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bumbershots · 3 years

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A CERTAIN ROMANCE

CHAPTER FIVE: A SPECIAL DAY

Author’s note: Hello! We have finally reached the awaited date between Harry and Alma. I was really excited for this chapter, hopefully you will enjoy it as much as I did, forgive me in advance for any mistakes, my beta reader (my boyfriend) was unavailable, so this is a good time to say that if anyone out there has the time and willingness to beta read any future chapters send me an ask or message to let me know. Enjoy! (:

Story masterlist ** Word count: 2.6K **

Harry wakes up feeling excited, nervous and hungry. He takes care of the latter, decides to make some blueberry pancakes, turns out he can't eat more than two and a cup of coffee. Not that the pancakes weren't great, in fact they were fantastic, he even decides to brag about them on an Instagram story that is published for his close friends only. Nick quickly replies to it with a laughing emoji.

You should take a Tupperware full of them to your date ;)

The reason behind his excitement and nerves make his heart race, he decides to type in a polite 'fuck off' to his mate before heading to the shower. Under the warm spray of water he tries to sort out his thoughts. Harry doesn’t want to think about his upcoming trip to California.

It was necessary for the album or so he thought last week, after going through a box with the very few memories he kept from his ex. He wasn’t in a right state of mind then, he feels pathetic. The only reason why he wanted to spend time in Los Angeles was because everything there —from the pavement to the sky— was tainted by her.

Why would he want to go back to that place where the constant reminder of his pain was literally living in the same neighbourhood? Because it would provide him the cathartic release he was looking for. That’s the line he used after Sarah and Mitch tried to dissuade him from flying across the Atlantic and Harry was so proud of himself when it worked.

That very same day, he got the first text from Alma, it was the address like she promised. ‘In case one of your talents isn’t stumbling upon my work place ;)’ the second text read and Harry had to endure Sarah’s questionnaire about the girl that made him blush with a mere wink emoji. Not that he minded talking about her, he could go on all day.

He usually preferred a shower before breakfast, usually even work out before then but well, hunger clouded his judgement earlier today. Even with that taken care of that dread still niggled him away. Just slightly. So, he decided to pick up his guitar for a moment and strummed. There was no real intention to play seriously, or to write anything down on the journal by his desk. It was more of something he enjoys too much not to do it, a way to keep his hands and mind busy, faffing around with chords. With a bit of luck he might come up with a song, a tune which just worked, that just... clicked.

Contrary to what people might believe, genius didn't strike him here and then. Not like when he'd come up with Sign of the times or Two ghosts. But finding a neat little pattern of chords a good thirty minutes later makes him smile, it's something he can work with. It needs a little polishing from Mitch and company, sure, but it has a good rhythm. He scribbled down some notes on his journal and sent the audio to his fellow musician.

Maybe he will find the words in one of the old notebooks that are somewhere in the other room, perhaps on the ones that are still on his unpacked suitcase from Japan. Silently he also hoped to find the lyrics around London. He had lived in the capital for a few years now, but he had been different then. Now he likes to think that he's a man, no longer the teenager from the boy band or the shiny new solo artist. He has new perspectives, sights, smells in this new home of his. New ideas.

Harry gazes out his bedroom window; the view is not great ��mostly of the other houses in the complex. His mind focused on the cloudy sky, confused because he swore it was sunny just a few minutes ago, can bet on his life that he woke up to dazzling sunshine rays of a warm yellow colour peeking through that same window. He puts his guitar away on the bed with care and makes a beeline to his wardrobe. He needs to figure out what to wear, pronto.

Skipping her afternoon kip was not something Alma did, it was a rare occurrence which meant one thing: something special was happening.

Walking down Oxford Street, trying to decide where to get some lunch without a care in the world, that was until the calmness faded, when her schedule for the day hit her.

She had a date with Harry. A date, with Harry Styles. It was weird to go by his full name in her head, she couldn't bring herself to call or think about him as The Harry Styles.

Maybe she'd settle to call him Harry the tube guy.

The clock on her phone showed that it was no longer single figure hours, she needed to get some food now or starve until her shift was over, and then he would have to watch her feast at whatever place he chose. Alma groaned, thought how ridiculous it was to worry about him watching her eat. Harry was a grown man; of course he knows that women eat too, right?

Walking into the nearest Sainsbury's she decided to take a deep breath. He's just some guy, she concluded after paying for her chicken baguette. Nothing to stress about.

Harry showered again, while belting out some classic pop tunes. Namely Christina Aguilera and Britney Spears, something that in the past he'd swear blind you'd misheard and it was actually The Rolling Stones or Pink Floyd. But he'd come to terms that he liked what he liked.

Towel clad in the bedroom, trying to shirk off hypothermia, he was quick to put on some pants and jeans, before throwing on some simple white tee proclaiming some fading band name. He uses a dry clean towel from the closet and attempts to dry his hair, as he styles his flopped mop the thought of a haircut crosses his mind. It was getting a bit long.

One last look at the clock and he is ready to leave. "You'll be fine. Trust me." He quietly speaks to himself before closing the last few buttons of his green parka and fixing the newsboy cap on his head.

When he walks out of Colindale tube station, a little earlier than half past five, he sees the bakery from her instructions just below the large modern building Alma was kind enough to describe. She was right; the bakery is right across the street, he waits for the green man to light up to cross, shoving his hands in his pockets. The huge front windows of the establishment allow Harry to see her behind the till, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. She looks better than she did three weeks ago. He hesitates about going in for a few minutes, but feels it ought to be better than to lurk on the street.

Alma can feel his presence the moment he sets foot into the shop, her eyes are drawn to him and a content close lipped smile is the best greeting he could ask from her. The only customer in the place can feel the shift in the atmosphere when they lock eyes. So, picking up her bag full of baked goods, she steps out and leaves them alone.

"Sorry if I'm too early." He begins while she takes off her apron and hangs it in the back wall.

"You're right on time," Alma says after checking her watch, "I'm off Carlos, see you tomorrow!" She hollers to the employee that is taking a non-allowed nap in the back. Harry holds the door open for her and follows out of the warm store. "Shall we take the tube?" At his affirmative response, she then takes out her Oyster card and leads the way.

The café was not somewhere Alma expected Harry to go, the little shop with soothing music and simple stools full of the scent of organic coffee brewing is dazzling and unique. A bit like him, she thinks. She liked it. It reminded her of the places she used to frequent when she had recently moved into the city.

Harry orders a black coffee at the counter before asking Alma what she'd like.

"A cappuccino, and remember I'm paying for our food," she hands him a tenner that he reluctantly takes from her.

"Absolutely," he iterates the order to the woman behind the counter and adds two salted caramel cupcakes handing over the cash. "If you get a seat, I'll bring it over."

Alma thanks him before scampering across the room to sit at the back two seat table tucked in the corner. It was right beside the large back window, dimly lit. Before she sat, she removed her signature burgundy coat and Harry couldn't help his eyes being drawn to certain aspects of his companion. Nice arse, he remarked with a raise of his brows before the woman behind the counter tells him for the third time that his order is ready, a look of disdain as she probably caught his gaze. Giving her a sheepish smile to appease her, he manages to balance the two plates and mugs in his hands and walk over to the table.

"They asked if you wanted whipped cream or foam and I settled for foam, hope that's not a problem." He plonks himself on the seat across from her, removing his parka in a clumsy manner before hanging it in the back of the chair.

"No problem, I actually despise–

"Whipped cream, yeah, I kind of remembered what you told me about that birthday party of yours," the green eyed lad finishes for her and scratches the back of his neck. "You know with that dare..."

Her eyes flickered down to the cupcakes laid out before them and she started picking the caramel out of one, hoping to hide the nerves his words caused.

"Right enough, yeah... I can't believe you remembered that or that I told you about it." She chuckled nervously at the anecdote she chose to share with him, it was a bit inappropriate due to the amount of vomit around it, literally. But he shrugged with a charming smile. No big deal. "Nice place," she noted.

"I know it's a bit of a strange choice. It doesn't strike me as, you know, the kind of place you put so much effort into for a first date..." Harry stops talking and now his eyes meet the cupcake in front of him. "Bollocks I must have sounded so daft, I'm sorry." Lucky for him, she doesn't laugh, instead she reaches out to stroke his hand and give it a gentle squeeze.

"Nothing to be sorry about, I can be quite daft so..."

