much for him and Jiang Cheng takes a sip before he carefully puts the cup down again.

“I expect dates,” he then decisively says and Nie Huaisang’s head snaps up as fast as his fans usually do.

“What?” he breathes out.

“You will take me on dates, because you fucked this up to begin with and you’re going to make it up to me,” Jiang Cheng tells him and his heart stumbles a little bit when a smile overtakes Nie Huaisang’s face.

“Done,” he eagerly agrees and he seems as happy as Jiang Cheng has ever seen him.

“And don’t just quit on me again,” Jiang Cheng adds more quietly. “We were friends, first, weren’t we?”

“You’re right,” Nie Huaisang says and he scoots around the table until he sits directly next to Jiang Cheng. “We were friends—still are—and it was shitty what I did. I’m sorry for how I just left you,” he says, and it’s more than Jiang Cheng expected, because he knows Nie Huaisang doesn’t actually feel sorry about how he brought Jin Guangyao down.

“Just see to it that you don’t do it again,” Jiang Cheng decides and leans a little to the side, just enough to press their shoulders together.

They sit like this for a while, just basking in the presence of the other, knowing that nothing is completely broken between them, before Nie Huaisang speaks again.

“Does this already count as a date?” he asks and Jiang Cheng laughs, he’s so surprised.

“Absolutely not,” he decides. “I came to you. You have to do way better than this. I want to see initiative.”

“You want to be courted,” Nie Huaisang nods, clearly coming up with a plan already, and while it’s not completely what Jiang Cheng meant, he will take it.

Being courted by Nie Huaisang doesn’t sound bad at all, after all.

Link to my ko-fi on the sidebar!

TPWP One Shot: The Problem with Apologies

Hey guys!!! 

So! Yesterday, someone commented on how Mondo had never really apologized to Taka about anything, and I realized that... yeah, I never did have him do that, did I? I always intended on it, but it never fit with the story and the more that time went on, the less sense Mondo apologizing would make sense. I always assumed that Mondo did apologize at some point, though, but I know y’all can’t know that unless I write it. 

So! I did! 

This is a little mini one shot that fits in between chapter 11 and chapter 12. Which, for reference, is right after their first sleep over after they became friends, but before the pool game between Mondo and Sakura, the chapter that we learn about Taka’s first “friend.” 

I will eventually be adding this to AO3 and FF . net, but it’s going to go into it’s own story, something made for these little mini one shots and things like that, if I ever have anymore. If not, it will just be by itself. I don’t want to actually add it to TPWP, since it would mess up the chapter numbers, which I use for my own reference as to when things happened. Plus, I’m... not entirely sure how well it fits in that location??? It’s been a while since I read/edited those chapters, and while I think it fits, I’m not entirely sure. So, leaving it as a bonus thing makes most sense to me. I’m posting this here now, though, since it’s done and since some people have been wanting it. :-) Think of it as a reward for following my Tumblr, ha. 

It’s about 4K words, so pretty short for my standards, but I kinda like it. :-) I hope it’s a good apology from Mondo for how he acted in the first 10 chapters, before they became friends.

~~~~~~~~

The Problem with Apologies

Taka sits beside Mondo on the couch, working side by side on their homework. Ever since they became kyoudai (!!) a few days ago, he and Mondo have been doing things like this a lot. Working on homework, studying together, things like that. It’s honestly been a lot easier to tutor Mondo now that they’re friends (and now that the biker is using his glasses, which he’s been fairly good at doing. When they’re alone, at least), which relieves Taka greatly. Part of him had honestly been concerned that things would go back to how they were before, even with their newfound brotherhood, but so far… so far that’s not been the case. Thank goodness…

 It’s also been kind of… nice. You know? To have someone beside him to study with, enjoying the quiet with them, helping them when they need it. And Mondo definitely needs it, there’s quite a lot he doesn’t know in relation to, well… everything. But he’s been trying his hardest to listen to Taka when he speaks, to not get frustrated and yell, doing all he can to accept Taka’s help. And in return, Taka has been doing his best to realize when Mondo has had enough and stop before he reaches that point, and it’s all just been… good. Nice. Really, really nice…

 Currently, they are both working on their algebra homework, a subject that Mondo is actually pretty good at now that he can see the numbers without struggle. He still needs help figuring out how to do some of the problems, but once Taka explains it, he usually understands and can do the rest of the similar problems without issue. It honestly makes Taka feel so proud of his kyoudai, his heart fluttering with the feeling. 

 Minutes pass as the pair work, Taka going back to check his completed answers once he finishes the page they were assigned. No words are uttered as they work quietly together, the atmosphere amiable and light. Mondo is relaxed beside him, and everything is just… good. So very, very good…

 Of course this peace had to be broken eventually. It always does…

 It’s right as Taka has finished going over his work for a third time (you can never be too careful!!) that Mondo finally puts down his pencil, leaning back on the couch. Taka— assuming this means that Mondo is done— turns to face his new kyoudai, smile bright on his lips. The smile dims when he sees the troubled expression on Mondo’s face, the biker looking at the ground with a frown, seeming very unhappy about something. So unhappy that even Taka can notice it, which is saying something considering how bad he normally is at reading facial expressions. It concerns Taka greatly, not wanting his new friend to be upset about anything, really. 

 As such, Taka carefully does his best to ask the biker what— exactly— is wrong, hoping that he’s not offending the teen.

 “K-kyoudai? Are you… alright? You seem… perturbed…” Taka asks softly, nerves filling him at the thought that he said something wrong, and that Mondo is going to yell at him for bothering him. Yes, they’re kyoudai now, but… b-but that doesn’t mean that Mondo won’t get annoyed by him, that he won’t get angry like he has before, that he… h-he won’t yell and storm out and say he doesn’t want to be kyoudai anymore, and… a-and…

 “Huh? Oh, uh… n-nah, I’m good, man. Just, uh… thinkin’ ‘bout shit, ya know?” Mondo mutters after a moment, breaking Taka from his thoughts. Taka looks back at Mondo and sees the biker looking at him, though his eyebrows are still furrowed, and his lips are still turned down. Hm… that doesn’t seem good… “The fuck does that word even mean, though? Per… whatever ya fuckin’ said. Swear yer makin’ up half a’ these words, shit.” 

 Unbidden, Taka finds himself smiling softly, some amusement filling him at the now typical question, even despite the concern he still feels. Mondo always is confused by the terminology that Taka uses… at least the teen feels comfortable enough around him to ask about it! It’s… something. 

 “Ah! My apologies! Perturbed means upset or unsettled, kyoudai! And I… I apologize for my assumption that something was wrong! I’m… not very good at reading facial expressions, I will admit…” 

 Taka’s cheeks blush red at his unintended confession, his eyes falling to the ground with his shame. He’s been trying his best to be a good friend to Mondo, but there’s so much he doesn’t know and it’s times like this that that becomes apparent. He… he wishes he knew more about being around other people… he wishes he could be a good friend to Mondo… he… h-he… 

 Taka startles when he feels gentle fingers touch his cheek, his eyes wide as his lifts his face to look at the teen before him, heart clenching at the sad, somewhat guilty look he finds there. Oh… oh dear, that wasn’t what he wanted… not at all…

 “Hey, Taka, it… it’s good, bro. Not a fuckin’ problem. An’, uh… shit. Guess ya could say I’m fuckin’, uh… perturbed, or whatever… j-just, uh. Ya know. Thinkin’ ‘bout shit.”

 Taka can see Mondo fidget on the couch beside him, the biker taking his hand back now that Taka is facing him, and he… he wishes he could help his kyoudai with whatever is bothering him… if it’s bugging him this much, it must be serious and he… he wants to help. If he can…

 “A-ah, I… I see. Um… would you… like to talk about it? Y-you do not have to if you do not wish! Please do not feel pressured! Just… I- I am here… if you’d like to talk…” 

 Taka does his best not to fidget as Mondo stares at him following his offer, his cheeks bright red and burning hot. He feels like such an idiot for offering such a thing, of course Mondo doesn’t need his help, Taka is terrible at social matters, terrible at being comforting, terrible at… at everything relating friendship, really, g-god…

 “Oh, uh… s-shit man, I uh… I don’t wanna bother you with this shit, ain’t yer problem… t-though, uh… shit. Shit, I… I guess it kinda does involve you, so maybe… uh… fuck.” 

 Taka watches as Mondo continues to fidget in his seat, his face pinched and tight, the biker clearly uncomfortable but Taka has no idea how to help. Or what Mondo means when he says that it… it involves him… hm…

 Feeling very uncertain, Taka does his best to shove away his anxiety and smiles shakily at Mondo, hoping that what he’s about to say will help, not make this worse…

 “Ah, I… I see. Well, just know that I am here for you, kyoudai, and if there is anything you wish to talk about, I am more than willing to participate! We are friends, and friends help one another! R… right?” 

 The sad, sympathetic look Mondo gives him for that comment makes him feel weird inside, his stomach squirming at the look. It’s not the first time Mondo has looked at him like that, especially after he makes reference to the fact that he never really had friends growing up and thus doesn’t really know how friendship works, and he… he doesn’t like it much. Hm… oh dear… 

 “Yeah… yeah, friends do help each other, kyoudai. I just… I don’t wanna bring up shit that doesn’t matter, ya know? But I can’t help but think that maybe it does, an’ I just… f-fuck, man. I dunno. Don’t even know why I’m thinkin’ ‘bout this shit now. Just… shit. God fuckin’ dammit…” 

 Taka’s heart clenches further at the grimace Mondo has on his face, and Taka really has no idea what to do. Should he… try and comfort? Reassure? Say nothing and let Mondo handle it on his own? He… he doesn’t know, he truly doesn’t, and he doesn’t want to mess up and ruin things between the two of them, certainly not now that they finally worked everything out and things are good and… a-and…

 “Shit. Okay, look, I… I was thinkin’ ‘bout these last few days, right? How… how this shit is nice. Doin’ fuckin’ schoolwork beside ya, not needin’ ta talk ta fill the silence or shit. It… it’s fuckin’ nice, ya know? Ta me at least. An’ I, uh… I was thinkin’ ‘bout how I’m glad we’re kyoudai now. Shit, Taka… words can’t describe how happy I am that we… we’re fuckin’ kyoudai,” Mondo admits, looking kind of embarrassed, but mostly genuine. Taka is confused, though. That… that doesn’t sound bad… right? So why… w-why does Mondo feel perturbed? 

 Taka doesn’t get a chance to ask before Mondo is continuing, the biker sighing and shifting awkwardly on the couch, looking decidedly uncomfortable, though on he goes…

 “But… shit. I couldn’t help but think ‘bout the shit I did ta ya. B’fore we became kyoudai. An’ how I… how I fuckin’ treated ya. The shit I did. The shit I said. An’ I… I fuckin’… shit…”

 Mondo trails off, the unhappy, uncomfortable look growing worse. It makes Taka’s heart clench, and he’s reaching out to gently touch Mondo’s hand before he can tell himself not to. He feels his heart skip a beat when Mondo’s lavender eyes immediately meet his, the emotion swirling in their depths too much for him. But he can’t say nothing, can’t let Mondo be upset about something like this, so he pushes the emotion within him down and does his best to smile reassuringly. If such a thing is even possible for him to do…

 “Ah, kyoudai! You needn’t worry about things like that! I… I’ve forgiven you for everything that happened before we became friends, you know that! We… we are good, my kyoudai! You needn’t worry about what happened before! It’s in the past and it doesn’t bother me, kyoudai! It… it truly doesn’t.” 

 Taka can feel his throat get thick and his heart clench again when Mondo gives him a sad look, his smile forlorn and twisted. Oh… oh no, Taka doesn’t want that, he… he…

 “But I… shit, man. I never fuckin’ apologized fer any a’ it… did I? The shit I did. How can ya fuckin’ fergive me if I ain’t done shit ta earn it? Ya… yer too fergivin’, man… s-shit…” 

 Something about the words hurts Taka inside, his heart clenching painfully at the softly spoken statement. He gives Mondo a slightly desperate, pleading look, wishing he knew what to say to make Mondo stop looking at him like that. Like he… he’s unhappy with him, g-god…

 “I- I… t-that doesn’t matter, kyoudai! If you- you apologized or not! You have shown me through deed that you regret what you did and I… I know that things are different now and that we are- are friends now. And that… M-Mondo, that… that means more to me than words can say, truly… and I… I don’t need an apology, Mondo… kyoudai… i-it’s truly okay…” 

 The sad look in Mondo’s eyes gets worse, then, the biker letting out a soft, unhappy sounding sigh. It makes Taka’s eyes water, his breath shuddering in his chest, wondering what he did wrong, why- why Mondo is still unhappy, he- he forgave him, didn’t he? I-isn’t that what Mondo wanted? To be forgiven? Does he want something else from him? God, if Taka knew what he wanted, he’d give it, he swears he would, he just… he doesn’t want to lose Mondo, not so soon, he can’t… he can’t…

 Taka startles when he feels a warm hand grasp his own, their fingers twining naturally. It makes Taka’s heart race for a different reason, his cheeks flushed from more than just embarrassment now… 

 “Shit, Taka… fuck, bro. Ya shouldn’t hafta settle fer second rate shit just ‘cuz… I dunno. Ya think ya gotta. Ya don’t fuckin’ deserve ta be treated like shit… ya… ya do know that, right? That the shit I did ta ya was fuckin’ shitty an’ ya… ya didn’t fuckin’ deserve it? Taka…” 

 Taka squirms at the things Mondo is saying, feeling very uncomfortable right now. Part of him wants to pull away from the biker, to stop this conversation from happening, not wanting to talk about this, but… but he… god. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to offend Mondo, either, and he just feels so conflicted… hm…

 “I… I know that, I… I just… I’ve forgiven you. I- I… I don’t know what else you want me to say, Mondo… k-kyoudai… I… I’m sorry…” 

 Mondo sighs again, the sound carrying more emotion than Taka can decipher, and it makes him feel awful. God… if only he were just better at this sort of thing, then maybe… maybe Mondo wouldn’t be upset, and they could go back to working quietly together without worrying about- about what happened in the past, about useless apologies and… and things like that. He just… he wants to focus on the future, not the past, he… he wants…

 “Taka… fuck,” Mondo mutters softly, sounding so very sad. It guts Taka and he hates it and he just… he wants… but then Mondo is shifting closer. Their hands are still twined, but now he is pressed closer to Mondo, can feel his overwhelming warmth, and it’s so much, too much, and Taka doesn’t know what to think, and he just… h-he just… 

 “Taka. Kyoudai. I ain’t mad at ya… okay? None a’ this shit is yer fault, man. I don’t expect shit from ya, ‘cuz y’ain’t done nothin’ wrong. It… it’s me who’s fucked up here. I’m the one who did all that shit ta ya. Who acted like a fuckin’ jackass an’ hurt ya. Y’ain’t done nothin’ an’ it ain’t you who’s gotta apologize. This ain’t yer fault. Okay? It ain’t.” 

 Taka can feel his eyes water more, his insides hurting at the soft, gentle words. Mondo… he… he isn’t mad, he… he’s…

 “An’ I… I am sorry. Ya know. ‘Bout the shit I did. Know that sayin’ it ain’t enough, know I gotta prove myself ta ya an’ fuckin’ make up fer my fucked-up bullshit these past couple a’ months. But I… I’m so fuckin’ sorry I did that shit ta ya. That I acted like a jackass an’ hurt ya so fuckin’ bad. That I… I made ya cry so many goddam times. An’… an’ that I called ya that word. That fuckin’ slur. Ain’t shit I can say ta excuse that shit, any a’ it, so I’m not even gonna bother tryin’, but I… god, I’m so fuckin’ sorry, Kiyo… I really fuckin’ am…” 

 Taka can feel the first tears start to fall then, his insides roiling so unpleasantly at the apology he didn’t expect, and… and didn’t really want. He… god, he didn’t want to think about all of this, didn’t want to think about the things Mondo did to him, the pain he went through at the hands of his now beloved kyoudai, he… he doesn’t…

 “A-an’ now I’m makin’ ya cry again… f-fuck, I’m so fuckin’… I’m so sorry, Taka, I… I’m so fuckin’ sorry… didn’t mean ta make ya cry… hate seein’ ya cry, I… Kiyo…” 

 Taka shakes his head, frantic and fast, and he looks Mondo deep in the eyes. The pain he finds there hurts him badly, and he can’t help how he shifts even closer to the biker, wanting to- to be closer, to… to get comfort, to provide comfort, he- he doesn’t know, he… he doesn’t…

 “M-Mondo… k-kyoudai… i-it’s okay! I… I told you, I forgive you, it… it’s okay… a-and it’s not your fault I’m crying, I promise! M-Mondo, I… I’m sorry…” 

 Mondo lets out a soft, unhappy noise then, and before Taka can feel afraid that he messed up more, that Mondo is unhappy with him again, he… he feels…

 He feels Mondo pull him close… the biker’s arms around him, warm and secure, pulling his head to a warm, broad chest. Taka doesn’t know what to think as this occurs, doesn’t know what is expected of him, but he can feel some of the pressure inside of him fade as he allows himself to go easily into Mondo’s arms, the steady thumping of his kyoudai’s heartbeat more soothing than words can say. 

 “Kyoudai… shit, man. Y’ain’t gotta apologize fer that shit, okay? I don’t need ya ta apologize fer that kinda shit. Y’ain’t always gotta apologize. My fucked-up bullshit ain’t yer problem, man. Neither is my fuckin’ guilt. I hurt you, Kiyo. I should feel some guilt fer that shit, even if ya do fergive me. Yer too fuckin’ fergivin’, man. I… shit…” 

 Taka says nothing as he buries his face in Mondo’s chest, his breathing more ragged than it likely should be. He can feel Mondo’s hands rub soothing circles on his back, and it makes him simultaneously feel better and worse. Silence descends around them after that, the only sound Taka’s soft sniffling and Mondo’s quiet breathing. It’s… it’s oddly peaceful…

 Before long, Taka feels okay enough to pull his face back from the nest he’d made on Mondo’s chest, though he doesn’t remove himself from Mondo’s arms, not… not wanting to leave the warm embrace just yet… and while part of him wants to ignore the conversation they just had and continue on without ever talking about this stuff again, he… he doesn’t want Mondo to think he’s upset with him, or that he doesn’t actually forgive him, or… or anything like that… 

 “I… I understand, kyoudai, I just… y-you’re the first person to apologize to me, y-you know. For how you… how you treated me… but it- i-it’s unnecessary, kyoudai… you’ve proven through deed that you regret what you did, which is already more than what anyone else has ever done, so you… y-you don’t have to say it… I- I… I don’t want you to say it, I…” 

 Taka can feel the burning look Mondo is giving him, though he can’t bear to look Mondo head on to see the look himself. He can’t… h-he can’t… 

 “Ya deserve ta be apologized ta, Taka. Ya deserve ta have people acknowledge the shit they did ta ya. Ya… ya shouldn’t hafta blindly fergive people who can’t even be bothered ta say that shit, I… Taka…” 

 Taka bites his lip, shrugging stiffly, unsure how to explain what he means. God, is it hard…

 “I… I know that, kyoudai. But… I- I don’t know. I- I don’t… I don’t like… h-hm. C-can we please stop talking about this? W-we still have some more homework to finish, I know you’ve not done our physics assignment… and I wanted to go over it to make sure I did it properly… M-Mondo… p-please…” 

 Taka can feel the burning look intensify, can feel his stomach squirming in response, and he wants so bad for this conversation to be over with already, to not have to keep talking about this, to just… j-just be done with this already, please… he’s forgiven Mondo, he has, he doesn’t know why the biker refuses to accept this, he… what more can he give, he doesn’t know, he just… just… 

 “I… shit. Fuck. I… yeah. Okay, Taka. If ya wanna move on an’ do our fuckin’ homework… okay,” Mondo mumbles, his tone clearly unhappy, but Taka can’t fix that. He… he doesn’t know how to fix that…

 Instead, Taka nods stiffly and moves to grab his book bag that he keeps all his textbooks in, hating himself for his inability to be what Mondo needs him to be. He feels some regret at being forced to leave his kyoudai’s embrace to grab the book, but maybe… maybe it’s for the better…

 An uneasy silence fills the room as the pair grabs their stuff and prepares to work on the assignment their teacher gave them. Taka had already finished the work a while ago (like he’d already finished the algebra work, though he’d pretended he hadn’t for Mondo’s sake), but it’s always good to practice! Practice… practice makes perfect… 

 However… before Taka can start talking about the assignment and explaining to Mondo roughly how it works (even though he’s not one hundred percent sure himself, he’s not the best at physics after all), Mondo… Mondo speaks again… oh, god… 

 “Hey. Taka. Know ya… ya wanna move the fuck on, an’ I’ll respect that shit, okay? I get that my apology made ya uncomfortable, an’… shit. If ya don’t like it, I won’t do it again, promise. But, Taka… know that I mean it when I say ya don’t deserve ta go through that shit. Okay? An’… an’ while I won’t try an’ do this kinda shit again, don’t wanna make ya upset… know that when I fuck up? I am sorry. An’ I… I will do everythin’ I fuckin’ can ta show ya how sorry I am. ‘Through deed,’ as ya put it. I may be a fuckin’ criminal biker, but I know when I fuck up. An’ I… I won’t make ya uncomfortable, Kiyo, but I ain’t gonna do nothin’ when I fuck up. So… I’ll just hafta show ya how sorry I am. I guess.” 

 The comment hurts Taka as badly as all the others, knowing he doesn’t deserve it, but he doesn’t say that. He just nods stiffly, eyes firmly on his textbook, waiting for Mondo to open his to the right page. Which— after a tense moment— Mondo does, the biker sighing softly again. 

 After that, Taka begins talking about the assignment, voice a little too shaky, but he does his best to explain everything the best he can. As time goes on, it gets easier to talk, Mondo chiming in here and there with his own comments on the work. It takes a while, almost half an hour, but by the time they finish the work, things between them are easy again. Taka’s smile is real, and Mondo’s eyes no longer hold the heaviness that Taka couldn’t help but notice. And that… that’s good. It’s… it’s good. Taka determines to forget this ever happened, not wanting to dwell on negative things that don’t matter. 

 However…

 However, as he and Mondo are cleaning up, Taka having a meeting with his local Morals Committee that he’s been working on in his spare time… he feels the urge to say something. Not anything big, but just… something. 

 “Hey… Mondo?” Taka asks softly, fiddling with the bag strap he has hanging across his chest, eyes on the ground even though he knows how weak it makes him. He can feel Mondo’s curious gaze upon him, and it almost makes him lose his nerve entirely. God…

 “Yeah? What’s up, kyoudai? Somethin’ the matter?”

 Taka bites his lip, shrugging uncomfortably, not knowing how to say what he wants to say, but knowing he wants to say something. What a conundrum… 

 “N-no, nothing like that. I just… well. I wanted to thank you. For… for what you said earlier. I know I may not have seemed the most appreciative, but I… I did appreciate your words. Your… y-your apology. It’s just… I don’t need that, kyoudai. I really don’t. Having your friendship is enough for me. I promise you that it is, my dearest kyoudai. I promise.” 

 A pregnant silence fills the room this time, Mondo’s eyes heavy upon his person, and it makes Taka feel very uncomfortable, though he does his best not to fidget. He still can’t meet Mondo’s eyes, and he… he hopes that’s okay…

 “Shit… yeah, I, uh… I get what ya mean. I… shit. I’ve never liked getting apologies either, ya know. Daiya, he… he’d apologize sometimes fer shit that wasn’t really his fault, or even shit that was, but I… I… shit. Never much liked it. So, I… I get it. But that don’t mean I don’t feel it, okay, Kiyo? Sorry fer hurtin’ ya. An’ if I ever hurt ya again, real bad, then I… I can’t promise I won’t try an’ apologize then. But unless that shit is big, I… I’ll try not ta do it. Okay? ‘Less ya tell me otherwise. That… that’s all I can offer, heh…” 

 Taka finds some hidden strength in him to look his kyoudai in the eye, a small half smile on his lips at Mondo’s words. While it may not make sense, he… he’s honestly glad Mondo promised that. He understands the importance of apologies and he thinks it’s good to apologize to people you’ve hurt. But he just… for himself, he… he doesn’t need that. He doesn’t really even want that. He just wants to move on and forget it ever happened, really. 

 “I… t-thank you, kyoudai. Thank you.”

 After that, he and Mondo exit the room, the biker lifting a hand to wave goodbye as Taka heads to the location that his Morals Committee meets. So far, it’s only him, a couple reserve students, and one staff member, but that’s okay! Taka has started Morals Committees with less people before, and they clearly did well enough that it got him here, didn’t they? So, he’s not bothered by it. All he needs is time, effort, and dedication!

 With that… anything is possible. 