"I doubt that Miss suave." He gets a laugh out of her then, one that is almost a snort and earns a few glances from other customers.

"I’m far from it! Honestly, I once accidentally stepped on dog shit and didn't notice until my date couldn't bear the stink anymore and checked my shoe, in a very fancy restaurant. Terrible story. Trust me, I can be daft." Alma held up her hands and the musician giggled at her.

"Promise you won't laugh?" he raised an eyebrow at her, pleading. She promised. "Well, I kind of always wanted to have a first date here. It's always one of the first places I visit when I'm back in London, the food is amazing, and service is excellent. Came here completely hung-over after my twenty-first birthday party. I guess it has a lot of good memories." Pinked cheeks gave away Harry's embarrassment, he wanted to relax and for her to be more comfortable around him.

With a sincere smile Alma placed her hand over his resting on the table. "I think that is very sweet." This reply was not what he had expected; she leant in and beckoned him closer. "For your information Harry, this is exactly a great place for a first date." Up close he swore the darkness of her eyes were about to swallow him whole and spit him out to an alternate universe. He swallowed hard and took a sip of his coffee to distract himself a bit. Perhaps caffeine was not a good choice on a day where his heart was speeding so frequently.

"Did you have a good day today at work?" he asks with a familiarity that Alma can get used to.

"Yeah, had a bit of free time to plan my next video blog. It's been ages since I uploaded one." She bashfully admits. "This cupcake was delicious, a great flavour choice." And just like that they fall into easy conversation until their cups are drained. The place is almost empty around quarter to eight and they both know it's almost closing time –the death glances from the employees behind the counter gave it away. They put on their garments again before leaving.

Harry makes his way to the door expecting Alma to follow. Instead she first gathered up their mugs and plates, to place them neatly on the counter and thanked the three workers behind it with a genuine smile. Harry looked surprised; she didn't quite have to do that. She noticed.

"Just being polite," she stated the obvious, before walking under his arm that held open the door. He chose not to comment and fought back a smile.

They stood outside, not really sure of what to do next. Usually he would suggest going back to his place. It was near, but he watched her yawn discreetly and he suddenly remembered that she had a real job, well actually jobs in plural. He broke the silence.

"It was nice to see you again Alma." He meant it and she smiled as she toyed with the buttons of her coat. British summer weather was hardly cold, but today it seemed to be punishingly windy. Harry near gave a shiver, but instead took a deep breath before speaking again. It was now or never. "It'd be quite great, if I could... I'd like to see you again. Please." He shifted on one foot, nearly drowned in the silence that followed.

"I'd quite love to see you again," Harry gave a slight gulp, very slight and got out strength from the words she spoke to take a big risk, the first of today.

He stepped closer and cradled her face in his hands before leaning down and kissing her cheek. It wasn't the full on kiss he wanted to give her. But it is something he'd been dying to do since he first saw her today, something he hoped would make clear how attracted he was to her. Harry smelled like coffee and caramel. God this man's lips are prettier up close, she thought right before he straightened up.

She stayed close to him before speaking again. A low murmur so that the passing London traffic wouldn't steal her words from him.

"This was an amazing date."

Alma walked with him the long distance of one mile to the tube station, their hands brushing against each other. He was desperate to just hold hers, kiss her soft knuckles and ask about the lightning-shaped scar on her little finger. But decided against it, he knew that West Hampstead was not a common area for paparazzi, but he didn't want to risk her. Especially after the splendid afternoon they just shared.

They said their farewells.

"I'll call you," he said again. She warned that he better, before entering the station, he took great delight in watching her walk away from him, his gaze falling once more to her bum now covered by the coat. Harry spun on his heel and walked the short distance to his home.

Surely London could help him find the lyrics for that tune, this city definitely had something.

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dai-ou-sama · 4 years

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Atsuhina; fluff fic. (Pt 1?)

Atsumu playing it off like he didn’t develop the biggest fucking crush on Hinata ever since the first day he saw him during Nationals, until he comes back from Brazil two years later and joins the black jackals, and really, he’s just helpless.

(So...my fingers slipped and this (which was based on this) turned into a pseudo-fic of Astumu falling in love with Hinata.)

((This is really just a fluff vomit.))

Atsumu’s first experience with a certain type of helplessness began with casual curiosity - completely unbidden, and later, deeply regretted: “And also...who is that?”. In the grand scheme of things, in other words his twenty-two years of living, that can be considered an extremely miniscule moment, inconsequential almost, but really, that was the last moment he’d been free from years of confused pining and emotions his brain and pea-sized emotional range could barely comprehend. What came after, was the first ever match he played against Karasuno, and boy, did that roundhouse-kick him down the rabbit hole of feelings™.

Now, Atsumu had rarely given thought to things as trivial as feelings before Hinata, in fact, he had rarely given thought to anything at all. His thoughts had mostly consisted of: volleyball, how good playing volleyball felt, how good being a setter felt, how hungry he felt and how he could possibly fast-forward time to the next time he played good volleyball. When anything other than volleyball and hunger had cross his mind, like feelings, he had taken them in stride - because he was god damn Miya Atsumu - worldwide hotshot, mr-steal-yo-girl-and-guy, mr-anybody-who-can’t-hit-my-sets-suck-that’s-all-there-is-to-it.

Exactly. Feelings were beneath him.

That is, until a certain ‘Shouyo-kun’ came along and hurled that routine cleanly out the window.

That single match in his second year of high school had engraved the memory of Hinata into his mind, and like an idiot who didn’t understand what crushing on someone big-time felt like, he’d declared, “Shouyo-kun, I’ll toss to ‘ya one of these days.” A little promise more to himself than Hinata perhaps.

Yeah well, that went well. The year following that, he’d spent much of his volleyball and non-volleyball time thinking about how mesmerizing Hinata and Kageyama’s play had been. He’d been impressed - and annoyed - by the sheer improvement Kageyama had made in a matter of weeks since the training camp. There was even a certain level of admiration involved. His thoughts in training often returned to the bar the freak-pair had set, and it wasn’t false to say that they inspired him to push his limits with Osamu further; faster, freer, wilder.

But then, his thoughts often wandered off to wondering what it’d be like to have Shouyo-kun as his partner too. (He couldn’t really help it. After nationals, thinking about volleyball had always led to thinking about Hinata, and he was always thinking about volleyball.) He thought that about how fun it would be to jerk his opponents around on court using the monster that was Hinata. He thought about how fun it would be to have to keep up with someone else other than Osamu for once; that maybe that over-energetic ball of sunshine would drag him way beyond his current limits as a setter too; maybe he would force him to play volleyball ‘till he was sick of it, just so he could feel the thrill of falling in love with it all over again. (Was that a little masochistic?) If it was even possible, Hinata made his love for good volleyball burn even brighter. His passion had touched him; he had captivated him.

Atsumu thought his heart raced every time he thought of Hinata because of the prospect of being able to play volleyball on a whole new level - the idiot.

But then Hinata had walked through the doors of the stadium for the Black Jackals tryouts three years later (after disappearing for two years and crushing Atsumu’s surprisingly fragile heart because he thought he’d never see Hinata again, causing him a lot of confused sleepless nights thinking about how he’d wished he’d gone to ask Hinata to play with him before he’d left) and you could say Atsumu had choked on his own breath. You could also say he was so stunned he’d frozen mid-step and dropped the ball he’d been tossing around, and froze for so long, Bokuto actually had enough time to bend in front him to ask if he had just been to Antartica. What would ‘ya have it, his spur of the moment declaration had proven true. He was going to toss to Hinata. Atsumu stared straight at the ground without looking up after that because his heart was beating abnormally fast and for some reason, he had lost control of his lips - he couldn’t stop them from pulling into a smile.

And my god, was it fun playing with Hinata. The months of training that followed after that fateful day made Atsumu feel as good as he had expected it to, even better in fact, because while he’d thought about all the new and experimental sets he would be able to make with Hinata, he hadn’t really thought about the wide smiles he would get in return for the good sets he made; or the excited high-fives they would have after each play; or the liberty he now had to bask in the warmth of Hinata’s body whenever he threw an arm over his shoulders and held him a little closer than he would have Bokuto or Sakusa (not that the latter ever let him close enough to really touch him at all).

It wasn’t just that too. Even if it wasn’t about his tosses, about how good it felt to have the little monster Hinata under his command, just watching him made his breath catch. How did anyone make him go crazy over volleyball more than he already did? Or maybe, he was just going crazy now.

Alright, so maybe he really liked the way “Atsumu-san” sounded from Hinata, and he almost always had an arm around his shoulders or waist when they were walking, and he called out “Shouyo” more than necessary just so Hinata would turn to meet his eyes in question with his head tilted, but that wasn’t really out of the ordinary for him. He was just more drawn to Hinata because he made his sets feel real good, and that made him feel good around him. Always.

Besides, lots of people were drawn to Hinata the same way he was. He was always surrounded by people - god knows where and how he became friends with all of them - and he was always laughing. They were always laughing because he was laughing. Even Sakusa tolerated his presence enough to take off his mask when he’s with him after training sometimes. And that’s exactly what Atsumu believed in, until Bokuto spoke up one day after practice when they’d been alone in the locker room.

“Man, for all the talk you have about us dancin’ to your tune, you sure are wrapped around Hinata’s little finger.”

Atsumu shrugged and continued packing his bag. “Well, Shouyo-kun is one scary little spiker.”

Bokuto shook his head. “Nah man, I’m not talkin’ about spiking. He’s got the ability to control the entire court to his liking if that’s what we’re talking about. I’m talking about you outside’a court.”

Atsumu’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Bo-kun, would’ja mind talkin’ with a little more sense? I don’t understand what’cha trying to say.”

“You see! That’s exactly what I mean!” Bokuto jumped up and pointed at Atsumu from the other side of the bench. “With all of us, you always talk like such a snotty brat, and you look like you want to die half the time-”

“-Ouch, okay dude, that kinda hurts-”

“-but when you talk to Hinata- no, scratch that. Even when you’re just looking at him, it’s like you’re seeing stars. You drop that snobby smile you’re always wearin’ and it turns all...uhhh...mushy! Then there’s also the way you’re always calling out to him, and you just sound like you really like saying his name; and the way you’re always staring whenever Hinata laughs even though you’re, like, across the room. And I mean, you’re always talking like you’re all that hot stuff, but sometimes, you have lapses of silence where you just sit and watch Hinata talk. Oh! And do I really need to talk about how he’s always hanging off your back when we’re resting in-”

“-OKAY. THAT’S ENOUGH!” Atsumu shouted, covering his face with his arms. “What are ‘ya, Bo-kun? A freak? Why do you know all that? Have ya been stalking me? And who said I did all that? There’s just no way I did all’a that. That’s so embarrassing. There’s no way I did all that.”

“You’ve repeated that twice now, Tsum-tsum!”

“...Just shut up, Bo-kun.”

“I didn’t stalk you. It’s been pretty obvious at trainings, and it’s been going on for months. Omi-kun thinks so too!”

“...Oh no.” How bad must it have been for Bokuto to be able to give him an in-depth run down on what a mess he’d been like? There was just no way. Miya Atsumu, the Miya Atsumu, national volleyball heart-throb, MSBY setter number 1, acting like an idiot in front of- of Shouyo-kun.

And why?

He paused to think about that, and memories flashed through his mind without much prompting: sunlit smiles; light, tinkling laughter; spontaneous high-fives; the warmth of Hinata’s chest against his back and his warm, breathy laughs against his ear whenever Hinata had been amused by what Atsumu scrolled through on instagram.

Well, damn. And as if the rate of his heartbeat wasn’t evidence enough, Bokuto’s following “Woah, bro. Your face is totally scarlet!” really drove home the understanding that Miya Atsumu was absolutely gone.

Here’s part 2!

#haikyuu #haikyu #haikyu!!#atsuhina #atsuhina fluff #atsuhina headcanons #miya atsumu #hinata shoyo #atsumu x hinata #msby black jackals #my writing ew

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memoriesofyccjungrk · 6 years

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mga season 4 episode 2 ― #4007

july 8th, 2018 �� the outfit • ( 0.10 - 1.17 kaycee )

yoojung still isn't entirely sure she knows how she was able to keep her cool for so long. long enough to watch her peers ( and competitors, she realized shortly before the performances started and cameras began rolling ) display their own sills before it was time for her to step onto the center stage herself.

she sent a cheer forward to doyeon when she stepped down, smiling as brightly as she always did. after all, the two were roommates ― there was no bone in yoojung's body that was going to allow her to not cheer. she continued shooting finger-hearts to both her friends as they awaited their turns at the stage ― once doyeon was finished just to somi to try and support her dongsaeng as cutely as she could. she wondered for a moment if the cameras had caught onto her and the younger's antics, but decided she didn't really care too much. she was showing support for her fellow competitors, and it wasn't like she wasn't cheering on everyone else. she was just trying to keep up somi's spirits, especially since she knew how nervous the younger girl had been ― especially once they'd realized they were all going to make it to their second auditions.

yoojung cried when she found out. not that, that was a surprise to somi or doyeon. she'd sobbed into her roommates arms until she finally calmed down enough ( only to cry once more ― and even harder ― once she remembered her unnie and dongsaeng had made it as well ). if not because she actually had a chance ― after all, there was a lot of talent in the room, wasn't there ? she was competing with people who had the same dreams as her ― and would fight just as hard as she was going to. but it had everything to do with her talent being even just a little bit validated. and that felt good.

for now. she wondered how long that good feeling would last when she started feeling it ― and as soon as she stepped into the recording room, taking a tentative seat in her chair, it seemed to disappear. it seemed like it only lasted a week.

what a shame.

but it wasn't all gone. after all, she'd gotten approval from minhee, who had posted on instagram about how excited she was for all the contestants ― yoojung being one of few singled out. even the one and only byun baekhyun, who yoojung remembered donning the same number as her when he had been on the mgas only one season ago, sent a message of support to yoojung. sure, it was only because she shared the 007 number, but that didn't mean yoojung hadn't run to doyeon immediately hyperventilating.

things just happened.

she had to deserve some of that support, right ? she had to deserve some of the kind words that had been sent her way, some of the tweets and messages of support from people she didn't even know, people who were watching the mgas and already cheering on their favourites of the tentative cast.

while she took the support with a grain of salt, she allowed it to keep her calm for the time being. she kept telling herself that she deserved some part of it, even if she didn't fully believe the statement. there had to be a reason she was here ― even if that reason was to just get her name out there. she decided that she was okay with not getting through. wasn't she ? she had to be, because things weren't guaranteed ― especially not when she already felt awestruck by the other performances before her.

and there were only six.

after her, there were still fourty-seven more contestants to perform ― nearly half of which were dancers. it made her queasy to think about if she thought about it for too long ― too much talent. too much talent.

but there was still support. while the more cutthroat contestants were pretty obvious to any onlookers, most of the others were more than happy to give each other support. yoojung was genuinely overwhelmed with the amount of compliments that were being thrown around, and the way everyone just looked like they wanted nothing more than to cheer one another on. in what yoojung thought was going to be a far more toxic environment, she was surprised by the support exhibited by most of her fellow contestants. she tried to reciprocate that, giving kind comments to the two sitting beside her and behind her in the bit of small talk they'd managed to get in before they began recording.

that was what kept her from freaking out.

although, that didn't stop her from jumping slightly at the call of her number and name.

she'd expected it ― she knew she performed after #4006, jang moonbok ― had coached herself to know when to stand and try not to make a fool of herself. told herself that they'd call her name, she'd stand up calmly and smile, then walk into the centre stage.

but, of course, that wasn't what happened.

instead, she jumped slightly at the call of her name, visibly enough that she was sure the cameras caught it ― she tried to just smile sheepishly and shake it off, but felt the warmth in her cheeks despite her best efforts to keep her embarrassment from rising.

off to a great start, yoojung …

she tried allowing the rest to go off without a hitch, keeping a smile plastered to her face as she rose from her seat and started down to the centre of the stage ― just as everyone had before her. she bowed deeply to the panel before finally meeting their eyes, each one of them, and her heart pounded. she was really dancing in front of the ceos of idol companies that could potentially want her ― could potentially sign her. yoojung's heart swelled as she took a moment to breathe properly ― then going into her introduction, bowing once again. “ hello, it's so nice to meet you all !! ” she greeted, as cheerily as she could considering how nervous she was. for the most part, it didn't show, yoojung thought ― nerves were healthy after all. she didn't feel like she was going to vomit ― well, maybe she did, but she decided to ignore it ― and she didn't feel like running. content to stand centre stage doing what she loved, yoojung continued. “ my name is choi yoojung, the resident shortie here today. ” she chuckled, shooting up a peace sign cutely to the judges and smiling sheepishly ― yoojung was surprised how tall everyone else was. compared to the other contestants, yoojung was one of the shortest. “ and i hope to capture your attention today. ” she stated, giving a wink ( she was sure she would regret later ) and moving back to her position to start.