 ~~~~~

(In case anyone is confused, Taka’s problem with apologies is that they embarrass him. He doesn’t think he deserves to be apologized to, nor has he ever been apologized to before by anyone, so having Mondo apologize makes him very uncomfortable. I have a similar problem, though I’m not that bad with it, ha. I also put it to kind of explain why Mondo doesn’t apologize that much later in the story. Maybe it’s a bit of a cop out, but eh. It’s something, and I hope y’all like it.)

15 for Abby/Luka

For reasons ;)

Under a cut because it's long.

July 2003

To: Luka Kovac <“[email protected]”>

From: Abby Lockhart <“[email protected]”>

Subject: I’m drowning and praying ghosts are real

Dear Luka,

Something about knowing that I’ll never talk to you again is just unbearable. I’ll never laugh at your malapropisms, look into your beautiful eyes, feel your strong hands holding mine, or make love to you again. There won’t be any more jokes about jam and cheese on toast, or you teasing me for my weak but constant supply of coffee. I’ll never hear your amazing, deranged laughter after you prank someone again. No more of your hugs—which are somehow the best hugs in the world. Because you’re gone.

It’s been three days since we got the call telling us you died thousands of miles from home, whether that’s here in Chicago or in Croatia. I didn’t know your dad’s name, Luka. We needed to call him, and I didn’t know. How did I not know? And now I can’t. I mean, L’Alliance told us his name, but the fact that I’ll never learn pieces of your history, of the wonderful man you are, FROM you...how am I supposed to go on and live my life?

For years, I’ve thought medicine was my great thwarted love. I’ve wanted to be a doctor for so long, and I thought I was bitter about having to let go of that dream. Now I wonder. I let obstacles get in the way of pursuing medicine, and it’s made me...well, it’s part of why I was so unhappy. But that makes me think about how I also let obstacles get in the way of us. I was happy with you, you know, until I let fear and my mother and Carter get in the way. God, I wish I could do that over again. We could have had everything, and if I hadn’t gotten in my own way, I’d be happy. I think maybe I could have made you happy, too.

It’s funny. I knew things with Carter weren’t working, and he implied you were part of it. I said it wasn’t, but then five minutes later, I found out you were—are—dead. And I realized you were the reason, or one of the big ones. As soon as Chuny told me, I knew I loved you and had loved you for years. Yeah. Great timing, isn’t it? I keep thinking that maybe I could have kept you from going if I had known or if I had told you. I didn’t want you to go when I thought you were my very attractive friend and ex that I still was fond of. Knowing that I love you—how do I move past that? Knowing that I lost you, first to my stupidity and then to death?

I just...I miss you, and I don’t when I’ll stop, or how to. Susan caught me crying on my last shift, and I didn’t even know what to say. I feel like I’ve been crying or standing still, brittle and stuck in time, since I heard the news. I can’t, Luka. I know I have to keep on moving, and I thought maybe writing you would help. I know you’ll never see this, never have a chance to respond. But the idea that some fragments of your soul linger and can maybe sense...I don’t know. That I’m writing? What I’m feeling? Jesus, this is crazy.

All my love,

Abby

Abby angrily swipes the tears from her eyes. God, what’s the point of writing this? He’ll never see hsi email or her again. Just...without Luka, how can the world be anything but grim and sad and pointless?

She laughs mirthlessly. Maybe it doesn’t matter. No, she knows it doesn’t. Because Abby knows the futility of it, aches with the meaninglessness, she presses send without another thought.

&&&

Three days after that, a miracle occurs. Luka, the Lazarus of this new millennium, comes back from the dead. He’s never been dead, and maybe, Abby thinks, there’s a God above after all. So many people wish for this exact boon, and she—they, the world—gets it. Some higher power believes this planet is a better place with Luka Kovac in it, and Abby is ecstatic.

Until she remembers the email and that they can’t be unsent.

It’s fine. She’ll be fine. Luka is coming back, apparently with a French nurse. Maybe he’ll just delete it without reading it. Maybe it didn’t go through—how does email work for the dead, and how quickly is all that processed?

Abby shakes her head. It doesn’t matter; Luka is alive and returning to them. She can handle a little awkwardness in the face of the sheer joy of knowing the world is a brighter, kinder place. He’s coming back, and that’s what’s important.

&&&

August 2003

It takes Luka almost a week after returning to Chicago to convince Kerry and the other staff to let him go back to his apartment. Even so, they only agree when Gillian assures them she’ll see to his every need.

Abby winces when she hears that, and it makes something flutter in Luka’s chest. Which probably isn’t good for his malaria, but the hope...that is.

It’s another two days of lying in bed before he has the energy to ask Gillian to bring him his laptop. At this point, it’s been months since he’s checked his email, and Luka grimaces at the undoubtedly horrible state of his inbox. He briefly considers never checking again and just getting a new one, but he knows his father struggled to add him to his contacts once already. To expect it of him again would be absurd.

With a sigh, Luka opens his email. It’s just as bad as he feared. He snorts at the myriad messages about Viagra, Nigerian princes, and Russian brides, deleting them without thought. He saves a couple from his dad. He slowly whittles down his inbox, but he freezes when he gets to one email in particular, sent about a month ago.

It’s from Abby, during the time everyone thought he was dead.

Luka considers calling and asking her if someone hacked her email or is sending spam from her account, but the subject line...it looks real. And Abby’s been odd around him lately, seeming both deliriously happy to see him and awkwardly nervous.

His heart pounds, and he clicks to open it. If this is a spammer, they’re probably about to get whatever they want.

&&&

Abby pours herself another coffee, internally swearing as she prepares for the last two hours of her shift. Deciding to go back to school is great; having to coordinate all the details is less thrilling and leaves her tired and cranky.

Frank ducks his head into the lounge, beady eyes narrowing on her. “Hey, Abby. The Croat is on the phone for you. Line 2. Try to get back out there as fast as you can, Weaver’s yelling at the med students about IVs.”

“Okay, Frank,” Abby says, though she flushes and her palms start to sweat. It’s fine. She can always hide the panic and butterflies in her stomach with sarcasm. It has yet to fail her.

Frank gives her one last suspicious look, then nods and heads back to Admit.

Abby takes a deep breath, then picks up the phone. “Hey, Luka?”

“It’s me. Glad I could reach you. How are you?” He sounds...ugh. So good. And eager and happy, and her heart could leap right out of her chest.

“Doing all right. I just have a couple hours left on this shift, and it hasn’t been too awful today. Only one MVA. How about you? You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Recovering. Listen, did you want to come over for dinner?”

“Please tell me you’re not trying to cook.”

“What? I’m a good cook, even if you don’t appreciate wonderful, traditional Croatian dishes,” he says with a chuckle.

“Luka, you just got out of the hospital five days ago. You still need to be resting.”

“Abby, don’t worry so much. I was just kidding. I have some sandwiches from Manny’s, and Anna sent me home with lots of matzo ball soup too.”

Abby bites her lip. Of course she wants to go. But the prospect of spending the evening with Gillian cooing over Luka, knowing that she shares a bed with him, is decidedly less appealing. And there’s the email she sent, which Luka hasn’t acknowledged. He might well have deleted it, or he’s giving her a gracious out.

Her conscience twinges as soon as she thinks about bailing, though. Didn’t she promise herself she wouldn’t take life for granted anymore? She’ll go back to med school, she’ll have dinner with Luka when he asks.

“Abby?”

She starts, realizing she needs to respond. “Yeah, sorry. Yeah, I can do that. I can be there an hour after my shift, if that’s okay.”

“Sounds great. Looking forward to seeing you.”

“Me too.” He has no idea how much, even if she wishes she knew for sure that he’d deleted the email.

&&&

Abby rings Luka’s doorbell three and a half hours later. She’d meant to come straight from work, but after a patient vomited on her, she decided to head home, shower, and splurge on a taxi to Luka’s. The poor man is recovering from being deathly ill and doesn’t need County’s fumes making things worse.

There’s the sound of the deadbolt sliding, and Luka answers the door, grinning happily at her. “Good, you made it! Come on in!”

“I did. Sorry it took me longer than expected.” Abby steps into his apartment, looking around. It’s been such a long time since she’s been here, and she notes the subtle changes in the art and decor.

“No worries. I know how it goes.” He places a hand at the small of her back, guiding her inside.

Abby stiffens for a second at how his touch burns even through the layers of her shirt and light jacket, but she relaxes, enjoying the feel while she waits for Gillian to appear and end the fleeting joy.

Luka is unfazed. “Now, of course we can just eat the sandwiches, but if you want to heat up the matzo ball soup, you can. Since you don’t want me standing,” he says with a wink.

Abby smiles back, shaking her head. “Oh, I see how it is. Make the woman who worked all day do more household work when she gets ho—wait, where’s Gillian? Isn’t she supposed to be taking care of you?”

“She’s not here,” he says simply.

Going to the fridge and taking out the containers of soup, Abby places them in the microwave. Is Gillian out for the evening, or is she gone gone? “Shouldn’t you be with her? Or her here with you, whatever.”

Luka is quiet for a long minute, and Abby wonders if he intends to answer. Finally, he breaks the silence. “I asked her to leave.”

Abby’s pulse speeds up. “What? Why?”

Luka takes a deep breath, clearly ready to respond, and—

The microwave dings, and they both jump. Exchanging a sheepish look, they laugh.

“Look, let’s get some food, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Abby dishes up their soup and sandwiches, preparing trays so they can sit on the couch. Luka turns on the television, and Abby’s heart rate comes back under control. They sit together in companionable silence while they eat and watch Thom and Jai and the rest of the Fab 5 whip some hapless lawyer’s life into order. When they finish their meal, Abby cleans up, taking the trays back to the kitchen.

She heads back to the couch at the opposite end from Luka, not daring to get closer when she really has no idea what’s going on.

Luka clears his throat and mutes the TV. “So, yeah. I asked Gillian to leave.”

“Oh. So, um, did you break up?”

“She was never my girlfriend, really. She has a boyfriend back in Montreal, they just…” Luka shrugs and runs a hand through his hair.

Abby is more lost than ever. “Ah.”

Taking a deep breath, Luka continues, finally looking over at her. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful she helped me get here and took care of me, but we were never serious.”

Something starts to tug at Abby’s heart, squeezing and twisting and kicking to get free. Is it...hope? “Well, I’m glad she got you here safe, but you should have someone staying with you while you recover, Luka. Malaria is dangerous.”

He gives her a look. “I know how dangerous malaria is. I’m getting better. And besides, it wouldn’t have been fair for me to ask her to stay when things are over because I’m in love with someone else.”

Her heart leaps into her throat. “Someone else?” she squeaks.

Luka nods, swallowing. “Yeah. And I have a reason to think she might be in love with me too.” He slides over to her side of the couch, reaching for her hand.

Abby meets his eyes—those beautiful green eyes that are the best color in the world—and squeezes his hand, incapable of words. Does he mean…?

With his other hand, Luka reaches up and cups her cheek, running his thumb along the subtle arch of her cheekbone. “Abby, if you’ve changed your mind since you sent that email, please tell me to shut up.”

That stupid, ridiculous email might be the best thing she’s ever done in her life. She leans into his hand, licking her lips as she shakes her head slightly. “I haven’t changed my mind. I didn’t mean for you to see it and hoped I could learn how to hack computers and delete it but—”

Luka cuts her off. “I would never forgive you if you managed to delete it. You wouldn’t believe how much faster I healed after that.”

Abby leans forward, sliding into Luka’s waiting arms. “Then maybe I’ll write you some more emails.”

“Emails aren’t what I want right now,” Luka says.

Funny, Abby doesn’t either. Then his lips brush hers, and all her worries and fears fade away. She knows she has to tell him about med school and he needs to finish recuperating, but when Luka deepens their kiss and pulls her closer, Abby ceases to think at all.

She has Luka back, and now they have each other again.

Dine and Dash (chapter 1)

[Read on AO3 or under the cut]

Can you believe it's been 11 years since Ace was saved from Marineford? Yeah, me neither. Still feels like fucking yesterday. So happy they managed save him in the end :) #ForeverInDenial

I took the opportinity of the anniversary of chapter 574 being published to finally write the obligatory Everybody is alive and nothing hurts AU that we all deserve, especially a certain beautiful, precious fire boy <3 (And yes, I know the anniversary was yesterday, I fucked up but shhh)

----------

Relationships: ASL brothers, Law/Luffy

Rating: Teen and Up

Words: 1894

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Everybody Lives, Nothing Hurts, Portgas D. Ace Lives, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, lawlu being cute, Protective Sabo (One Piece), Protective Portgas D. Ace, best big bros protective of their innocent baby bro, ASL Brothers, what else uhhh, i might add more as i go, Donquixote "Corazon" Rosinante Lives

Summary: When the three brothers who had once terrorized the Grey Terminal as well as the Goa Capital come together, nothing good can come of it. Even though they're not children anymore. Or maybe especially since they're not children anymore.

Or; the obligatory Everybody Is Alive And Nothing Hurts AU

---------

When Ace jumped from his raft up onto the railing of Luffy’s ship, he honestly didn’t expect someone to be standing right where he landed. He couldn’t blame Nami for screaming like she did in favor of a normal greeting, and it was also no surprise when Luffy’s voice came only a second later, asking what was wrong in a voice full of alarm. What was surprising, however, was when Luffy’s head popped out from behind what looked like a large polar bear sleeping right on the deck of the Thousand Sunny. Seriously, Luffy and his tendency to pick up the weirdest things.

"Hey, Luffy," Ace greeted, waving at his brother.

A bright smile appeared on Luffy's face when he realized just who the intruder was, scrambling to his feet and immediately falling over, nearly landing face first onto the lawn. Ace just had to laugh at the sight, but his amusement soon died down. Instead, he had to frown at the pained groan and cursing in a voice that was decidedly not Luffy's, and neither did it seem to have come from the polar bear who was still snoozing away without care.

"Sorry, Torao," Luffy apologized with a sheepish smile directed at the person he had apparently tripped over.

Who the hell was ‘Torao?’ Who was the person Ace could only assume his baby brother was napping with? Seemed like an interrogation was in order. Later though, there were arrangements to be made first. After all, having back up on this couldn't hurt and he had the best back up just waiting for him on the next island.

Picking himself up and running over, Luffy nearly crashed into Nami in his hurry this time, but his navigator managed to side step him at the last second, probably expecting something like this to happen. Luffy only shot her a crooked smile and a half-hearted apology, prompting her to shake her head at him, crossing her arms over her chest in a scolding manner.“Honestly, how is your entire family like this? One of you is going to give me a heart attack one day.”

“Sorry,” Ace and Luffy apologized in unison, the both of them bowing to her for good measure. After all, they both knew all too well that Nami’s wrath was scarier than anything they had ever witnessed on the Grand Line so far.

Nami huffed, shooting one last unhappy glare at them before she turned around and said, “We should be arriving at the next island in a few hours, I’m going to check what we need and get things ready.”

Ace sighed in relief; it seemed like they had somehow managed to avoid the worst.

"Ace, what are you doing here?" Luffy asked as soon as Nami walked away.

Ace grinned, finally jumping off of the railing he had been perching on. “Can’t I just come visit my favourite baby bro?”

“Of course you can,” Luffy said, sticking his tongue out at him. “I just didn’t expect you. Weren’t you going to Wano to see Tama?”

“Yeah, but there was a change of plans. Sabo’s actually on the island you’re heading to so I took a detour,” Ace explained with a shrug.

The reaction was immediate. Just as Ace expected, Luffy perked up even more, his smile going impossibly wide and Ace could swear there were stars in his eyes. He was also basically vibrating in place and Ace had to chuckle at the sight. He understood Luffy’s excitement, neither of them got to see the revolutionary nearly as often as they would have liked for obvious reasons, but Luffy was just too cute when he got like this. How he even did the… bright all over thing was something beyond Ace’s understanding but he loved seeing it every single time regardless.

“Sabo’s there?! Why didn’t he tell me?” Luffy cried out, grabbing onto Ace’s arm in his eagerness.

Before Ace could reply, the other person who had been hidden behind the polar bear until then stood up, muttering seemingly to himself, but loud enough for both Ace and Luffy to hear, “Oh great, there’s going to be three of them.”

“Torao~,” Luffy whined, turning to look at the grumpy man with a pout. “Don’t say it as if it’s a bad thing,” he finished, bouncing away from Ace to stand in front of the other man instead.

Ace scowled at the sight of Luffy peeking up at ‘Torao,’ who only stared back impassively as if he wasn’t bothered in the least by Luffy’s puppy eyes. Ace didn’t think that was even possible. Not to mention they were standing way too close to each other for Ace’s tastes.

“It is a bad thing. There’s way too much energy just with you, Luffy-ya. I don’t need more of it around me,” Torao told him, finishing with a light flick to Luffy’s forehad. An action that nearly had Ace toss a fireball at him if only Luffy didn’t start giggling over it.

Suddenly, Luffy stepped even closer to the man, wrapping his arms around his waist and grinning up at him. “You love it,” he announced, sounding all too proud of himself.

“In very small doses,” Torao admitted before leaning down and kissing the top of Luffy’s head.  

Oh, Sabo was so hearing about this.

Ace cleared his throat loudly, raising his hand to make sure the fire crackling threateningly in his palm was the first thing Torao would see when he looked in his direction.

“Nice to see you again, too, Fire Fist-ya,” the man said flatly, one eyebrow raised.

Ace smiled at him, making sure it look as fake as he could make it. “Trafalgar Law. What do you think you’re doing to my little brother?”

“What does it look like?” Law shot back, showing a smirk that only managed to irk Ace further. If Luffy wasn’t standing right there, he would really have thrown that fireball at him.

“Ace?” Luffy asked, tilting his head to the side in confusion as he looked at the fire dancing angrily under Ace’s command.

Ace sighed at that, reluctantly putting the flames out. That asshole was seriously so lucky Luffy was there. He and Sabo would have to corner him later and threaten him when Luffy wasn’t looking. “Anyway, as I was saying—” Ace shook his head, trying to make himself focus on the matter at hand— “I don’t think Sabo knew you were this close to the island. He said he only had one afternoon free and absolutely needed to see me for some reason. So, Luffy. Want to come with us to get something to eat?” he asked, even though he knew the answer. As if Luffy would ever say no to that.  

“Let’s get meat!” Luffy exclaimed loudly, full of enthusiasm and throwing both arms in the air. He nearly punched Law in the face.

Sadly, it really was only nearly but Ace still took great pleasure in returning the smirk Law had given him earlier. He quickly turned back to Luffy, however, and replied, “Well, Sabo seemed like he had something in mind already so let’s just go and see.”

Luffy nodded at his words, a bright, happy smile that looked just the same as it did all those years ago at Mt. Colubo on his face, and Ace felt his previous smirk melt into a fond smile in return. There was warmth in his chest at the sight, the knowledge that his little brother was still the same even after everything that had happened over the years making him incredibly happy.

Without even realizing, Ace’s hand came to touch his own exposed chest, his fingers tracing the rough, large burn scar that Akainu had left there during the war four years ago. It was honestly a miracle he was even alive. He had fully accepted death back on the execution scaffold but then Luffy crashed in, just as loud, just as unexpected as always, bringing so much chaos with him that it changed the entire course of the whole ordeal. And then he accepted it once more when he threw himself in Akainu’s way to protect Luffy.

But now here they were, both of them miraculously alive—thanks to Jinbe, Marco, Vista, and, as much as it pained him to admit it given the very recent circumstances, mostly thanks to Trafalgar Law’s incredible timing and medical skill—and both bearing lava burn scars on their chests as a reminder of what could have happened; what was so incredibly close to happening. It was incredible how much the experience had changed them, yet somehow, how they were still the same as they used to be when playing pirates in their little tree house base.

And when Sabo had appeared in front of them again, with tears and apologies and so very alive, it felt almost inevitable.

Ace shook his head at his own thoughts. This was no time to get all sentimental. “Okay, Sabo’s waiting. Are you ready to go? Striker isn’t really a two person boat but it should be okay,” Ace said, gesturing towards his fire powered raft.

“Yes!” Luffy shouted like he had just won something. “Your boat always seems so fun to play with,” he sang, running over to look down at the slim, sleek raft that was gently swaying along the Sunny.

“Glad you’re so excited,” Ace chuckled.

He went to jump back down on Striker immediately, but Luffy stopped him when he spoke up next, “Oh wait. Do you think we could take the Mini Merry? Torao is meeting his dad on the island, too.”

Ace paused, looking at Luffy with a slight frown. What the hell was a ‘mini merry?’ But more importantly, did they really have to take Trafalgar with them?

Thankfully, Law had saved Ace from having to deal with either of those questions when he spoke up instead, “Thanks but I’ll stay here, Cora-san won’t be there until evening anyway. Plus, I’m not going to risk your brother drowning me on the way.” He shot Ace another one of those smirks when he finished and Ace almost wanted to burn it off of his face but…

“Fair point,” he admitted instead, surprised at the laughter that bubbled out of his chest. He shuddered in horror at the idea of this asshole growing on him.  

“I have no idea what you two are talking about,” Luffy mumbled in annoyance, but perked back up a second later when he announced he was going to let the crew know he was going on ahead.

Ace and Law looked at each other, Ace trying to convey with his eyes the threat of bodily harm that he was thinking in regards to the man standing in front of him. He could only assume he had succeeded when the corners of Law’s mouth twitched up slightly, followed by the surgeon flipping Ace off before he turned around and walked off, sitting down and making himself comfortable with his back resting against the somehow still asleep polar bear.

He was seriously pissing Ace off.

He did have to give it to him, though; if nothing else, this asshole had guts. Reluctantly, Ace had to admit that was probably the most important qualification to pass as Luffy’s boyfriend. He was still not getting out of that interrogation though.

---------

[chapter 2 coming...... as soon as I can finish it]

To Look On Tempests and Not Be Shaken

Summary: In the wake of a blazing row and an empty apartment, Aaron finds Spencer's well-thumbed copy of Shakespeare's sonnets and recalls the morning after their wedding, when Spencer sat on his lap and read Sonnet 116 to him. Suddenly, everything makes sense.

Tags: angst with a happy ending, fighting and making up, married hotchreid, relationship dynamics, introspection, fluff, shakespeare/literature

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 2.6k

Masterlist // Read on AO3

(Set in S11, AU in which Haley/Aaron divorced in S1 and Aaron/Spencer married in S4.)