the song and routine she'd picked was very different from her audition ― and whether that was a good or bad thing, yoojung figured she'd find out. it wasn't like what she'd done before hadn't been authentically her ― after all, she choreographed it. but she wanted to show that she could still keep up with the more fast-paced rhythms of songs today, and that she was an all-around strong dancer. she showed off her emotional side, she should show off her fun side as well.

it hadn't really been much of a struggle to pick a routine to show to the ceos ― she wondered for a moment if it shouldn't been harder, but yoojung already knew she didn't want to do the exact same thing in front of the ceos. weren't they looking for flexibility ? while yoojung knew she shouldn't be assuming what the judges wanted to see, she also knew that, to be an idol, you often needed that duality. some groups went from dark concepts to bubbly in a comeback or two, and yoojung wanted to prove to them that she could do it all. not to mention, the fun choreography always seemed to fit her better. but not so much that yoojung thought her choreography would be expected.

the contestants on that stage now were there because the first panel had seen something in them, and the ceos were obviously curious as to what they were capable of. yoojung intended to prove just that. she wasn't just a one-dimensional dancer. after all, just a search on youtube proved that ― but yoojung didn't figured the ceos were fancying looking up all their contestants. so, yoojung was doing that today.

one the music started, yoojung's body turned to liquid. the movements came easily as soothing vocals broke their way through the speakers on the stage. more of a freestyle beginning, but yoojung hadn't had the heart to cut the male vocals before going into the rap ― it created a smoother flow into the routine, after all, and allowed yoojung just a moment to relax. a moment to soak it all in, and forget that she was dancing in front of fifty-three of her competitors. a moment to forget that this was the only chance she got to impress the judges. the only chance before she could potentially be sent home. the only chance she had to prove to herself that she indeed deserved to be there.

the bridge hit, and yoojung made it look easy. her body moved perfectly in-sync with the lyrics and beat; each move was calculated and perfected in the dance studio, but made to look relaxed and simple. yoojung always made it look easy, she realized. her students often whined about how she made her won routines look effortless ― she danced with a certain style that was very different from the effort and calculation she put into her routines. after all, if anyone knew how self critical she was about her routines, she was sure they'd be surprised. monitoring herself in her the mirrors of her studio, and video taping herself had become a commonality in her process of creating the perfect choreography. whether it was one she would share with the world, or one she would keep to herself, yoojung always made sure that every thing was just perfect.

this routine had been no different.

despite only having about a week to finalize to her liking, yoojung had managed. even if that meant staying up in the studio for hours on end, even sleeping in it ( or not sleeping at all ) from time-to-time. even if doyeon or somi had to drag her out ― when either girl wasn't working herself ragged ― to get her to eat something. it wasn't unusual when yoojung was feeling particularly inspired to spend days in the studio, and since school was out, she was able to. no one really questioned it when she signed out ' her ' studio for the week and shut herself in with more than enough water and a few changes of clothes.

even the sharper moves ― her hands fell to her hips, clasped together, an intense expression on her face ― were effortless. she looked like she was made to be on the stage. she looked like she was born to dance, and yet again yoojung was able to let go of all her worries as she daned her heart out ― knew she was doing the best she possibly could in front of the people who mattered the most right now.

a shimmy, hands in fists at either side of her head and looking out to the other contestants, yoojung's face broke into a smile that stayed for most of the performance. a bright, toothy one that showed off freshly-whitened teeth ( both her own and meiqi's choices, but meiqi had also picked out her outfit for the second audition, and told yoojung she was going to look adorable, she needed to stop worrying so much ). she'd been overjoyed when she realized they looked natural, despite yoojung's worries before, and was more than happy to show off her actually-pearly-whites in front of the crowd.

she was enjoying her time in the spotlight, and hoped that it showed.

knew that it had to, she'd never enjoyed herself more ― it wouldn't be fair if it didn't.

movements stayed sleek and looked simple even as she did some fancy footwork throughout. the smile never left her face, though, and she barely looked like she had broken a sweat as she jumped around ― it was in that moment she was overjoyed she'd decided to throw her hair up in a ponytail. the last thing she needed was her hair flowing everywhere around her.

the last isolation movements came easily, muscle memory making her go into a back bend with ease; her smile only seeming to brighten as she came back up to finish off the performance ― her body relaxed once the guitar riff came to an end, still beaming up at the judges as she finished.

but, even as yoojung walked back to her seat, thanking the judges panel for their attention and settling back into her spot, yoojung couldn't help but worry ― was it enough ? did she really prove to them anything she wanted to ? any of the confidence she wore when she had danced dissipated the moment she took her seat once again. while she'd been able to maintain it on her walk back, it felt like it had disappeared once the next number had been called. she really was just a number to them, after all ― until the end, and they had their final opinions, yoojung really wasn't anything important to the ceos. she supposed she may never be.

and as the program continued, each performance better than the last, leaving yoojung in awe and clapping along with the other contestants, the feelings of inferiority began to creep back in. had she really done her best ? even if she had, couldn't she have done more ? there were plenty of people who showcased more than one skill, and yoojung easily could've done that, but she hadn't thought...

sitting among people yoojung was beginning, once again, deem more talented than herself, she felt small. it took everything in her to keep from crying as she watched everyone else before her ― allowing a tear or two to slip through when somi had performed, as if she was just so proud of her dongsaeng. but really, yoojung felt like she'd let her down ― not only somi, but doyeon, minhee ― anyone who had any faith in her. most importantly, herself. after all, everyone was really good, was yoojung really better than them ? she doubted it.

but either way, yoojung tried her best to keep a smile on her face, and not let any more tears slip past.

#rkmga4 #rkmga4panel #solo ;;#2502 ;;#event ;;#bc mentioned ::#rkdoyexn #rksomi #rkxminhee #rkbyunbaek #rkmeiqi #[[ this got v long ]]#[[ whoops ]]#[[ also remember pd101 crying yoojung?? that's she ]#[[ literally trying to not cry bc she's worried she did terrible ]]#[[ someone protec ]]

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jestbee · 6 years

Text

Fic: It’s part of my chemistry, this jealousy

words: 2370 Tags: jealous!Dan, inspired by a tweet, Christmas tree delivery guy, fluff, angst if you squint, mostly just Dan being ridiculous, but also Phil did arrange for a guy in a kilt to come to their house when he was home alone so...

Author’s Note: So turns out the delivery option from the place Phil ordered the tree from with the kilted delivery guy also makes you pick a date and time, so he purposely chose a day when Dan was out at that talk and...

Well the short thing is that this is entirely @charlottekath and @ineverhadmyinternetphase fault because they chanted Jealous Dan in our gc and I caved. I should be working on my actual novel and here I am writing more Jealous!Dan fic. I am weak.

Enjoy ladies, you asked for it.

Fic under the cut

[AO3 Link]

"I ordered the tree," Phil says over breakfast.

"Ordered it?"

"Yeah." Phil sips coffee and acts like that isn't a strange thing to say.

"From…?"

Phil looks up from his laptop, perched on the edge of the dining table. They've tried to ban electronics during meals in the interest of being fully functioning adults but somehow they keep slipping.

Phil takes hold of the laptop by the screen and flips it around to face him.

"Here. It's coming on Tuesday."

Phil stands up from the table, takes his cereal bowl with him and Dan glances down at the screen.

It takes him all of two seconds to see the problem.

"A fucking kilted delivery guy?" Dan yells, following Phil into the kitchenette.

Phil shrugs, "It was the only option."

"Sure."

Phil grins and turns around to rinse his bowl.

"Phil."

He does not turn around.

"Phil, I'm being serious, what the hell? You picked Tuesday as the delivery date?"

"Shouldn't I have?"

Phil has that irritating tone in his voice where he knows exactly what Dan is getting at but he's going to make him work for it, going to make Dan say all the petulant immature things in his head right now. Just to hear how ridiculous they sound out loud.