It wasn’t really either of their faults: work was relentless at the moment and they hadn’t had any real time for one another in weeks. That’s not really a consolation to either Spencer or Aaron, however, when they’re in the middle of a blazing row that has them both drowning in flames of anger and passion, unable to see one another for the smoke filling their apartment. 

“Aaron, this is the fourth case in a row that you’ve stayed at  the office past 4 in the morning to wrap up the paperwork,” Spencer shouts, frustration rising in his chest as he tugs at his hair, already feeling far too overwhelmed. Aaron is looking as unbothered and stoic as he always does during their fights, and even though Spencer is fully aware of the emotion that will be stirring under his carefully constructed mask, it doesn’t make it any less exasperating. 

“You know as well as I do that this sort of work load is completely unavoidable,” Aaron says lowly, anger finally audible in his voice. It’s not as satisfying as Spencer had hoped. “We can’t keep rehashing this same old argument. I’m the Unit Chief of a team in one of the most prestigious FBI departments. I have a responsibility.”

“You have a responsibility to me and Jack as well,” Spencer cries, fury bubbling over as he thinks of Jack and just how much he deserves. “We deserve your time just as much as fucking serial killers do.”

Aaron visibly flinches as Spencer swears, an occurrence rare enough to indicate serious emotion. “This is exactly the argument I used to have with Haley, Spencer,” he says harshly. “I refuse to have it with you, too. If you can’t handle it then maybe you should leave, just like she did, hm?”

“Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe that means there’s an element of truth in it then, Aaron?” Spencer asks, voice breaking slightly as the scale tips away from uncontained ire towards hopeless misery. He turns away from his husband, trying in vain to conceal his crumpled face and damp eyes. “And you know I would never do that to you; don’t you dare throw your unresolved issues back in my face.”

“I can’t deal with this right now,” Aaron says, voice and face hardened; Spencer can almost see the walls he’s building up again, the stubborn refusal to concede any point. “You’re not being rational. I’m going to bed.”

His stomach twists with the desperation of the situation as he says quietly to Aaron’s turned, retreating back, “What happened to never going to bed angry?” He doesn’t turn back around. 

⭐️

Aaron waits in bed for Spencer to join him, fully intending to feign sleep the moment he enters the bedroom but nevertheless longing to know he’s safely tucked next to him in bed. When he hears the quiet click of the front door and checks the time to see he’s been waiting for almost 25 minutes, though, a panicked feeling fills his chest. He throws the covers back and treads out to the living room, only to be met with a decidedly empty room. If he was a more spiritual man he’d say he could still feel the angry aura of their previous argument lingering over the furniture. Really what he feels is the inevitable, empty vacuum a home without Spencer in it is bound to house. 

He sits down on the sofa, just on the wrong side of too cold in his threadbare t-shirt and underwear, and buries his head in his hands. The problem is that he knows Spencer’s right. He and Jack both deserve better than this kind of life, of course they do. Jack deserves a father, Spencer deserves a husband. Admitting such a fact, however, requires humility, vulnerability, failure almost. It means telling his boss that he needs reinforcements, that he can’t continue with the 80+ hour weeks, that he’s not as strong as he used to be. 

That sort of thing takes a courage that feels so far out of reach, though, and he’s left defending a place he doesn’t want to be in against people he loves more than anything in the world. 

Forcing himself out of his miserable carousel of thoughts and regrets, he pulls his head from his hands and catches sight of a note on the coffee table, his name scrawled across it in Spencer’s handwriting. Immediately, his heart sinks: it’s unlikely a love letter. It’s far more likely it’s a note of good riddance, an announcement of abandonment. 

Turning it over in his shaking hands, he reads: 

I’ve gone to stay with Derek and Penelope for the night. I will pick up Jack from Jessica’s in the morning, on my way home. I love you. Spencer 

He immediately feels guilt at ever having thought that Spencer would be cruel enough to leave him in the same way he’s been left himself one too many times. His husband has an incredible amount of love filling his heart, and he’s simply incapable of such cruelty. It’s been a fear of his for many years, that Spencer would grow unhappy but be too kind to leave, prioritising Aaron above himself. He knows it’s Haley’s fault for embedding such fear and doubt in his heart all those years ago, but he can’t help but berate himself for ever doubting Spencer. 

It’s not like they’re about to break up. When he considers the situation logically, he knows that. He loves Spencer, Spencer loves him, and ultimately, he’s going to relent. He’s going to draw on whatever shreds of courage remain in his tattered and beaten soul and do whatever it takes to make his family happy, to give them what they deserve. He just has no idea how to cross the gaping chasm that stands in the way of reaching that eventuality. 

He goes to place the note back down on the coffee table, but his eyes land on the book it had originally rested on: Spencer’s well-loved copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets. He picks it up, sort of absent-mindedly, thumbing the pages the love of his life has read countless times, holding on to the book as an emotional connection to Spencer. It’s travelled their entire relationship with them; he remembers it laying on his spare bedside table back when Spencer visited his apartment in the dead of night, terrified of anyone finding them out. He’d read the poems over and over again, long into the night. Aaron can’t help but smile at the memory of Spencer’s unique quirks. 

Eventually, his absent fiddling lands him on a page Spencer’s visited time and time again. A worn leather bookmark Aaron recognises as one of Diana’s gifts marks the page titled Sonnet 116. Tired and lovelorn, he begins reading.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds  Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand'ring bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd. Sonnet 116, William Shakespeare 

((Modern Translation, if you’d prefer:

I will not admit that interferences are possible in the union of two people In love. Love that changes when circumstances do is not love, Nor if it bends when someone tries to destroy it: Oh no! It is an eternally fixed point, Which may watch storms but is never shaken by them; it is the guiding star for ever lost ship: Its distance may be measured but its quality cannot be. Love does not fall victim to Time, though features of youth Are eventually entrapped by him; Love doesn’t change as hours and weeks race past, But endures until death. If this is wrong, and I’m proved incorrect, Then I never wrote, and no man ever loved.))

The words come rushing back to him as soon as he reads them: it had been a contender for Spencer’s chosen poem at their wedding. He’d eventually gone with I loved you first by Christina Rosetti, the perfect compliment to his own choice of I love you by Ella Wheeler Wilcox, but on their first morning as a married couple, laid in their warm and comfortable bed, Spencer had pulled out this very book and straddled Aaron’s thighs, reading it to him with an earnest expression. He remembers the air being punched out of his chest as he’d looked up at a bright-eyed 27-year-old Spencer who had been through so much already but still held all the grace and innocence he did on his first day at the BAU.

He doesn’t realise he’s crying until a tear runs down his nose and splashes on the page. What really tips him over the edge is reading Spencer’s small, chicken-scratch annotations around the poem, noting different points in their relationship, events between the two of them that prove the words of an Englishman born 400 years earlier.  

It’s so easy for him to doubt how much Spencer loves him - insecurities and the trauma of his separation from Haley consume him far too often - but he’s holding the tangible, physical proof. This is undeniable, this is the evidence his doubtful, damaged heart yearns for, and the furious, raging, endlessly tumultuous waters inside him settle for the first time in weeks.  

⭐️

The second Aaron’s alarm goes off at 6am, he gets started on the plan he’d formed as soon as the words of Shakespeare’s sonnet had sunk in. The email he’d composed the night before is the first thing his laptop screen displays when he powers it on, and he presses send on the uncompromising, demanding letter he’d addressed to Cruz. Finally feeling good about the entire situation, he turns the coffee maker on and gets dressed; Spencer’s an early riser but he’s determined to get to Derek and Penelope’s before he leaves. 

The relief is freeing, and he feels light for the first time in a long time. He hadn’t quite realised just how much it had all been weighing on him until he’d finally found the courage to cut it free. 

Armed with two coffees and Shakespeare’s sonnets, he heads downstairs to the taxi he’d ordered the night before. The city races past in front of the slow and steady sunrise, dawn marking a new chapter in Aaron’s life that he’s determined to make worth it. Slowly the thick of the city fades into the suburbs, and the taxi slows down as they wind through the maze of identical looking streets until they arrive at Derek and Penelope’s home. 

He pays the taxi driver as quickly as possible and sighs in relief at the sight of Spencer’s car still on the drive as he climbs out of the vehicle, carefully balancing his two coffees, still warm in their thermal mugs. Fully aware that Derek and Penelope are absolutely going to chew him out the minute they lay eyes on him, he hesitantly rings the doorbell. 

“Man, what the hell?” Derek exclaims, clearly exasperated as he swings the door open, revealing a sorry looking Aaron Hotchner standing sheepishly on his doorstep. 

“I know,” Aaron replies immediately, trying to portray as much regret and understanding with his body language as is possible when holding two coffees with  your husband’s most prized possession perched precariously under your arm. “I know, I fucked up, and I’m sorry. I need to see Spencer.”

Derek looks thoroughly put out just being in Aaron’s presence, but after a moment or two of hesitation he relents, opening the door wider to let him through. “Alright,” he sighs. “I’ll ask if he’s okay to see you.”

He parks Aaron in the living room and then leaves to go and find Spencer. Only seconds later, he hears the hurried click of kitten heels on the wooden floor and internally cringes; if facing Derek was bad, facing Penelope will be infinitely more painful.

“Aaron Hotchner,” Penelope shouts before she’s even fully entered the living room, “I have never, and I mean never been more disappointed in you. I don’t think you fully appreciate how lucky you are. You may be my boss but that does not mean I will not chew you out when you screw up this bad. Anyone who makes my Spencer cry is in my bad books for at least two weeks. You are in the dog house, you understand me? The dog house.”

She’s thankfully cut off from continuing her rant by Spencer’s shy, hesitant appearance at the doorway. Penelope immediately rushes over and gives him a hug, whispering something in his ear that Aaron doesn’t catch but makes Spencer giggle. She reaches up to ruffle his hair before patting his cheek fondly and casting a furious glare in Aaron’s direction as she vacates the living room. 

“Hi,” Aaron says softly, breaking the silence left in the wake of Storm Penelope. “I bought you a coffee.” 

“What are you doing here, Aaron?” Spencer asks, clearly a little confused but still accepting the drink. 

“I know you said that you’d come home this morning but I had to come and get you,” he replies, standing up from his seat on the couch and taking a few steps forward. “Look… your note last night, it was on top of this book. And in my absent-minded cloud of misery I was looking through it and came across Sonnet 116.”

A flicker of recognition lights up Spencer’s eyes as his face softens a little at the sight of his beloved book.

“Do you remember? Climbing into my lap on our one day wedding anniversary and reading it to me? Back then I was partly distracted by the gorgeous man in my arms but last night… Spencer, the words hit home in a way I haven’t felt before. Not to mention your annotations; I felt like I was reading a journal of our love story, which I know was probably your intention all along.” He shakes his head, trying to get back on track. “I’ve been an idiot, a rotten fool, and I’m so sorry. I emailed Cruz this morning. 

“You did?” Spencer looks up, surprise filling his features for a second before a small, hopeful smile takes over. “What did you say?”

“That I couldn’t continue with the workload and I needed reinforcements. That I would work the same hours for two more weeks to allow them to find an adequate solution, but after that I’ll be reducing my hours to align almost directly with yours,” he says, tentatively gauging Spencer’s reaction. 

It’s made pretty easy for him when Spencer’s hesitantly hopeful smile blossoms into a wide grin, relaxing his posture as relief overtakes his body and he throws himself into Aaron’s arms. Aaron buries his face into his husband’s curls and lets himself breathe easy, feeling infinitely better with Spencer wrapped up in his arms again, just where he belongs. 

“I’m so sorry, baby,” Aaron whispers as he pulls Spencer impossibly closer. 

“I’m sorry, too,” Spencer sighs, nestling his face further into Aaron’s neck. “We both said things we shouldn’t have. But, you’re here now, and that’s what counts.”

“I love you, you know that?” Aaron murmurs, pulling away slightly so he can look Spencer in the eyes, trying to convey his sincerity as well as possible. 

“I know,” he smiles. “I love you, too.”

“Come on, sweetheart,” Aaron says, patting Spencer’s side gently. “Let’s get out of here before Penelope comes to stab me with her high heels.” 

Spencer giggles at that. “I don’t know, maybe, I’d like to see that,” he teases, digging his finger into Aaron’s ribs for good measure. 

“Oh, stop it you,” Aaron smiles fondly before kissing the top of Spencer’s head, feeling happier in this moment than he’d ever thought possible again last night. Peace is finally restored in Aaron Hotchner’s heart, all thanks to one rather ancient English playwright and an academic for a husband. “Let’s go and get Jack,” he says, longing to have his whole family back together, to restore the equilibrium of a tumultuous few weeks. 

Spencer leans down to kiss his shoulder as they walk out of the Morgan-Garcia household, and it’s enough to keep him warm the whole way home.

@strippersenseii @criminalmindsvibez

Monday, 13 September 1824

7 50/60

1 35/60

Breakfast at 9 – Mrs Mackenzie came and sat with me 1/2 hour she is in doubt whether to stay here or not seemed to ask my advice and be inclined to stay if her father is pretty well I would not speak decidedly but was evidently in favour of her staying she has had much unhappiness married against her choice from convenience a man thirty years older than herself who made her unhappy tho she always tried to do her duty her daughter cleverer than she is and rather the upper hand it seems Mrs Mackenzies being so communicative struck me – Mrs Mackenzie gave me a ticket given to her by Mr Brande that will always admit me to the Jardin des Plantes – Miss Mackenzie, too, came in and sat with me a few minutes – 

on this account, it was 12 before I had read over my 3 letters finished last night, and had no time to make any extract from them – they must be in the general post office Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau before 2, or could not be taken in today, and then there being no English post tomorrow, must have waited till Wednesday my letter to my aunt (begun on Wednesday, 3 pages, the ends, and under the turn-down) giving an account of my journey, my being very comfortable here, of Madame de B–‘s (Boyve’s) being handsome – of our sitting in the Tuileries gardens, and of the Champs Elysées, and of the fête at St. Germain gave an account of the shawls worn and their prices – excerpt this – 

My letter to M– (Mariana) on the same subjects only giving a more regular account, rather journalwise, and adding short answers to M–‘s (Mariana’s) last letter – Merely said on the subject of Mrs Henry Stephen B–‘s (Belcombe’s) management of the going-to-York business, I did not understand it, but she and Steph had my best wishes – Entreated M– (Mariana) not to pother herself about Petergate money matters – Mrs B– (Belcombe) knew what she was, and would take care of the girls – I did not think Dr. B–‘s (Belcombe’s) practice could now be sold for much – he was not likely to be well enough to introduce anyone – but Steph’s name and kinship would serve him – affectionate to π (Mariana) kind about Miss Pattison but much more the former to Miss Maclean very much so to her tho anybody might see it perhaps she herself may muse over a line or two in the first page – Told both my aunt and M– (Mariana) and Miss Maclean of my having Madame Galvani, that she alone was worth coming to Paris for; and all my time – would be taken up in endeavoring to gain the French language – 

my letter to Miss Maclean begun at Shibden Wednesday 18 August, resumed and finished yesterday – foolscap sheet 3 pages, long ends, and under the turn-down – very small and short – Treated of my journey being comfortable here, the Tuileries Champs Elysées fête of St. Germain etc etc very briefly – all the rest bavardage amical – 

went out at 12 1/4 (took Cordingley with me) direct to the general post-office in the rue Jean Jacques Rousseau – put in my letter to my aunt (Shibden) 22 sols. and to ‘Mrs Lawton Lawton hall etc 22 sols. and to ‘Miss Maclean of Coll Tobermory North Britain (Ecosse)’ 28 sols because letters here are paid for according to their weight, and I had sealed this letter and wafered the 2 others – wafers always used here because lighter than sealing wax, and for the same reason the French choose thin writing paper – saw the man who took my letters, and those of the crowd standing round the wire grating of his bureau, weigh each letter in a pair of scales hanging close to him – 

from the Post Office walked thro’ the halle au bles, and the church of St. Eustache for Cordingley to see them – then along the rue de Grenelle direct thro’ the palais of the Louvre to the Pont des Arts – crossed the Pont neuf, and returned over the Pont royal thro’ the Tuileries gardens and got home at 2 –

the porter gave me a letter charged only 5 sols (brought by some private conveyance –sent thro’ our ambassador) from Miss Maclean (Tobermory) – Oh! that I had had it before I went out – 

on coming upstairs to Mrs Mackenzie to ask what they were going to do, found them going to the Louvre to try to see the exhibition there of the new (modern) pictures – done by living and I believe all French artists; for the King’s death was hourly expected, and all public places would be closed for 6 weeks – his majesty had taken leave of his family, and received extreme unction – the garde du corps to be changed – Monsieur the next King will go to St. Cloud, and there will be no fête there – what a stupid place, says everyone with one accord, will Paris be! Away we went to the Louvre – shut already, sans aucune exception, till further orders – Sauntered in the Tuileries gardens –

Got back at 4 – read my letter from Miss Maclean – very kind and affectionate – I know not any of her letters that has given me more pleasure – perhaps the receiving it here, might add to my delight – I shall keep and read it by way of stimulus for see the end of the crossing Breadalbane thought me ‘almost quite handsome at Esholt’ and Miss Maclean evidently likes and admires me  visited by an old admirer ‘you once said you thought I would have been happier in the married state no no you are mistaken unless with a mind and he art like your own the married state would have been misery to me  far happier as I am ‘ – see the bottom of page one – and the last end for the following  after desiring continuation of the extracts from my journal ‘you know not how I was tormented at home about you Miss Bs (Belcombe’s) manner of speaking half did this  she only poor soul jested but very little difference of manner in you would have made me dislike you at that time I believe it was mostly occasioned by a little tincture of jealousy at home’..... thought I to myself this lets me into much the Belcombes are no advantage to me I now really dislike Anne not tho on her own hearts account for she is good but for the disagreeableness of her manners I would not for worlds be thought a friend of her poor soul she too was jealous I guess the style in which she would mention me – Breadalbane by thinking me almost handsome at Esholt has perhaps got over her prejudices and and I may conciliate her perhaps entirely with a little care – she must have some idea of Miss Macls (Maclean’s) partiality for on the arrival of my letter she threw it into the room with ‘there be happy’ see the first page at the bottom of the second is the more than permission to write Sibbella  Mrs Grieves would have been most happy to see me –

Miss Maclean inclosed me a letter from her niece Miss Hobart – I should fancy her a nice good hearted fashionable girl the superior cleverness I have somehow expected would not strike one from her letter she is in first rate nobility society evidently – I am to burn the letter at the end of the envelope is the following ‘I certainly do spend a good deal on dress but if I had all to buy I think I could manage very well surely a single woman can live very comfortably on nine hundred a year which I under stand I have at my disposal uncle Sullivan told me before I went to Paris as worth eighteen thousand pounds and rather more’ – 

At the 4th page of Miss Hobart’s letter (dated ‘13th’ August) 

‘Now as to your dear picture, your friend whose name I forgot is perfectly welcome to it now, I will with pleasure lend it for a short time, but you may tell her she is much more welcome now than at the horrible time you mention, for if I survive you, I shall not then spare it.’ – 

Reading and musing over my letter till near 5, then came the Irish girl and another young person from Madame Romatier to try on my new gown – not only my stays, but my petticoats ill made (true enough) – French stays would cost 30 francs and upwards – such calico as my petticoats are made of, so strong and good, not to be got in Paris – the best I could get would be thinner and finer 5 francs an aune an aune wide tho’ this of mine was 1/3 in England this and 1/2 wide – it would take 3 or 4 aunes for a petticoat; and the making (at Madame R–‘s (Romatier’s)) would be 5 francs – 

Dinner at 6 – A Mr Moore who would speak nothing but desperately bad French all the while made his debut at table – to stay for how long, I know not – does not dance now in England – does not like the present style of dancing in England except at Almacks – rather a would-be-prig – nothing great, methinks, ab origine and at home – Madame de B– (Boyve) would teach me Ecarté, and after a game or 2, set me down to play with Mr Moore (not for money) and I played with him (the better of the 2 I think) for surely about an hour – 

In the evening had Monsieur Bellevue; a Swiss count, a handsome young man; Monsieur Denappe, and Monsieur St. Auban – after playing at finding out words and talking to 1 or other (have not sat next Madame de B– (Boyve) these 3 or 4 nights) 

came up to bed (leaving the party) at 11 35/60 making memoranda of my accounts – read and mused over Miss Maclean’s letter – all much kept me up so late – Very fine day – the sun out – very warm – Fahrenheit 69° at 12 3/4 – [E two dots O two dots, marking discharge from venereal complaint] –

reference number: SH:7/ML/E/8/0042, SH:7/ML/E/8/0043

Tuesday 4 July 1837

8 ¼

12 10

fine morning F65° at 9 10 – breakfast about 10 minutes or ¼ hour with A- before Mr. Gray came asked how she was  middling   I calmly said she could not be better going on in this way I was very sorry only wished her happiness would not wish her to stay here if she thought she could be happier anywhere but it was a serious thing  in leaving here she left independence and I thought almost every comfort  she cried but did not speak as she had evidently done her breakfast I begged she would not stay unless she liked it and she was just gone before Mr. Gray came – sat talking to Mr. Gray about furnishing the hotel – he very knowing about beds and furniture in general – particularly about feathers – should buy the tick and weigh it than put in as many feathers as required and weigh the bed and pay for the feathers per lb. 1/6 per lb. for the best Dantzic – well dessed by the feather merchant – will ¼ weight or 6lbs. out of 20 in dressing – feathers called 1st and 2nd

SH:7/ML/E/20/0086

grays – 2nd grays as good as the 1st but the 1st a better colour, that is, white – feathers should be well stoved (in a large iron room (oven) with sulphur) on apt to smell putrid – sat talking till 10 1/3 when Holt came and Wood the engineer  Grays’ brother in law an upholster did not wish me to name this to Mr. Harper or the head designed for upholsterers some allow their designers ssix guineas a week – had H- in the little room with the great plan before us – it will be difficult for Messrs. Stocks and c° to carry off the Spiggs water – talked over Mr. Rawson’s low bed sough or loose, and staith at the bottom of the Bank – H- would rather give him a thousand pounds than miss it – Mr. Pollett came at last after 11 Mr. Harper came and finding H- with me I left them a little while together and while the 4 men were together I came upstairs – copied the plan of Lower brea by SW- dated 21 January and lent to me by Mr. George R- sometime back – Mr. Harper sent for me – gave him Bates’ estates – Wood throws blame on Mr. Husband – sent off John Booth immediately for Mr. Husband and with a line or 2 in pencil to ‘Messrs. Parker and Adam solicitors H-x’ to ask either of them to be here at 8 this evening to meet Mr. Harper and told John to let Holt the engineer know Mr. Harper was here – went into the cellar – looking over papers of one sort or other and wrote the above of today till now 1 ½ - a little while ago the H-x paper came and a civil letter from Mr. Harper’s brother the solicitor at York to say his brother had not received my letter but he (Mr. Edward H- the solicitor) had written to inform him of there being such letter – H-x letter queer looking address to me or A- one or both informing me or her that Francis Carter had let his house for lodgings to a man who pottered the whole street and begging ‘pase’  peace, I suppose – went down to A- she said she had written to her sister and after telling the contents gave me the copy of her letter to read  little Mary and Hannah to go next Friday week A- said she had asked for Crownest  thought of going to Scotland for three weeks and asked me to let George go with her as far as Edinburgh  she should order furniture in Leeds in going  at Kendells’  of course I thought all arranged well then said I it is done I can only hope you will be happy  I supposed there was an explanation to her sister and said am glad you have written for if you had not I should  I am satisfied this is the best way you could have managed the matter I was not a little surprised to find the letter so expressed that that Mrs. S- would suppose A- wanted part of Crownest for some friend no hint at her going to Scotland nothing that as at explanatory or that could not easily be got over it might have been done to try me I saw this and laughed in my sleeve but said nothing and went to Mr. Harper a little while with Mr. Harper – he had sent for me vid. line 12 of this page to say Wood the engineer said he had never seen the plan of the wheel as amended by Mr. Husband and approved at York – I had sent off John Booth to H-x immediately for Mr. Husband and Messrs. Pollett and Wood were detained till he came – he proved that Mr. Wood had seen the plan and had it in his possession some weeks and it being referred to in the estate Mr. Harper took Mr. Husbandds’ copy of the plan and signed it, and insisted on the contract being adhere to – he agreed to my agreement for the pen-trough etc and allowed extra £6 for the back shuttle omitted! in the last estate – H- said he was glad to settle the matter on these terms – afraid of their setting aside the contract, and then he could not tell what I should have to pay (some hundred) for useless weight of iron – they would now lose £30 or £40 by it – He had bound them down to a month for having all done – but they were to make all possible exertion to get the pumps going in a fortnight from this time –Mr. Husband to be finally settled with tomorrow – a clerk of the works would be wanted for 2 months longer – I begged Blythe might have the place – H- had named it to him and he begged to consider about it – it was now about 21/4 – went back to A- who left me for ¼ hour while I saw Mr. Jubb in the north parlour and sat with her till she rode off to Cliff Hill about 3 ½ - began by hoping her going to Scotland would do her good she did not know that she should go said I had always thought she had better not go there without me and that she had better make a very different journey and go with me to Rotterdam etc etc I quizzed her a little and I think she was not sorry to get right again   when she said we had been unhappy of late no no said I not we I know nothing about it and you have been more unhappy in your stomach than in your heart – told A- I had asked Mr. Jubb (who called about 2 ¼) what he thought would be good for her; and I much wished she would be persuaded to take what he recommended (blue pill at night and effervescing draught in the morning)  out again about 3 ½ - about with Mawson at the hay barn road thro’ the wood – (A- took back to Lower brea this afternoon the plan of the Lower brea land I rough copied this morning) sometime with Mawson settling about the hay barn road – the 3 men he has now at the meer barrowing stuff (ornament stuff) to the by wash not enough for so long a run as from near the hut (on the other side) and to be taken off tomorrow to form the hay barn thro’ the wood at 4/. per rood – at the meer about 5 – full nearly within 2 or 3 in. up to the by wash so as to run over – stood musing and watching the 3 men till 6 – came in at 6 10 – dinner at 6 ¼ Mr. Harper (1st time) dined with us he having to stay till 8 to meet Mr. Parker respecting advertising and letting the Northgate hotel –sat at table about 1 ½ hour – Mr. Harper explained defect in Fowlers’ Hungford market roof (the tie-beams supported by iron rods the iron rods too slender to be of any use as spurs) and said that turning to his papers the other day reminded him of professor Morris of Cambridge shewing that the Menai bridge was wrong in principle the curve ab should = bc and equilibrium is the principle of a suspension bridge .:. ed should = cd which is not the case

SH:7/ML/E/20/0087

but Telford was the inventor of the suspension principle and was thinking too much of the invention to work it out right – Professor Airie had observed at the 1st (in his lectures) that there was an error in the mathematical construction but left his pupils to find it out – had not courage to explain – Captain Brwon saw the error and built Hammersmith bridge over the Thames right – Vauxhall bridge would tumble but for the smartness of the span of the arches – the famous bridge over the Doria at Turin (vid. last and 1st numero of the Transactions of the engineers) tumbling down – too little allowed by government for the school of drawing (architectural drawing) £250 per annum – one or 2 necessary works would cost the whole EG. Piranesis’ antiquities of Rome – could not be bought perfect for less than £100 in Rome – and duty 1d. per plate – it would cost from £100 to £150 – the celebrated German work (published at Berlin and just complete) on ornament = £30 guineas English money at Berlin – Mr. Parker came at 8 – left him with Mr. Harper about ½ hour – then had all in to tea and coffee at 8 ½ - A- had talked more than usual at dinner – joined in the conversation con spirit, and ditto ditto at tea – spoke very decidedly against Mr. Carrs’ having the hotel – to be advertised immediately – in the London Times and Morning Herald – 2 H-x papers Leeds mercury Liverpool ditto Manchester Guardian Yorkshire Gazette and Edinburgh North British advertiser = 9 papers – Mr. Harper said he had told Mr. Parker what it should let for to remunerate me  (which seemed to be £450) – H- thought 5pc. enough on building! and had evidently reckoned 5pc on £7000 + £3000 as value of the old house and land taken – yet he afterwards seemed to eat up his words a little so as to mean 5pc. clear and 2pc. to be laid by for repairs – but £450 rent = 5pc. on £1000 without anything to lay by for repairs – However he said I had better turn it to something else than little it for less than £300 a year – Mr. P- thought Carr should have it for less than anybody else – why said I, should he have Northgate for a hundred a year less than he now pays for the White Swan? the absurdity struck P- and he agreed that he ought not to pay less than £400 – but  to ask £500 – he from the 1st moment mentioned furniture – I agreed that if required I would find all but plate, china, linen, and culinary things – I think there was a 5th exception but I forget what – what pc. to be paid on the furniture? put it to the vote all round A- and Mr. Harper said 10 Mr. Gray 15 Mr. P- 20pc.  and would not take less – H- thought £2000 would do all required of me – term to be 5 years – security for the rent from 1 September next – Blythe considered to accept the place of clerk of the works – P- took me aside into the little parlour and gave me back my bond of 1835 to Mr. William Wainhouse for £1000 – it was 10 ½ before Messrs. P- and H- went away – raining then

Mawson having the mowing and hay making and housing at 13/. per DW- he finding all beer cut the grass growing on the intend Incline platform at the top of the bank – yesterday afternoon and mowed the wheat field today – he pays for 7DW. mowing advised by J. Booth

Robert Mann + 5 at the new pool a little while in the morning then the rest of the day throwing up on the east side the soil of the back Lodge road near the top – 3 of Mawsons’ men at the meer barrowing stuff from near the hut to by-wash ornament – 2 masons at the new door into the kitchen – Edward at the laundry drying closet - [?] of the old garden wall near the west yew tree taken down for bricks for the laundry chimney – fine day raining at 10 ½ pm F55° at 11 10 pm

February 2021

Irises and purple, lavender and white hyacinths. For merely three bucks. What a gorgeous bouquet.

My own thai curry recipe. It's THAT delicious.

A pep talk from Manu. Realising I really need to take more chances. And get rid of that dude I've been hanging out with. I've been feeling so stuck lately. I'm toying with the idea of giving it all up. Quitting my job. Leaving the country. Just to see what happens. Because I'm pretty sure I'll love what happens next. / Whatever worlds you live in, there are other worlds out there. If you are uninspired living life a certain way, it’s your duty to change. Nothing, not a relationship or job or housing situation, is worth sacrificing your ravenous hunger for life for. X

I feel my obsession with artificial cherry flavour creeping back up on me. Cherry-flavoured diet coke is one of my guiltiest pleasures.

I keep seeing those multicolour graffiti tags everywhere and I finally found out what kind of pen they use for this effect! I ordered one, I just had to, and it's fantastic. So beautiful and vibrant! I've already asked around how illegal it is to walk around the neighbourhood signing my tag on random surfaces...

Fresh pineapple.

The ocean. Talking about diving. Watching documentaries about marine life like My Octopus Teacher and Blue Planet. Drawing nautical objects, sea dragons and mollusks.

Learning more about apophenia.

It actually smells like spring in the forest and the days are already so much longer. I even saw a deer jumping over the path last night. I even got Frank to join my on my walk for the first time.