"You know that's the night I'm at that talk thing."

"Oh," Phil says, an air of forced nonchalance in him as he turns around, wiping his hands on a tea towel. "Yeah, I guess it is."

"Well?"

"Sorry?" Phil says, "I didn't realise you were that invested in seeing the tree delivered. I'll wait for you to decorate it if you like?"

There's a tiny smirk at the corner of Phil's mouth. If Dan didn't know Phil so well he might never have seen it. But it's there.

"Don't bother." He says, turning away.

"Okay," Phil shrugs, "I won't."

Dan knows Phil is being a troll. He knows he's purposely winding him up. It's exactly why Phil had mentioned it at breakfast and then turned the screen to let him see for himself. He likes it when the flush rises in Dan's face just a little bit and he fights to suppress his jealous tendencies.

Dan won't give him the satisfaction and leaves the room instead, the faint echo of Phil's laughter following him down the stairs.

He really does try not to dwell on it. It's ridiculous of him to start feeling that stab of jealously in the pitt of his stomach at the thought of some muscled stranger in a kilt coming to their apartment while he's out. He's probably bring the tree in alone, big arms straining under the weight as Phil stands and watches, helpless while this capable and manly specimen enters their home to erect a tree.

He'll place it in the spot in their living room they've designated for it and Phil will stand and direct him to turn it this way and that. The man will oblige, catching Phil's eye as they find the perfect angle and Phil will look at both him and the tree appreciatively.

Phil will probably offer him a drink. He's a nice guy, and this person is a guest in their home. The man will look about, seeing whether this lithe and pretty Phil has a significant other anywhere to be found and, finding no one is there, accept Phil's offer of a drink without hesitation--Dan needs to stop his mind wandering.

He can't help himself before he's googling the place Phil bought the tree from on his own laptop. Hunting around to see if he can find pictures of the burly delivery men. Just to put his mind at rest that they aren't some sort of aggressive adonis come to steal his boyfriend.

They have an instagram. Which is something dan wishes he hadn't found out.

There are half-naked photos of buff men stood by aesthetic trees and Dan wants to vomit.

This cannot be happening.

Just stop looking, he tells himself. Just close the website and stop all of this madness, it can't possibly be as bad as it seems.

Phil mentions the delivery a few times over the next couple of days and Dan tries not to give him the satisfaction of seeing the scowl on his face. He also tries not to let his mind run with what happens after Phil offers the guy a cup of coffee, but that is less successful.

When tuesday rolls around and he's headed to the talk, he hovers by the front door unable to make himself leave without some sort of conversation about it. Surprisingly, Phil does stop him for a quick hug without Dan needs to request it.

"You're going to be great," he says, mistaking Dan's reluctance to go with nerves.

"Yeah," Dan says, "I know."

"And when you get back we'll have a tree!"

Dan purses his lips, pouting slightly. "Yep." his voice is curt, clipped in a kind of pointed way Phil seems to miss.

"What time… um, will you be back?"

Dan narrows his eyes, "why?"

Phil looks away, "No reason just… you know, so I know when to expect you."

"I dunno," he says, "not late."

"Okay. Have fun."

Phil kisses him once and ushers him out of the door.

Dan coasts through the talk. He's not saying anything he hasn't already, it's mostly all practised already and he's posed for photos so many times at this point that he can do it on auto pilot. His mind drifts as he tries to recreate his poster so that he misses it by a mile, but his eyes don't come out too full of rage so he counts it as a win.

In his head the scene picks up. The delivery guy, clad in a kilt and now shirtless- because his mind likes to imagine the worst possible scenario- is following Phil into the kitchen, his eyes hungry as he looks him up and down.

"So you live here alone?" the guy will say.

Phil will smile. That thousand kilowatt smile he has, the one he saves for Dan usually but this guy is all of his captain America, manly man dreams rolled into an actual human being stood in his kitchen so how can he help himself?

Maybe he'll forget Dan entirely for a moment, stunned by this stranger's physicality so much that he finds himself stammering "Yes- er, no. I mean, I have a housemate."

They stick to the neutral terminology of course. The last thing they need is a story on the internet of a delivery guy who came to Dan and Phil's apartment and was told they were dating. But the neutrality of the term grates on Dan right now and he wants to rush home, stand between them and show this intruder exactly what Phil is to him.

It's kind of primal, the urge to stake a claim, to disallow anyone else to imagine they have a chance at all in getting close to his one and only. It's wrong of him, he knows, to want to own Phil in that way, but it's a thought he can't control.

Like he can't control the barrage of more images floating into his mind.

At that moment his phone buzzes in his pocket with the notification that Phil has tweeted. He's tweeting about the fucking delivery man. He's clearly excited about it and Dan feels a little queasy.

He switches to the messaging app and sends one to Phil, just to prove that he's being silly, that everything is perfectly fine.

To Phil: Telling the whole world about your sexy delivery guy is a little creepy.

Dan stares at him phone just long enough to seem creepy himself and reluctantly puts it back in his pocket without a response when Caspar wanders over to see what he's doing.

"You alright bro?" Caspar says.

"Yeah," Dan answers, probably a little too quickly. "I'm cool. Just… texting Phil."

Caspar gives him a look. He's used to that look, it's the one that says 'I know, and I know you know that I know, but we won't talk about it'.

"How is he?"

"He's… fine."

His voice comes out a little bitter.

"Does that have anything to do with the tweet he just posted?"

"What?" Dan says, "No, what the hell?"

"It's fine, mate. I get it."

Caspar pulls his phone out of his pocket. "I'm going to post that picture and show him we're having a good time too."

"There's no need for that," Dan insists with a little choked off laugh, "you're being ridiculous."

"Sure," Caspar says, but he posts the photo.

Phil still doesn't text back later, when Dan is stood near the tiny buffet table they've set out backstage. They have mince pies and Dan is tempted to take one home for Phil, to add to the codex, if he can figure out which brand they're using.

He almost asks the woman overseeing the table and then remembers that he's kind of pissed off with Phil right now, so he doesn't. Phil, who at this very moment is probably pressed up against the kitchen counter by some invasive bodybuilding tree deliveryman. He doesn't deserve mince pies.

He doesn't answer his phone later either.

Dan tries him a few times but Phil doesn't pick up which is really not like him at all.

"Do you need to get back?" Joe asks him, noting what must be an anxious look on his face.

"No… It's fine."

"Go," he says, "We're done here anyway."

"Okay," Dan agrees, "thanks."

Dan gets home earlier than he thought. The traffic had been in his favour and his uber driver was a little reckless but he isn't exactly complaining tonight.

The reckless daydreams of Phil pressed up close to a stranger's body is still there. Growing more and more vivid and dirty the closer he gets to home and by the time he arrives he's worked himself into a complete state with the idea. He's almost certain he's going to find all of his worst nightmares playing out before him when he gets back to the apartment.

He's comes through the door a little quicker than he intends and all at once he's pricking his ears for the sounds of swishing kilts. He doesn't really know what that would sound like but he's certain he'd recognise it if he did.

There is eerie quiet, except for a rapid-fire scramble from the other room, upstairs, above his head.

"Phil?" he calls.

"Dan? Don't come in here!"

What the hell? Dan instantly feels his stomach twist.

"Why not?" He flings his jacket off and bounds up the stairs. "I swear to god Phil if you have that scottish prick up there I am going to--"

He reaches the top and instantly comes to a stop, one foot still on the stair below.

Their living room is dark except for the soft glow of fairy lights. The tree sits in the designated spot, lights twinkling slowly on and off. It's bigger than their old one, with black silver and white decorations they picked out the other week to match the decor of their flat. There are already a few presents beneath it and a star sits at the top, light glinting off the sparkle of it.

Phil is stood beside the fragrant branches, bathed in the warm white light, bouncing off the curves of his cheekbones and the plush of his mouth. He's wearing pyjamas and his glasses and he looks soft and warm and like home. He's familiar and comforting and it takes Dan's breath away.

"What--?"

"Damn," Phil says, "I wanted it to be done by the time you got home. I didn't even have time to put the stockings up."

"What is all this?"

Phil moves closer in the dim light and Dan can't help they way his arms come up to pull him close.

"I wanted to have everything decorated for when you got in, make it into a christmassy wonderland…" He huffs a bit of a laugh, "did you say Scottish prick?"