A little glimpse of summer. The south of France is my happy place I keep going back to. But there are more little reminders of the world out there, of travel and summer, that I thoroughly enjoy. Like watching Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat with Samin Nosrat. Not only do I really want to try making my own Tahdig now but I also kept smiling throughout the whole show because they filmed episodes in Italy, Japan and Mexico. Just imagine walking across a citrus market in the Yucatan right now. Or making Pesto Genovese with an Italian nonna in a Ligurian castle. Maybe even learning how to make your own miso in a remote corner of Japan. There is so much longing within me at the moment. What made my virtual culinary travels even better was Netflix's Street Food series. I especially enjoyed the episodes from Bolivia and Mexico.

I May Destroy You. Different, and very relevant.

This year's Valentine's Day happened to be pretty rad. So I've exchanged the boring nerd I had been dating with an exciting artist from Colombia. John is a painter, a poet, photographer and filmmaker who gave me a Spanish copy of an Oscar Wilde book with a poem he had written for me. My cold and cynical German heart is not used to wooing on this level but I love it. On Sunday we walked through the English Garden and Schwabing in the sunshine, took photos, looked at some art and antiquarian bookshop windows. We saw two cats inside the cat café, bought fancy macarons at Maelu and just kept talking. I even found a few interesting books about dream interpretation on my way home. John has a reference to Kleist's tragedy Penthesilea tattooed on his collarbone - Küsse/Bisse ("das reimt sich, und wer recht von Herzen liebt, kann schon das eine für das andre greifen"). He is a Scorpio with impeccable taste and sends me songs he plays for me on the guitar / Cocteau Twins tunes upon waking up. I really needed this.

Having my students create English comics with Pixton. I love how much their avatars actually look like them! I hope they had fun, too.

The smell of cherry-flavoured candy wafting through the air.

Semolina pudding with banana. The subtle heat does something to the bananas; the combination is simply delicious.

I watched the first season of Chef's Table and was really impressed by Francis Mallmann. I admire his courage and lifestyle. The constant change he craves. The way he speaks foreign languages and just bravely does his very own, unique thing. I want to live like that, too.

A crystal clear view of the Orion constellation.

Very fine snow powder against the sunlight. As if it was raining glitter.

Feeling cool and confident. A fleeting feeling but it makes such a big difference.

When we practice forgiveness, we let go of shame. Embedded in our shame is always a sense of being unworthy. It separates. Compassion and forgiveness reconnect us. / reading bell hooks' all about love.

Mustering up enough motivation to go through all my stuff in the basement and put a few items on eBay. I'd been putting this off for years now.

I'm amazed how good my phone camera is. I took some pictures in the pitch-black forest and you can make out the moonlight on the path and even see star constellations on the photo.

Spending quality time with a cuddly kitty boi.

Blue corn quesadillas prepared for me by a bloody gorgeous Mexican metalhead.

Writing that message I should have written weeks ago (letting Simon know that I wasn't particularly  interested in dating him anymore).

Trolli burgers. The best gummy candy out there. Arguably the most fun. I love being able to disassemble my food and eat it layer by layer.

John's story about that acid trip on a boat somewhere in the ocean off the Colombian coast. They lay under the bright moonlight and were suddenly surrounded by Gray whales communicating with each other through song.

The spicy smell of a fresh, moist loaf of rye bread. Eating it with soured butter and salt.

The first snowdrops of the year.

Another one about the moon: walking home late one evening there was a lunar corona in the fog. I loved how the light illuminated my arms in that cool, white light.

The morning after the worst weekend in months or maybe even years (with both a mental breakdown and a medical emergency because misery loves company, eh?) Waking up early, pain-free. With a little spark of excitement and motivation. Just lying around for an hour in the darkness. Meditating. Falling back asleep for a little while. Getting up eventually, brushing my teeth and hair, painting my nails.

Painting more. Just experimenting with colour, intuitively. Without putting pressure on myself. The other night I painted with oil pastels and chalky pastel crayons while watching Dawson's Creek (I successfully avoided this series for 20 years and now, in my thirties, I start watching it?).

Bananas with nut butter, dark chocolate and sea salt.

Meditating with the blanket covering my nose. Breathing in fresh laundry smell.

Riding home from school with Anastasia, talking about diving adventures.

Reading Jill Heinerth's book Into the Planet. Her career as an explorer and cave diver is breathtakingly exciting. I couldn't put that memoir down. And it made me even more antsy. I'm really unhappy and bored right now - I wanna go out and learn something new, explore, live a little more.

Going to work without make-up. In the last ten or even fifteen years I put on make-up every single day I went to school. I'm done. Lockdown made me come to terms with the look of my bare face.

Learning about Antarctica cruises. It only takes about 24hours to reach the area from Argentina! I'd really love to go but the cruises are crazy expensive.

My house plants sprouting new leaves.

The moment the pain suddenly stops and you can breathe again.

Tropical breakfast. Banana, kiwi, mango, pineapple. And plain yoghurt. Decidedly non-tropical.

I genuinely love the mythology of Star Wars and some of the core foundations of it, especially when George Lucas talks about the nature of the dark side and the light side of the Force, the duality and choice that is within all of us.  But one of my other favorite talks he gave is the duality of pleasure vs joy:      “Happiness is pleasure and happiness is joy. It can be either one, you add them up and it can be the uber category of happiness.      “Pleasure is short lived. It lasts an hour, it lasts a minute, it lasts a month. It peaks and then it goes down–it peaks very high, but the next time you want to get that same peak you have to do it twice as much. It’s like drugs, you have to keep doing it because it insulates itself. No matter what it is, whether you’re shopping or you’re engaged in any other kind of pleasure. It all has the same quality about it.      “On the other hand is joy and joy is the thing that doesn’t go as high as pleasure, in terms of your emotional reaction. But it stays with you. Joy is something you can recall, pleasure you can’t.  So the secret is that, even though it’s not as intense as pleasure, the joy will last you a lot longer.      “People who get the pleasure they keep saying, ‘Well, if I can just get richer and get more cars–!’ You’ll never relive the moment you got your first car, that’s it, that’s the highest peak. Yes, you could get three Ferraris and a new gulf stream jet and maybe you’ll get close. But you have to keep going and eventually you’ll run out.  You just can’t do it, it doesn’t work.      “If you’re trying to sustain that level of peak pleasure, you’re doomed. It’s a very American idea, but it just can’t happen. You just let it go. Peak.  Break. Pleasure is fun it’s great, but you can’t keep it going forever.      “Just accept the fact that it’s here and it’s gone, and maybe again it’ll come back and you’ll get to do it again. Joy lasts forever. Pleasure is purely self-centered. It’s all about your pleasure, it’s about you. It’s a selfish self-centered emotion, that’s created by self-centered motive of greed.      “Joy is compassion, joy is giving yourself to somebody else or something else. And it’s the kind of thing that is in it’s subtlty and lowness more powerful than pleasure.  If you get hung up on pleasure you’re doomed. If you pursue joy you will find everlasting happiness.”  --George Lucas You can see how this influences the foundations of the light side and the dark side, which at its core is about selflessness vs selfishness, about compassion vs greed, in that it’s about the pursuit of joy rather than pleasure.  It’s not that you can never experience pleasure, but you can’t get hung up on it, because pleasure is not sustainable long-term, only joy is. And that always strikes me whenever I pick up The Hijacking of the American Mind by Robert Lustig, MD, MSL a book about how corporations have specifically targeted our joy centers to make us so focused on reward--at the expense of content--through various means, which includes this as one of the foundations you need to understand: “At this point it’s essential to define and clarify what I mean by these two words—pleasure and happiness—which can mean different things to different people. “Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary defines “pleasure” as “enjoyment or satisfaction derived from what is to one’s liking”; or “gratification”; or “reward.” While “pleasure” has a multitude of synonyms, it is this phenomenon of reward that we will explore, as scientists have elaborated a specific “reward pathway” in the brain, and we now understand the neuroscience of its regulation. Conversely, “happiness” is defined as “the quality or state of being happy”; or “joy”; or “contentment.” While there are many synonyms for “happiness,” it is the phenomenon that Aristotle originally referred to as eudemonia, or the internal experience of contentment, that we will parse in this book. Contentment is the lowest baseline level of happiness, the state in which it’s not necessary to seek more. In the movie Lovers and Other Strangers (1970), middle-aged married couple Beatrice Arthur and Richard Castellano were asked the question “Are you happy?”—to which they responded, “Happy? Who’s happy? We’re content.” Scientists now understand that there is a specific “contentment pathway” that is completely separate from the pleasure or reward pathway in the brain and under completely different regulation. Pleasure (reward) is the emotional state where your brain says, This feels good—I want more, while happiness (contentment) is the emotional state where your brain says, This feels good—I don’t want or need any more. “Reward and contentment are both positive emotions, highly valued by humans, and both reasons for initiative and personal betterment. It’s hard to be happy if you derive no pleasure for your efforts—but this is exactly what is seen in the various forms of addiction. Conversely, if you are perennially discontent, as is so often seen in patients with clinical depression, you may lose the impetus to better your social position in life, and it’s virtually impossible to derive reward for your efforts. Reward and contentment rely on the presence of the other. Nonetheless, they are decidedly different phenomena. Yet both have been slowly and mysteriously vanishing from our global ethos as the prevalence of addiction and depression continues to climb. “Drumroll . . . without further ado, behold the seven differences between reward and contentment:

Reward is short-lived (about an hour, like a good meal). Get it, experience it, and get over it. Why do you think you can’t remember what you ate for dinner yesterday? Conversely, contentment lasts much longer (weeks to months to years). It’s what happens when you have a working marriage or watch your teenager graduate from high school. And if you experience contentment from a sense of achievement or purpose, the chances are that you will feel it for a long time to come, perhaps even the rest of your life.

Reward is visceral in terms of excitement (e.g., a casino, a football game, or a strip club). It activates the body’s fight-or-flight system, which causes blood pressure and heart rate to go up. Conversely, contentment is ethereal and calming (e.g., listening to soothing music or watching the waves of the ocean). It makes your heart rate slow and your blood pressure decline.

Reward can be achieved with different substances (e.g., heroin, nicotine, cocaine, caffeine, alcohol, and of course sugar). Each stimulates the reward center of the brain. Some are legal, some are not. Conversely, contentment is not achievable with substance use. Rather, contentment is usually achieved with deeds (like graduating from college or having a child who can navigate his or her own path in life).

Reward occurs with the process of taking (like from a casino). Gambling is definitely a high: when you win, it is fundamentally rewarding, both viscerally and economically. But go back to the same table the next day. Maybe you’ll feel a jolt of excitement to try again. But there’s no glow, no lasting feeling from the night before. Or go buy a nice dress at Macy’s. Then try it on again a month later. Does it generate the same enthusiasm? Conversely, contentment is often generated through giving (like giving money to a charity, or giving your time to your child, or devoting time and energy to a worthwhile project).

Reward is yours and yours alone. Your sense of reward does not immediately impact anyone else. Conversely, your contentment, or lack of it, often impacts other people directly and can impact society at large. Those who are extremely unhappy (the Columbine shooters) can take their unhappiness out on others. It should be said at this point that pleasure and happiness are by no means mutually exclusive. A dinner at the Bay Area Michelin three-star restaurant the French Laundry can likely generate simultaneous pleasure for you from the stellar food and wine but can also generate contentment from the shared experience with spouse, family, or friends, and then possibly a bit of unhappiness when the bill arrives.

Reward when unchecked can lead us into misery, like addiction. Too much substance use (food, drugs, nicotine, alcohol) or compulsive behaviors (gambling, shopping, surfing the internet, sex) will overload the reward pathway and lead not just to dejection, destitution, and disease but not uncommonly death as well. Conversely, walking in the woods or playing with your grandchildren or pets (as long as you don’t have to clean up after them) could bring contentment and keep you from being miserable in the first place.

Last and most important, reward is driven by dopamine, and contentment by serotonin. Each is a neurotransmitter—a biochemical manufactured in the brain that drives feelings and emotions—but the two couldn’t be more different. Although dopamine and serotonin drive separate brain processes, it is where they overlap and how they influence each other that generates the action in this story. Two separate chemicals, two separate brain pathways, two separate regulatory schemes, and two separate physiological and psychological outcomes. How and where these two chemicals work, and how they work either in concert or in opposition to each other, is the holy grail in the ultimate quest for both pleasure and happiness.”

                                -- Robert Lustig, MD, MSL This is further reflected in what Dave Filoni says about the dark side:      "In the end, it’s about fundamentally becoming selfless moreso than selfish.  It seems so simple, but it’s so hard to do.  And when you’re tempted by the dark side, you don’t overcome it once in life and then you’re good.  It’s a constant.  And that’s what, really, Star Wars is about and what I think George wanted people to know.  That to be a good person and to really feel better about your life and experience life fully you have to let go of everything you fear to lose. Because then you can’t be controlled.         “But when you fear, fear is the path to the dark side, it’s also the shadow of greed, because greed makes you covet things, greed makes you surround yourself with all these things that make you feel comfortable in the moment, but they don’t really make you happy.  And then, when you’re afraid of something, it makes you angry, when you get angry, you start to hate something, sometimes you don’t even know why.  When you hate, do you often know why you hate?  No, you direct it at things and then you hate it.  And it’s hard because anger can be a strength at times, but you can’t use it in such a selfish way, it can be a destroyer then.         “These are the core things of Star Wars.“  --Dave Filoni As well as one of my favorite essays from Star Wars Psychology: Dark Side of the Mind, Faith and the Force where that duality is once again touched on:      “People with an extrinsic religious orientation, that is, those who participate as a self-serving way to gain social rewards, like meeting people or obeying their parents (extrinsic motivation), express more prejudice. They hate more. Extrinsically motivated, the Sith use the power of the Force to benefit themselves and manipulate or hurt others.      To people with intrinsic religious orientation, on the other hand, spirituality itself is part of their self-concept and their religion’s teachings give them guidance in life. They value religion for its own sake (intrinsic motivation). Intrinsically religious individuals show less prejudice and less self-serving biases, at least when their religious teachings encourage tolerance and do not directly promote discrimination. Just as Jedi get in tune with the Force, those who are intrinsically spiritual come to appreciate the great variety of life and endeavor to serve others.” -- Dr. Clay Routledge Ph.D All of this paints a fascinating picture to look at the way people work and how the mythology of Star Wars works, how the dark side isn’t just the occasional moment of pleasure or moment of anger, but about the embracing of it, the refusal to turn back from those things that can destroy you.  If you try to sustain pleasure at a constant, it just won’t work, you’ll be sending yourself into this really awful cycle. That’s why the Jedi teach that the dark side is part of all of them (which is one of their foundations, because Qui-Gon says that they taught all that in the creche during Master and Apprentice) and it’s to be guarded against, that’s why they teach that you don’t suppress your emotions, you control them before they control you, that’s why it’s so easy to find moments of them being angry (Obi-Wan during the fight with Maul, when Anakin nearly shirks his duty at the end of AOTC, on Mustafar, when Maul kills Satine, when Yoda confronts Sidious he’s clearly angry as well, when Mace fights Sidious he’s going through a riot of feelings, his ENTIRE COMIC, Jedi of the Republic, is about him coming to terms with his anger and controlling it before it controls him, even Anakin’s constant anger issues never get a “you’re not allowed to feel that”, but a “you need to get a grip” when it starts becoming dangerous) because those things can lead to the dark side, but it’s never been that you’re supposed to be inhuman.  You just gotta watch it and find balance within yourself.  Even Yoda specifically says it himself, it’s a lifelong challenge not to bend fear into anger. These dualities within ourselves and how we discipline ourselves against those things that, should we embrace them, are at the core of Star Wars and this is why they can be so incredibly meaningful.

the path to girlhood

fandom: love live! rating: T characters: rin hoshizora, hanayo koizumi words: 3.9k additional tags: character study, au, trans girl rin, bullying, internalized transphobia, high school description: rin struggles to accept herself at her new school when she discovers a love for dancing. a/n: hello hello!! i wrote this a little over a month ago and decided to finally polish it and post it! this au is pretty similar to canon except that they’re just regular high school girls and not idols. i promise it’s not as angsty as the tags make it seem!! i will never write write a fic in which rin hoshizora is cis. happy pride to my fellow Transes of Gender <3 title comes from kururin miracle aka rin’s Trans Song. i love her so much. that's my fuckign daughter

read it on ao3

—

On the first day of high school, Rin Hoshizora goes to school in a skirt.

She hasn’t worn one out in public since she was a child, having resigned herself to hiding inside hoodies and sweatpants. As she wanders the unfamiliar hallways, Rin tries not to be conscious of the way some of her peers sneak curious glances at her from behind notebooks or open locker doors. If nothing else, she hopes the button on her backpack—a striped flag of pink, white, and blue—will be enough to clue them in, if any of them even know what it symbolizes.

Last month, Rin’s parents successfully enrolled her into the local but relatively well-regarded Otonokizaka Academy for Girls, mainly thanks to “proof” from her doctor that she has, in fact, started taking hormones and that she is, in fact, a Real Trans Girl, whatever that means. It’s an old, impressive school with plenty of extracurriculars and classes to choose from, and her best friend, Hanayo, goes there, too. Most importantly, though, it’s a chance to reinvent herself, to meet new people who don’t know her dead name—to make a statement, simply by wearing the Otonokizaka uniform and sitting in an Otonokizaka classroom, that says, I am a girl just as you are.

So far, it doesn’t feel quite as empowering as she thought it would.

Instead, she feels like a newborn baby, cut from the umbilical cord of the closet, naked and confused as she’s thrust into a strange new world. There’s no turning back now, no chance to abort the mission. All she can do is step forward into the light, with all the beauty and danger that it brings.

—

When Rin steps into her homeroom class, a soft, familiar voice calls out, “Rin-chan!”

Hanayo jumps up out of her chair and scurries over, her red glasses bouncing on her face. Rin grins and wraps her arms around her, squeezing her tightly, and for just a moment, she forgets about the rest of the world. There’s nothing outside this classroom, nothing outside her best friend’s warm embrace.

Rin opens her mouth to say something, anything—a how have you been or a help me please I don’t know if I can do this—but she doesn’t get the chance, because then the bell rings, and the homeroom teacher strides into the room. In a flurry, the students rush to their desks. Hanayo has saved a seat for Rin in the back, right next to her, and Rin sighs in relief as she slides into the chair.

While the teacher introduces herself, Rin scans the room, searching for any sign of a reaction from her classmates. Most of them are facing forward, listening or at least pretending to listen to the teacher. One girl sitting a few seats away pokes her friend on the shoulder and gestures to Rin. “Wow,” she mutters, just loud enough that it’s clear she wants Rin to hear it. “They’ll let anyone in this school, huh?”

Rin’s face heats up, and she quickly looks away, down at her empty notebook. In an attempt to seem nonchalant, she pulls a pen out of her pencil case and starts doodling a cat to distract herself. She likes her short hair—it’s cute and easy to manage, and it doesn’t get in her face when she’s playing sports—but suddenly she wishes it were longer so she could hide behind it. That probably wouldn’t work too well, though—before long, she’s sure her peers will be able to recognize her just by her decidedly unfeminine frame.

“Psst,” Hanayo whispers, and Rin turns her head to look at her. Hanayo props up her notebook horizontally. On an otherwise clean page, she’s written in pretty, curly handwriting, I believe in you! with little hearts all around it.

Rin flashes her a tiny smile and mouths a thank-you, but she still can’t shake the feeling that everything about her is wrong. Her knees are too knobby, her handwriting isn’t neat enough, her voice is too loud. She feels like a randomized Sim, like someone just threw together a collection of traits and lumped them all into a person. She’d like to give the spirits a “You Tried” sticker.

—

Rin likes talking to people. She likes jumping in on a conversation about athletics or music or pets and talking about her favorite type of cat (orange tabbies, obviously) or her favorite sports (how could she choose just one?). She likes introducing herself to those who look shy or lonely—in fact, it’s how she met Hanayo. Today, though, she finds herself infuriatingly tongue-tied, stumbling over her words in a way she never has before. Though she attempts, as always, to appear friendly, most of the girls she talks to seem to be at least somewhat uncomfortable with or uninterested in her presence, as if they’re just waiting for her to go away. The last thing Rin wants is to make someone unhappy or upset, so once she senses that she isn’t quite welcome in a particular group or conversation, she politely withdraws from it.

When Rin walks into the bathroom, all the girls that were hanging out and doing their makeup immediately grab their things and leave.

Rin overhears a few more rude comments throughout the day, but no one is overly confrontational. She finds herself pondering over girls and the way they show aggression—how girls who speak disparagingly about others behind their backs are referred to as “catty,” while physical fights between girls are often called “catfights.” Either way, aggressive or passive-aggressive, dealing in physical damage or emotional, girls are consistently compared to cats. It’s unfair to cats, Rin thinks, to associate them only with animosity and violence. Cats can be sweet and loving, too. Cats wouldn’t hate her just for wearing skirts or referring to herself as a “she.”

“Rin-chan,” Hanayo says later that day when they walk home from school together, “are you going to join any clubs or activities? They’ve got a lot of sports.”

“I might do soccer,” Rin replies, “and maybe basketball in the winter. But I’ll have to try it out first to see if I like it.”

Hanayo raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Rin loves soccer; they both know she loves soccer. What Rin’s really saying is, I’ll have to see if I’m treated in a way that deters me from playing.

“Well, if you don’t like it,” Hanayo says delicately, “you could do other sports that aren’t team-oriented. There’s track and cross-country. And there’s dance.”

“Dance?” Rin repeats. “What makes you think I’d be any good at that?”

“Well, you’re so coordinated, and you have really good stamina,” Hanayo says, twirling a strand of light brown hair. “And you like music. It looks like it’d be really fun.”

“You should do it, then,” Rin says, not unkindly.

Hanayo chuckles sheepishly. “I’d like to, but I’ve been too nervous to go by myself. Maybe you could come with me? Just to the first couple of meetings.”

Rin frowns. It’s not that she dislikes the idea of dancing, necessarily; she’s just never considered it. Dancing is for pretty girls with limbs as pliable as putty and skin softer than rose petals, not a scrappy little transgender tomboy with scraped-up knees and a finger that didn’t heal properly because she took it out of the splint before she was supposed to. Dancing is for girls who would never be mistaken for boys.

“The people there seem really nice,” Hanayo adds. “And I’ll be with you, remember?”

After a few moments, Rin finds herself nodding slowly. “Okay,” she says, trying to picture herself dancing to pop music or classical arrangements. It doesn’t quite feel right. “But if it falls on the same day as soccer, I’m choosing soccer.”

—

At the first soccer practice, they have a scrimmage against one another. It’s a perfect chance for Rin to show her teammates what she can do, to earn their trust and start to build camaraderie just like when she played on boys’ teams. Within the first few minutes of the mock game, however, it becomes abundantly clear that most of the girls have no interest in establishing a rapport with her. Some shift uncomfortably whenever she’s near. Others, especially those on defense, play particularly aggressively with her, pressing so close to her that they almost touch, nearly shoving her out of the way, or “accidentally” kicking at her heels when attempting to steal the ball from her. Nearly all of them seem to refuse to pass her the ball, even when she’s wide open, and even though she’s one of the fastest and most experienced members, so that the only times she ever actually manages to get it are when she steals it from the other side. The coach claps whenever Rin scores a goal, but hardly anyone else does, and it only seems to be out of politeness.

At the end of the practice, Rin is about ready to fall over in exhaustion, but not in a good way. She doesn’t think she’s ever had to work so hard in her life to try to make people like her, or at least play nice with her.

Hanayo texts her that evening. How’d it go?

Not great :-( I think I’ll come with you tomorrow to the dance club, Rin responds.

Hanayo’s reply comes a few seconds later. Oh no I’m so sorry!! Tomorrow will be better I promise!!

Rin sighs and flops down on her bed. “I sure hope so,” she mumbles to no one as she stares blankly across the room. A dress she bought online hangs on her closet door, unworn.

—

The room used for the dance club is similar to a gymnasium, except that it’s smaller and has walls made entirely of mirrors. When Rin steps out onto the hardwood floor and sees a few other girls chatting in the center of the room with a dance instructor, her chest tightens.

Beside her, Hanayo takes a deep breath. “I’m nervous, too,” she says, taking Rin’s hand in her own. “But we’re here together.”

They amble up to the small group, and the dance instructor turns to them with a smile. “Oh! It’s so good to see some new faces,” she says. “You can call me Miyazaki-sensei.”

“Hi,” Rin and Hanayo say in unison. They both giggle nervously.

“Hey, there’s no need to be nervous!” says a spunky girl with a side ponytail. “Anyone can learn to dance. I’m living proof! Plus it’d make great material for the talent show!”

Rin and Hanayo exchange glances. “Talent show?” Rin says.

“Yeah!” the girl says. “Every year right before summer break, the school holds a talent show. Anyone can enter! It’s really fun! Last year Kotori-chan, Umi-chan, and I performed as a trio,” she gestures to the other two girls in the room, “and we’re hoping to do it again this year! Sign-ups should be—uhhh, Umi-chan, when are the sign-ups again?”

One of the girls, Umi, sighs in exasperation, but there’s a hint of a smile on her face. “Two Mondays from now. So not this coming Monday, but the one after that.”

“Great!” says the ponytail girl. Turning back to Rin and Hanayo, she adds, “Are you two friends? You should perform as a duo! It would be so cute! I bet I could find the perfect song for you guys—”

Miyazaki holds up a hand. “Why don’t we see if they actually enjoy it first, hm?” she says, amused.

First, they go around and introduce themselves. Miyazaki and the other girls seem nice enough; in fact, Rin thinks she saw Honoka, the ponytail girl, smile and wave at her as she walked into Otonokizaka on the first day of class. She appears to just love and accept everyone; her sincerity is almost childish, but charming nonetheless.

Then they get into the dancing. The three other girls, all second years, seem to know what they’re doing when it comes to planning their performance, so Miyazaki spends most of her time teaching Rin and Hanayo some simple moves to a handful of familiar pop songs.

Slowly, Rin can’t help but unfold. The satisfaction that blooms in her chest whenever she gets a move right, when she shifts her body perfectly to the rhythm of the music, is such a pleasant shock to her system that she feels herself letting her guard down, opening up. She and Hanayo laugh whenever they screw up a step, and no matter how many times they fail, Miyazaki’s patience and attentiveness never waver. When Rin glances over at the other girls, she finds them completely absorbed in their practice; only occasionally does she notice any of them looking her way, and when they do, it’s not with the piercing eyes of judgment, but the joy of sharing in something they love. In this room, Rin doesn’t have to worry about how others see her. She can just be.

—

Hanayo and Rin attend every dance rehearsal together. It’s a small, close-knit group, and even though they aren’t all working together on the same exact thing, Rin can feel that sense of camaraderie that she’s been missing. They’re all constantly looking to improve, to try new things, to create something lively and beautiful. The world is their canvas, their bodies the brushes, the music the paint. For Rin, dancing becomes an unexpected refuge. In the dance room, no one throws crumpled-up papers at her head or tries to trip her down the stairs; no one whispers ugly words in her ear as she walks by.

After hours of deliberation on both their parts, and a lot of convincing (read: begging) on Honoka’s part, Rin and Hanayo decide to take her suggestion and sign up for the talent show as a dancing duo. Honoka apparently spends an inordinate amount of time picking out the perfect song for them, an upbeat tune from an upcoming idol about accepting oneself. “Trust me,” she says, “the audience will love it. Idols are all the rage these days.”

Rin suspects that Honoka picked it out on purpose for its lyrics, but for what it’s worth, it is a catchy song, the kind of song that makes Rin want to jump up and dance whenever she hears it. Luckily for her, that’s exactly what she’s going to do.

Miyazaki helps them come up with the choreography, and they spend the next few months working avidly to perfect it. Even on weekends, they often meet up at one of their houses and practice for hours. Only if they feel that they did the best they possibly could will either of them feel comfortable enough to get up onstage and let hundreds of potentially unforgiving eyes gaze upon them.

Every once in a while, a particularly nasty comment or incident will give Rin pause, and she’ll feel an almost overwhelming urge to beg Hanayo to let them drop out of the talent show. She wouldn’t do that, though; she’d never want to force her best friend to turn her back on an opportunity just for her. Besides, she’ll be okay as long as Hanayo is there with her.

—

The day before the talent show, Hanayo isn’t in school.

During lunch, Rin calls her in a panic in one of the bathroom stalls. “What’s going on?” she hisses. “Our final rehearsal is tonight! Where are you?”

“I have pneumonia,” Hanayo replies.

Rin feels like the floor is falling out from underneath her. Words crowd in her mouth, but all that comes out is, “In summer?”

Hanayo chuckles halfheartedly. “Yeah. I think I got it from my grandfather. You know his immune system isn’t the best. I don’t think I’ll be able to—” She breaks off into a fit of coughing. “I can’t come tonight. I don’t think I’ll be able to perform tomorrow. I went to the doctor yesterday after school, and he says I need to rest until the antibiotics start working.”

Rin recalls the past few days, how Hanayo had been coughing for a little while and seemed more out of breath than usual. She’d hoped it was just a cold, that it would go away in no time. Now Hanayo is sick in bed, her lungs filled with fluid, and they’re scheduled to perform tomorrow.

“Kayo-chin, I—I can’t do it on my own,” she says, her heart starting to race at the thought of standing alone on that stage.

“Sure you can,” Hanayo says. “Just…finish the school day and then go to rehearsal. I’m sure Miyazaki-sensei can help you out.” Then she hangs up before Rin has the chance to argue.

The rest of her classes are a blur. Her mind spins with worst-case scenarios, and her hands shake too much for her to even try to doodle. She speaks to no one, afraid that if she opens her mouth, nothing coherent will come out.

As soon as the dismissal bell rings, Rin snatches her things and races down the hall to the dance room. Her hands are so full that she kicks the door open with her foot.

Miyazaki flashes a smile at her, but it quickly dissipates once she sees the look on her face. “What’s wrong?”

Rin drops her things on the floor against the wall. “Kayo-chin’s sick,” she says breathlessly. “Pneumonia. She can’t perform tomorrow. We have to drop out. I can’t do it without her; we have to drop out—”

Miyazaki holds up both her hands. “Whoa, whoa, slow down. Deep breaths, okay? We’ll figure it out.”

Rin nods reluctantly and tries to steady her breathing. She hears the door open and close behind her, and then Honoka says, “Where’s Hanayo-chan?”

“She’s sick,” Miyazaki says calmly. “Rin’s probably going to have to perform by herself tomorrow.”

“Oh dear,” Kotori says. “I hope she gets better soon.”

“Rin-chan can do it, though!” Honoka says. “We’ve all seen her in action. She’ll do great!”

Rin shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

“It shouldn’t be too difficult,” Umi adds matter-of-factly. “You two were basically doing the same moves, right? It’s not like you were ballroom dancing. You won’t have to change much of the choreography to turn it into a solo act. And we can help you.”

Rin shakes her head again, faster. “It’s not that. I’m not worried about how I’ll do. I’m worried about how it’ll look. I’m not one of those pretty girls everyone loves. I’m different. And everyone’s eyes will be on me and no one else. I’ll be the center of attention…and I just don’t know if I can deal with how they’ll react to that. It suits me to be a partner or a member of a group, so I can blend in more, so someone else can shine. I can’t be the girl who shines. Not like this.”