Dan feels ridiculous looking at Phil in the glow of the christmas lights. Of course Phil wouldn't… he really is beautiful though. He could. If he wanted.

"It's stupid," he confesses, "you know what I'm like. I thought… the kilt guy…"

Phil laughs really loudly and gathers Dan close.

"Were we doing it under the tree?" Phil asks, running a hand down Dan's spine.

"Ew, No."

Although now Phil mentions it… his mind throws up those images as well.

"Ugh." he buries his head into Phils chest and fists a hand into his shirt at the dip of his waist. "Now I'm imagining it."

"You're ridiculous."

Phil's hand comes up cradle his cheek, tipping Dan's head up to look at him.

"It was the kitchen," Dan mumbles.

"Oh," Phil looks over Dan's shoulder at the kitchenette across the way. "You have that wrong for so many reasons."

"I do?"

Phil nods and kisses him softly, just once. He's so warm, more so in the cosiness of their flat and the soft haze of festivity.

"I don't want to have sex with anyone but you in the kitchen, Dan."

Dan smiles and kisses him back, "I know. I know that really. It's just… ah, you know I can't help it sometimes, it's just how I am. A little ridiculous, when it comes to you."

"I know." Phil runs his hands down Dan's back and dips under the hem of his shirt, "But you have nothing to worry about. I'm ridiculous about you too. I love you. Just you."

"I love you too."

Dan feels Phil's hands on his skin and shivers.

"Is it out of your system now?" Phil asks, "You don't have to bend me over a counter in there or something to stake your claim?"

Dan chuckles and relaxes into Phil's touch. "Freak out officially over," he confirms.

"Good," Phil says, lifting Dan's shirt over his head. "the tree part of my fantasy is much better."

"Yeah?" Dan says, catching Phil's meaning and raising an eyebrow.

"Hmmm," Phil hums, stroking a curl off Dan's forehead. "Allow me to demonstrate."

#my fics #phanfic #fanfic #fic #phanfiction #phan #dnp #dan and phil #fanfiction #phan fluff #jealous!dan

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lobsters-on-their-heads · 6 years

Text

Cont. Travels of Cophine, Part 2.3

Tunisia.

Link for the entire work here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/13525500

They arrived in Sousse in the afternoon, their last stop in Tunisia and the end of their Francophone African experience. If everything went well here, they would be in Libya in a few days, and Egypt after that. Cosima's energy level was partially recovered and the sinus headaches were gone, but she still had frequent coughing fits, and her voice cracked every couple of words. She now spent her time propping up Delphine, who insisted that she wasn't really all that sick.

“Delphine, I love you,” Cosima said, “but your eyes haven't opened completely for, like, two days. Your voice is an octave lower, and your sneezes have woken the dead. You are fucking sick.”

Delphine fell back on her bed beside Cosima. In Tunis they'd gotten a queen sized bed in their room, which was great at first, but a lot less appealing when both of them tossed and turned the whole night. Here in Sousse, they were back to separate twins, and neither of them had the energy to even comment on it.

“Okay,” Delphine said, “I'm sick. Are you happy now?”

“No. I just want you to stop pretending that you're fine. I want you to take care of yourself. I mean, I'm happy taking care of you, but you're not letting me do that, and you're pushing yourself too hard.”

As if to prove Cosima's point, Delphine rolled over to check the little beep her phone just made. “Dr. N'Jikam wants to postpone our meeting until Wednesday.” She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“And you don't have to be at the clinic until Wednesday morning, either, so tomorrow we can focus on getting rest, yeah? Maybe check out that sauna they're supposed to have.” With the chilly weather outside and the lack of heat in the hotel room, spending the day at a nice 180 degrees fahrenheit had a certain appeal.

“Mmm... maybe. We still have a lot of arrangements to make.”

Cosima rubbed her back through her sweater. “We do. But we're not going to help anybody if you're not healthy. So you need to rest. That's what you told me the other day!”

“I can't sleep, I've told you.”

The night before, Delphine had apparently been awake for five hours while Cosima slept like a log. She'd drifted off for an hour or so on the ride into Sousse, but good sleep still aluded her. “Take some more NyQuil,” Cosima said. “Or I'll get the bar downstairs to make you a nice hot toddy.”

She shook her head. “Then I'll be hung over all morning. Is there any tea?”

Cosima checked the little complimentary beverage station near the ironing board. “Um... yes, but it all looks caffeinated.”

“Then no.”

Another coughing fit hit Cosima then, doubling her over as she pounded on her chest. The pounding never helped, but it was better than doing nothing. Once it subsided, she straightened back up and fumbled around for some more water. Delphine stayed on her bed, watching her.

“Have you tried the throat spray again?”

“Um, no.”

“Maybe you should. It would numb your throat and...”

“It would make me vomit again. No thanks.”

“You might've done it wrong.”

Naturally, Delphine was able to use the throat spray with no problems at all. Cosima added it to the list of things Delphine did effortlessly.

Cosima picked up her purse and wrapped her scarf around her neck again. “If I did, I'm not willing to risk doing it wrong again. But I will get some more cough syrup. And some more tea.”

Delphine propped herself up on her elbows to return Cosima's kiss. “Can you get some soup, too?”

“Yup. Soup, syrup, and tea. I'll be back soon, love.”

Delphine nodded and sank back down.

* * *

They tried the sauna the next day, but found it packed with Scandinavian women who all knew each other and laughed too loudly at everything each of them said. Cosima got some tea loaded with valerian root and lemon balm, and Delphine drank mug after mug of it while Cosima did their laundry in the hotel's facilities and brought containers of brik and fricassé from the vendors across the street. In the evening, they drank more tea and watched the Arabic dubbing of Downton Abbey on the hotel television.

On Wednesday it rained, the first time since they'd arrived in North Africa. Cosima sat at the bar in the hotel's restaurant and watched it fall in sheets over the cars and cyclists and old men in traditional burnouses hustling around with newspapers over their heads. It was just after noon, almost time for midday prayers, when the locals on the street would clear off for a moment but the tourists in the restaurant would stay. She knew these things now. She was also starting to forget that she hadn't always dropped the “h” sound in “hotel.”

The restaurant was packed. Most of these tourists were here for the promise of a sunny beach-side vacation in a relatively progressive Arab country, the lone gunman attack of a few years ago now a distant memory. The rain, however, put the beach off limits. The business men were here too, but in fewer numbers than in Tunis or Algiers. Cosima wondered how many tourists would be in Tripoli.

Delphine was supposed to be back by now. The clone here in Sousse had been easy to find, unlike the one in Tunis who'd gotten married and changed her name since the Leda List was compiled. Cosima double checked the time and confirmed that this clone's appointment had been for 10:30, and then she texted Delphine.

Everything okay?

While she waited for a reply, she scrolled through her Facebook feed, finding very little that was new since that morning. Alison posted pictures of a black forest cheesecake from all angles; Cosima's mother posted memes that she thought were hilarious and Cosima had seen ten years ago; Scott cracked science jokes; her father ranted about Republicans. Same old, same old. She thought about reading the news, but she'd done that earlier and had no desire to repeat the experience. She was nervous enough about going to Libya without reading that the country was “mired in chaos” and ruled by “men with guns.” She wanted to keep her worries confined to the language barrier.

“Anything else?” The bartender gestured to her empty tea cup.

“Yeah. Another one. Thank you. Merci. Shukraan (شكرا.)”

He gave her an indulgent smile and got her more hot water and some fresh tea.

Instagram yielded no new results, either. Five of the Ledas were hyper active there, posting so many photos of their personal lives that Cosima felt closer to them than to most of her own cousins at this point, and was becoming personally invested in the little drama that was brewing in the love life of one of the Austrian sisters. All total, Cosima tracked 33 Ledas through Instagram and 34 on Twitter, 11 of which were on both. None so far had symptoms of clone disease that they were sharing on social media, though the Leda in Cape Town, South Africa, did seem to have a worrying rash on her torso that had nothing to do with being a clone, but probably with a swimming in the ocean.

Her phone buzzed. Difficult patient. Delphine said.

Cosima arched an eyebrow. That could mean many things. And?

A reply wasn't immediately forthcoming, and Cosima rubbed her face to keep from swearing. The restaurant was loud enough that she might've gotten away with it, but it was better not to risk it, even surrounded by foreigners. She tried to look out the window but a man pushed up to the bar and blocked the view. He was tall and broad, wearing what Cosima called the “I yell at my family in public” uniform.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Can we get a table, please? We've been waiting fifteen minutes!”

Cosima rolled her eyes and went back to her phone. No reply from Delphine, but another cake picture from Alison on Facebook – red velvet this time.

She pulled up Twitter and perked up again. A clone from southern California they hadn't made contact with yet finally posted something. She was in Cambodia, it turned out, and she had a long thread about politics and southeast Asian history that was actually quite fascinating. And then Delphine replied to her text.

Still trying.

“Still trying? That doesn't help, Delphine.” She tapped out her response. Do you need anything? Can I help?

She'd been at the bar for over an hour. She could have been up in their room, working on her thesis, or napping, or masturbating, or catching up on her reading. But Delphine had asked her to be here, to meet her after her 10:30 appointment at the clinic, because she was bringing one of her contacts from MSF, and this was an Important Contact. Cosima was wearing her nice shirt, for fuck's sake, and she'd ironed her pants. They were going to eat lunch together, their treat for this Important Contact, so Cosima had not eaten since 8:30 that morning.

She typed some more. Do you have an ETA?

Three minutes later, as she watched the loud man yell at his son for touching the floral arrangement on the table they'd finally gotten, her phone buzzed. Her excitement faded when she saw it was just an email from her mother.

Cosima,

Here's that dress company I told you about, based out of the City, very social-justice and queer oriented and I think right up your alley. It's pricey but we'd be happy to help you out if....

She closed the message without finishing it. “I am not dress shopping online, goddamn it,” she muttered. “How many times do I have to f.... ugh. Mother.” She rubbed her face again and checked the time.

12:40 pm. Five minutes since her last message to Delphine, and more than two hours since the appointment at the clinic started.

A bearded man in a West Virginia University sweatshirt sat down beside her, apologized when he brushed against her knee, and placed his order with the bar tender in Arabic. Once the bartender left, he laced his fingers together and turned to Cosima. “Heckuva weather we're having, yeah?”

“Yup. Sure is.”

“You know, I been coming here for ten years, and I swear this is the first time I've seen it rain.”

“Hm.”

He tapped the bar top. “Are those dreads you've got?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so! They look good!” He turned a little on his stool to face her more. “Usually white girls can't pull those off, but yours look really good!”

“Thank you.” She checked her phone again. 12:45, and no new messages.

“Can I ask, if you don't mind, what you did to make 'em stay so well? Like, my cousin tried dreads, and she's as white as me, and her hair stank!” He laughed and bumped into her knee again. “Like, it was just straight up matted and shit. What's your secret?”

She drained her tea and looked him in the eye. “I've been genetically engineered.”

He chortled. “Okay. Fair enough. I shouldn't have asked; I'm sorry.”

Cosima raised her eyebrows and did not respond. The bartender came with his order then – a steaming bowl of stew with a side of bread and a bottle of beer. The stew smelled amazing, and she still hadn't gotten any messages from Delphine, so she called the bartender back over and ordered a bowl for herself. While she waited, the cups of tea crept up on her and she slid off to the ladies' room, leaving her coat on the stool, pockets empty.

While she peed, she texted Delphine again. Is everything okay over there?

The clinic was on the same block as their hotel, and Cosima would have gone there herself an hour ago if they weren't terrified of accidental clone meet ups.

She also finished her mother's email about that dress shop in San Fransisco, which, Sally was keen to point out, also did tailoring for suits. Great.

Back at the bar, Cosima's coat was still there, along with her food and a fresh cup of tea. The WVU man was wrapped up in conversation with a guy to his left, thankfully, and now there was a different customer to Cosima's right – a woman with short wavy black hair, wearing a collared white shirt. As she walked towards her own seat, Cosima glanced down at the woman's shoes. Sure enough, Keens, or Keens equivalents. Cosima's phone buzzed.

Yes was all Delphine had to say. No ETA, no other information. Cosima put her phone back in her purse.

“Excuse me,” she said as she squeezed in between the two other customers to sit down.

“Sure, no problem,” the woman said, smiling at her. The WVU man did not seem to notice her return. “I hope no one was sitting here?”

“Oh, no,” Cosima assured her. “You're fine.”

The soup was delicious, but spicier than she'd anticipated, so she got a glass of water and another serving of bread to help it go down. In minutes her sinuses opened up and she needed extra napkins, as well. The woman beside her got a salad and a glass of wine, and smiled at Cosima when she drained her water glass.

“A bit spicy, is it?” She was British, or Irish, judging by her accent.

Cosima nodded. The water helped, but her eyes watered and her nose ran, and it was a damn good thing she wasn't trying to look good right now. She thought of Delphine's MSF contact and checked her phone again. It was 1:10. No new messages. “Whatever.” She dropped it back in her purse and gave the rest of her soup her full attention. When she'd finished, she wiped the bowl with some more bread and finished her third glass of water. Beside her, the dark haired British woman watched her, sideways.

“I guess it was good,” the woman said.

“Yeah. Delicious.” She pointed to the half-full salad plate in front of her bar neighbor. “Yours wasn't?”

The other woman shrugged. “I keep forgetting that I don't like tomatoes. I order them every so often, thinking that some dish looks rather good, and then I eat one, and remember.”

Cosima smiled. “I'm like that with oysters and clams. Someone will rave about how good they are, and swear they've got a good recipe, but it's always like eating a snot ball out of a shell.”

The other woman laughed at that, throwing her head back and showing off her neck in the process. “That is such an apt way to put it! They really are nature's little snot balls, aren't they? Tell me, have you read Tipping the Velvet?”

If she hadn't suspected this woman was queer before, she sure did now. More than suspected. Cosima blushed a little and grinned. “I read it when I was, like, twenty. So yeah, but it's been a while.”

“Well, I've read it several times, and every single time, when she's going on and on about oysters and how she prepares them and all that, I just have to shake my head, because I find oysters absolutely disgusting, just as you do.”

“Are they better or worse than tomatoes?”

“Worse. A thousand times worse.” She picked around the tomatoes on her plate, eating pieces of cheese and lettuce speared on her fork. “If I may ask, what brings you to Tunisia?”

“Oh, it's a, uh, a medical trip, of sorts.”

“Hm, I see. Like, medical tourism sort of thing? I've heard of that, and you're American, I take it?”

“I am, yeah. No, it's not for me. I mean, I'm not getting treated for anything.” She twisted her napkin between her fingers, trying hard to look nonchalant.

“You're doing the treating, then, perhaps?”

“Something like that.”

“Cosima?”

She spun around to find Delphine three feet behind her, frowning. “Oh, hey! When did you get here?”

“I got here a few minutes ago, as I said in my message. Did you get my message?”

Cosima dug in her purse for her phone. “The last message I got just said...” She looked at her phone. Sure enough, two new messages from Delphine, at 1:12 and 1:20. It was now 1:27. “Shit.”

“You haven't reserved a table, then, I take it.”

“They wouldn't let me unless I could give a more specific time!”

“Well, if you'd checked your messages, you would have had one. But now we have to wait.” She gestured over to the hostess stand, where a West African man in a linen suit waved and headed in their direction through the other diners. “He has a busy schedule, you know. He is a doing us a favor.”

Cosima gathered her coat and purse. The bartender had their room number to charge for the meal, thankfully. Fussing over credit card payments wouldn't improve either of their moods. “I do know that, and actually, Delphine, I've been checking my messages all day, and you weren't sending any, so maybe you should lay off a little bit?”

It was not the right thing to say, and it was not the right time to say it, but it came out of Cosima's mouth anyway. Delphine's eyebrows went up. She glanced over at the woman to Cosima's right, who was smart enough to pretend she wasn't listening. “Well,” Delphine said, “at least you made a new friend.”

The man in the linen suit reached them and gave Cosima a broad smile.

“Dr. N'Jikam,” Delphine said, “this is Cosima Niehaus, my research partner.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Niehaus. Dr. Simplice N'Jikam, from Médecins Sans Frontières. Dr. Cormier and I used to work together. Perhaps she's mentioned me.”

She put her best smile on for him and shook his hand. “Yes, she has. It's a pleasure to meet you, too.”