“Of course you can!” Honoka blurts. “People are afraid of what they don’t understand. But you’re a girl just like the rest of us. Now’s your chance to show everyone. You’re at the Otonokizaka Academy for Girls, aren’t you?”

“But I tried to show everyone,” Rin says, her shoulders slumping. “That’s what I thought going to this school would do. But people still treat me like I’m just too different for them. Like I’m a failed girl, like I’m the wrong kind of girl.”

It’s Miyazaki who speaks up next.

“Then that’s their problem,” she says, “not yours. There’s no such thing as a ‘wrong kind of girl.’ There are girls with short hair and girls who love sports and girls who like to work on cars and girls who wear tuxedos and girls who like to build things—and girls who were mistakenly raised as boys. And the sooner you come to terms with that, the sooner you can be free of what others think of you. People are going to judge you no matter what you do. So if dancing brings you joy, and you want to share that joy with other people, then I want you to dance your heart out on that stage tomorrow.”

For a moment, all is silent. Then Rin chuckles sheepishly. She’s right. Of course she’s right.

“Okay,” she says finally. “Who wants to help me touch up this choreography?”

—

It’s the day before summer break, and the air buzzes with excitement. Even from backstage, Rin can feel her classmates’ gazes from out in the auditorium. Her heart feels like it’s going to claw its way out of her chest and make a run for it, and part of her wants to follow suit. Deep down, though, she knows she’s ready. She’s worked as hard as she possibly could. She’s going to stay, and she’s going to perform like her life depends on it. She has to, for Hanayo.

Rin adjusts her earrings and checks her makeup one final time in the backstage mirror before Miyazaki pops her head in. “Honoka, Kotori, and Umi are almost done,” she says. “You’re up.”

Rin smooths out her dress, a cute pastel pink, the very same one she bought online over the winter. It’s her first time wearing it in public, and it fits her like the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle. She takes a deep breath and glances down at her phone, which glows brightly with a new text message from Hanayo. I believe in you!! it reads, followed by a bunch of heart emojis.

Rin smiles, then fixes the pink barrette in her hair and heads out to the curtain area.

Honoka, Kotori, and Umi are walking offstage when Rin arrives. “You’ll do great!” Honoka whispers to her as she walks by, giving her a brief, sweaty hug. Kotori claps enthusiastically, and Umi puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“Up next,” the principal says from the sound box, “we have Rin Hoshizora!”

The crowd claps politely. Rin tries her best not to look at any of them as she ambles onto the stage; her focus is only on the music and her body.

When she hears the opening of the song, all the fear and self-consciousness that’s been building up in her seems to fade away, replaced by instinct and muscle memory. She knows how to do this. She’s been doing it multiple days a week for months now.

For most of the first verse, the crowd is silent, as if they aren’t quite sure what to make of her. Then, when she bounces across the stage as the song shifts into the chorus, a few people whoop and cheer, and that’s all Rin needs to keep herself moving, to let the melody carry her home. She’s never felt more beautiful, more purely and authentically her. There’s so much she often hates about her body, but right now, she’s thankful for everything that makes her up, from her long limbs to her rectangular frame. Dancing, she’s discovered, isn’t just for conventionally attractive cis girls. It’s for anyone, as long as they have the passion and the resolve.

Honoka was right about the song choice—by the end, some people are clapping and dancing along, even singing the parts that they know. When Rin finishes the song with a smile, a wink, and a pose, the crowd responds in raucous applause. More than a few people in the audience seem shocked, and several others are smirking, shaking their heads, or mumbling to each other.

And yet, Rin finds it doesn’t particularly bother her. She’s realized something about this sudden turnaround: their acceptance of her is conditional, but her happiness is not. If being herself makes others uncomfortable…well, that’s their problem, not hers.

on the verge of realization

Bumbleby Week Day 5 - Beacon Days

She doesn’t question it, the sense of familiarity, of unconditional safety, that comes with Yang’s presence, even though they’ve known each other for less than half a year, even though Blake’s promised herself she’d keep her distance this time, she’d be careful, lest she repeats past mistakes.

Team RWBY is having an early morning training session, and Blake finds herself distracted.

It’s very early - a couple hours before dawn - and quite chilly outside. The autumnal wind has a cruel bite to it, and Blake hugs her sweater, wishing she was wearing something a little warmer than her workout shorts. Around her, Beacon Academy is still and quiet. Most students are probably sound asleep in their dorm rooms, and Blake really misses her bed.

Beside her, Weiss stands straight, unhappy, clad in skintight leggings and a long-sleeved white workout shirt. “Where are they?” she grumbles, heel stomping petulantly against the ground.

Ruby asked them to meet in the central courtyard for an early training session - the Vytal Tournament starts tomorrow, and she wants the team to be in top shape - but neither her nor Yang have arrived yet. They were gone by the time Blake and Weiss left the dorm room, presumably to get something to eat.

“I swear, if this is some kind of prank….” Weiss starts. She’s interrupted by a flurry of rose petals, and the screeching sound of a fast-moving body coming to an abrupt halt.

“Morning!” Ruby shouts, appearing between them with the energy of someone who’s already consumed an unnecessary amount of sugar.

Blake winces at the volume. “Hey, Ruby. Where’s Yang?”

“Right here.” A familiar arm curls around her shoulders, and her partner steps next to her, drawing her in a side hug. Yang smells like coffee, and she feels warm against Blake, and for a minute Blake is overwhelmed with the desire to close her eyes and fall back to sleep.

(She doesn’t question it, the sense of familiarity, of unconditional safety, that comes with Yang’s presence, even though they’ve known each other for less than half a year, even though Blake’s promised herself she’d keep her distance this time, she’d be careful, lest she repeats past mistakes.)

“Alright team! Let’s do this!” Ruby says, cheerful as always, punctuating her words with a light punch to Weiss’s shoulder, which earns her a glare and a shove.

Right. Blake shakes herself out of her morning haze, rolling her neck. Yang lets her go, and they stand side by side listening to Ruby’s instructions.

Today’s program is nothing complex: some sparring, some stretching, some strength and speed exercises. And to start it all, an hour-long run throughout the school grounds. Weiss groans at that prospect, but Blake doesn’t mind. She likes running - how her lungs burn and her legs ache and how it sharpens her thoughts, helping her focus on the moment, and nothing else. After a few minutes of warm-up, Ruby takes the lead, and Weiss follows her, displeased but disciplined. Blake and Yang bring up the rear.

It’s quiet. Peaceful. The four of them are alone, apart from a few students hurrying towards the library, and a second-year team engaged in semblance practice in the West courtyard.

Blake and Yang don’t talk while they run, so the only sounds are the soft thump of their feet against the grass, and the regular rhythm of their breathing. From time to time, they knock elbows, or bump shoulders, and Yang grins at her. Every time, Blake smiles back.

(And that’s another thing she won’t question: the warmth filling her chest when Yang looks at her, like sunlight on her skin ; how easily they fall into pace with one another, like the tide and the moon. No, Blake won’t question it, and she won’t let herself dig too deep into the recesses of her heart. After all, this is only their first year. She has all the time in the world to figure it out.)

The sun rises, timid and pale, as they finish their run. Weiss lets herself fall on a stone bench - she’s breathing hard and fast, strands of white hair sticking to her temples. Sweat drips down Blake’s back, soaking her shirt, and she’s a little out of breath, but otherwise fine. Ruby smiles wide, and gives them all congratulatory high-fives.

“Yay, team RWBY! We’re gonna kick ass in the tournament!”

Blake smiles back, relishing in the sense of pride surging through her, while Yang cheerfully claps Weiss on the shoulder. She’s still not quite used to feeling accomplished after a training exercise. When Adam was her mentor, nothing was ever good enough. She was never good enough. If she closes her eyes, she can still hear his voice, disappointed and angry, she can still see the downward curve of his mouth, the dismissive snap of his fingers. But Ruby is nothing like him, Beacon is nothing like the White Fang, and sometimes it dawns on her: how different her life is, here, with these people. How much happier she is.

“Here,” Yang says, handing her a bottle of water.

“Thanks.”

As she drinks, she can’t help wondering how much of her newfound happiness she owes to Yang. She cherishes her bond with Ruby and Weiss, of course - and Jaune, Pyrrha, Ren, Nora, Sun, Neptune, Velvet… she’s met so many new friends, in so little time. But Yang is… well, she’s her partner, right? So that makes her different. Not more important, necessarily, just… different.

(She keeps feeling like she’s on the verge of a realization, these days, like something crucial is hovering at the edge of her awareness, and all it would take is the slightest push for her to grasp it.)

Blake swallows her last gulp of water, lost in thoughts, glancing at Yang absent-mindedly, and suddenly finds herself staring. Yang is busy wiping her face with the front of her tank top, and Blake can’t look away from the hard, flat plane of her lower stomach, the way her bare skin glistens with sweat, the sharp jut of her hipbones. She swallows again, hard. Her heartbeat quickens, though she’s no longer running, and when Yang looks up and notices her watching, Blake’s cheeks grow so hot she instinctively presses the cold bottle against her skin, in an attempt to cool off.

“You okay there, Belladonna?” Yang says, with a small knowing smirk that does nothing to help Blake’s flustered state.

“Fine,” she manages. The word comes out annoyingly strangled and Weiss narrows her eyes, frowning with something close to irritation, though by now Blake’s learned it usually covers genuine care.

“You do look weird. Are you coming down with something? Please stay away from me, I can’t afford to be sick this semester.”

“Guys. I’m fine.” This time Blake’s voice sounds firm, and Weiss visibly relents. Yang must take pity on her as well, because she doesn’t say anything else, instead pulling her hair up in a messy bun. Blake decidedly avoids looking at Yang’s arms. She’s embarrassed herself enough as it is.

Ruby claps her hands, bringing them back to the task. “Okay guys, rest is over. Next is hand-to-hand combat. Yang, you’re in charge, since you’re the best at it!”

Yang makes a fist, and slams it forcefully against the palm of her other hand. Weiss rolls her eyes at the display but gets up nonetheless, stretching her arms high above her head. “At least don’t blast your terrible pop music this time, Yang. Let us have peace and quiet while we suffer.”

“Whatever. You can pretend you hate my taste in music all you want, Ice Queen, but you’re the one I caught singing in the shower to…”

“Are we training or having a chat?” Weiss cuts her off, a murderous glint in her eyes, ears a little pink. Blake and Ruby exchange an amused glance, and Yang snorts, but lets it go.

They start with some stretching, then Yang has them repeating precise series of jabs and punches and kicks. The sun is now high in the sky, and it’s a beautiful, clear morning. They’ve chosen the isolated corner of a remote courtyard, far from the main part of campus, so no one bothers them. Which is for the best: unarmed hand-to-hand combat isn’t really Blake’s thing, and she needs all her concentration to mimic Yang’s movements. She’s doing better than Ruby and Weiss, but still, Yang often has to correct her stance, light hands pressing on her hips to get her to turn, or moving her arms to a different position.

It’s casual, practical, professional even, Blake knows it, and yet. And yet. She could swear every touch from Yang leaves a trace on her skin, a handprint, and her nerves flare like kindling catching fire. She’s just not used to being touched like that, Blake reasons, ignoring the craving in the bottom of her stomach. So what, if she’s starved for the kind of easy, affectionate closeness that comes with Yang’s friendship? It’s been a while, that’s all. It doesn’t mean anything.

The unexpected sting on the back of her thigh, just below her ass, makes her jump. Yang just gave her a smack, she realizes belatedly, not hard enough to really hurt, but certainly enough to get her attention. “Focus,” she scolds Blake, not unkindly. The hint of playful warning in her tone is somehow as distracting as her touch, and it takes all of Blake’s self-control to push down the sudden wave of vague yearning, teeth clenched.

Yang is right, she needs to focus, this is ridiculous. The tournament is tomorrow. She exhales through her nose, inhales deeply, and starts over.

“Great job,” Yang praises them eventually, when she deems that the practice has gone for long enough. “Now, let’s do some sparring. Partner up! The lightweights together,” she adds, pointing at Weiss and Ruby, who both hilariously make the exact same grumpy face, before turning towards Blake. “Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you.”

“You don’t have to,” Blake replies, mildly offended, before she can think better of it. “I can hold my own.”

Yang laughs. “Oh, we’re feeling confident today, huh? Alright. Belladonna. Let’s see what you got.”

Weiss sniggers at Blake, but promptly cuts it out when Ruby tackles her to the ground. “What the hell, Ruby?” she yelps. “Yang didn’t give us the signal!”

“In a real combat situation, nobody will be there to give you the green light,” Yang ponders, sagely, in a remarkable impression of Professor Port. “You always have to be ready to react!”

“I have been in real combat situations, thanks!” Weiss spits out, trying to no avail to dislodge Ruby from her back.

Blake bites the inside of her cheeks to stop herself from laughing at theirs antics and, seeing Yang distracted, takes a chance. She swings her left leg low, hoping to catch Yang’s ankles and make her fall. Yang jumps out of the way before Blake can even touch her, and grins, cocky.

“Nice try.”

Blake leaps, changing tactics, kicking high at Yang’s head with her right leg this time. Yang deflects the hit with a steady arm, and sends a curved left hook Blake’s way. Her knuckles graze Blake’s shoulder but she manages to dodge the brunt of it.

“Good,” Yang says. She raises both fists protectively in front of her face, and motions for Blake to come at her. “Try again.”

So Blake does. She throws kicks and punches, elbows and knees, and a few connect with Yang, but most of Blake’s efforts she evades, easily. It’s mesmerizing, watching Yang fight and turn and deflect and attack, feet light on the ground. Her body moves almost effortlessly, each of her hits powerful and precise. Blake’s eyes follow the ripple of muscles underneath Yang’s skin, fascinated by the strength and the control, and the beauty of it. Of her.

This time when Yang smacks her again, it’s right across Blake’s ass, and her hand lands much harder. Blake can’t help a little gasp, mouth opening in shock. It stings, but the sensation sends unexpected sparks down her lower stomach, and Blake really doesn’t know what to do with that.

“You’re still not focusing,” Yang says, raising an eyebrow, as if daring Blake to protest. Blake closes her mouth, cheeks burning. What is up with her today? She’s never been so distracted before. (She’s never been so distracted by Yang.) There’s something tugging, pulling, inside her chest, like a buried truth trying to burst through, but Blake’s too afraid to let it out. It’s dangerous, she knows, from experience, to look too closely at one’s heart.

Yang’s eyes soften, and she drops her guard, looking at Blake with caution. “Are you doing okay?” She takes a step forward, and hesitates, before placing her hand on Blake’s shoulder, very gently. “Are you stressed out about the tournament? Is something else on your mind? You can talk to me, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” Blake murmurs. There’s that feeling again, like she’s missing something important, something she should know. She grabs Yang’s hand in her own, and squeezes her fingers. “Thank you.”

Yang’s thumb brushes the back of her hand, tracing light circles on her skin. “What’s going on?” she asks, her voice low and serious. Then she smiles, lightening the mood. “Why are you being such a handful, Belladonna?”

Blake huffs, smiling despite herself. “I have no idea. Maybe you’re right, and I’m just anxious about the tournament tomorrow? I’m not sure. Sorry I’m being the worst partner,” she adds with a small apologetic shrug.

Yang shakes her head, and advances on her so fast there’s nothing Blake can do before she’s engulfed in Yang’s arms. It reminds her of an empty classroom, and another hug that took her by surprise. Sighing, she rests her hands around Yang’s strong back, and presses her forehead against Yang’s shoulder. Yang smells like sweat now, and coffee, still, underneath, and the laundry detergent they use at Beacon. Familiar and safe, inexplicably so.

“You could never be the worst partner, Blake,” Yang murmurs in her hair. “There’s nothing you could do that would make me think that.”

Blake nods, and tightens her hold around Yang’s waist, and, like a fool, believes her.