As dramatic as Delphine was about waiting for a table, they only had to wait five minutes to get one. Cosima sat across from Delphine, with Dr. N'Jikam to her left. Predictably, Cosima wasn't very hungry any more, but she ordered a carrot salad with hard boiled eggs and another cup of tea. Delphine ordered a lamb platter with couscous and vegetables. She must not have eaten since that morning, either. At least she seemed healthier than she had the day before.

Dr. N'Jikam started off the conversation as soon as they'd ordered. “So, you are going to Yemen.”

Delphine nodded. “That's correct.”

“When do you plan to be there, and for how long?”

“We're not sure exactly,” Cosima said. “It depends on how successful we are there. Right now, we have five days scheduled in early March, but that could change.”

The waiter brought their drinks – water for Delphine, coffee for Dr. N'Jikam, and mint tea for Cosima.

“And what exactly,” Dr. N'Jikam asked Delphine, “is your measure of success for this trip? What is your objective?”

“We've identified three women with a specific phenotype that puts them at risk for a terminal condition, and we plan to inoculate them against it, or cure them if they've already developed symptoms.”

His eyebrows rose. “What condition is that?”

“It's only recently been discovered, so there's not an agreed-upon name for it yet.”

“I see. And you've already identified patients already? How?”

“It's a long story. Some of our connections back in Canada gave us the information.”

The answer satisfied him, and he sipped on his coffee. For Cosima, though, the effects of her earlier bowl of soup and all the accompanying water became pressing, so she excused herself, meeting Delphine's “wtf” look with a wide eyes. Whatever. It would be worse to sit there bouncing and in pain, unable to focus. Waiting in line for the ladies room for the second time, she rummaged in her purse for her bottle of TUMS, and took two.

Back at the table, the food had once again arrived in her absence. Squeezed onto the table between the plates, glasses, silverware, decorative flower arrangement, and complimentary flatbread, Dr. N'Jikam had his tablet and a pad of line-free paper, which he and Delphine crouched over between bites. Delphine glanced at her when she sat down, and continued her conversation with Dr. N'Jikam in French.

Cosima ate her salad and listened, picking out about half of what Delphine said and less than a quarter of what Dr. N'Jikam said. She'd read that Cameroonian French was a little different than Canadian or Parisian French, but she hadn't expected such a great difference. But then, Delphine wasn't having any such difficulties. From what Cosima understood, they talked about the Yemeni refugee crisis, camps, transportation options, and money, and then Dr. N'Jikam said something that made Delphine laugh. Cosima raised her eyebrows at her, hoping for a translation, but none came.

At the end of the meal, Delphine excused herself to use the restroom, letting Cosima handle paying for the meal.

“How was it?” she asked Dr. N'Jikam.

“Pardon? Oh, it was excellent,” he said. He dabbed at his lips with the napkin and smiled at her. “Thank you.”

“You're very welcome,” Cosima said. The food and the rain made her sleepy, but she needed to keep up appearances. “So, uh, how long have you been with MSF?”

“A long time. Twenty years, almost. And I've been, oh, I've been everywhere.” He laughed at that, so she smiled along. “But we've been talking the whole time, and you've said very little. Tell me, Miss Nyehouse, is it Nyehouse or Neuhaus? I can't remember.”

“Uh, Niehaus, actually, but that's not important.”

“It's important to me.” Another grin. “So tell me, Miss Niehaus, how long are you working for Dr. Cormier?”

“Well, I've been working with her for about three years now.”

“Three years, okay. I've known her for almost five years, since right after her doctorate. I wasn't aware before that she had any students.”

“She doesn't.”

He paused, hand midair on its way to adjust his glasses. “No? I thought that...”

“Wait, did she tell you that I'm her student?”

Dr. N'Jikam did not miss the way Cosima leaned over the table as she spoke, and he leaned back to compensate. “Oh,” he laughed, “I don't remember! You know, as we age, ours minds are not so good.”

“Right. Okay.”

He left as soon as Delphine got back, shaking their hands again and repeating his best wishes and his pleasure at having met them both. Delphine promised to keep in touch throughout their travels.

At the elevators, Cosima told Delphine, “You know, if you didn't need me to be there, you could have just said so.”

Delphine rolled her head around on her shoulders. “What are you talking about?”

“You know I understood like, less than half of that entire conversation. You made it pretty obvious you didn't need my contribution.”

Delphine sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. An elevator at the end of the row dinged, and they hustled to get on it along with a gaggle of rain soaked tourists. They flattened themselves against the back wall. “He prefers speaking in French,” Delphine said.

“Does he really. English didn't seem to be much an issue for him when we first sat down, or after you'd gone to the bathroom.”

The elevator stopped to let some people off at the third floor, and replace them with a Japanese couple in bath robes, fresh from the third floor sauna. Cosima could have been at the sauna during that entire lunch, and it wouldn't have mattered. Whatever.

“How about our patient?” she asked. “You said she was difficult.”

“She refused the vaccination. Nothing I said, nothing her doctor said, convinced her, and she left without it. After talking my ears off about every medical problem she's ever had, and how doctors are responsible for every single one of them.”

“Oh sh... shoot, really?” That had never happened before. Usually, once the doctor explained it, the patient accepted the vaccine. The trick was often just getting them into the doctor's office to begin with.

“Really. She claims that vaccines made her infertile.”

The elevator stopped at the eighth floor and let out everyone else, then moved on up to the tenth, where Cosima and Delphine got off.

“The doctor is trying to bring her back the day after tomorrow,” Delphine said. “If she still refuses, though...”

“She won't. We'll think of something.” Cosima reached for her arm, but Delphine moved away to unlocked the door and push it open.

Inside the room, Delphine set up her papers on her bed, and sat in the armchair next to it with her laptop. “Dr. N'Jikam sent us both a list of other contacts we should talk to. Some are in Libya, which he doesn't know as much about, but cautions us against visiting.”

Cosima opened her laptop on the desk. She had had other ideas for the afternoon, especially since it seemed they'd be staying in Sousse longer than originally planned. Delphine was buried in her work, though, chewing on a thumbnail, so Cosima might as well follow suit.

“Great. Sounds like a perfect afternoon.”

* * *

That night, after pouring over Dr. N'Jikam's information, calling and emailing his contacts in Yemen, Libya, and a Jordanian refugee camp, and a last minute phone call with one of Art's Arabic translators, the walls of their little hotel room were pressing in against both of them. Cosima's eyes hurt from differentiating tiny Arabic words from other tiny Arabic words and staring at screens, but there was one more email to write.

Dear Dr. Lacrabére,

I was directed to you by Dr. Simplice N'Jikam of Médecins Sans Frontières because

“It goes the other way.”

“Huh?”

Delphine stood behind her, one hand in her damp hair. “It's Dr. Lacrabère, not Lacrabére. You need the accent grave, not aigu.”

“Oh. Shit. Thank you.”

Delphine walked on towards their suitcase and said, “It's not Spanish.”

“Yeah, I'm aware of that, thanks.” She finished the email, watching Delphine's eyebrows do that sarcastic little wiggle in her peripheral vision. “By the way, did you tell Dr. N'Jikam that I'm your student?”

“What?”

“He thought I was your student. Like, your graduate student or something.”

Delphine dug around her suitcase for a bottle of lotion. “I don't know why. I introduced you as my research partner. You were there when I introduced you, yes?”

“Well, yeah, but...”

“But what?”

“I dunno. It was just weird, that's all.”

“Okay.” She sat on the edge of her bed and rubbed lotion into feet. “You should take your shower now, so you're not up too late. I'm going to talk to the doctor at the clinic again tomorrow.”

Cosima refrained from replying with “yes, Dr. Cormier,” but she got up and gathered her shower things. At the bathroom door she turned back and saw Delphine massaging lotion into her left calf, her eyes closed.

The hotel bathroom was nice, with a bathtub and strong water pressure from the shower head. She let the water beat against her back, her head bowed. When she got out of the shower later, Delphine would probably be in bed. A different bed, because of course no one could know they were lovers, so they had separate twin beds. Again. Delphine's eyes would be covered, and she'd be turned away from Cosima because the light was on Cosima's side of the room. She would not want to talk, either about important topics or trivial ones. And then she would get up early in the morning to try convincing their sister here in Sousse that she needed a vaccine. And Cosima would.... what?

Maybe she'd stay in tomorrow. The forecast called for more rain, after all. She could work on her dissertation, enter more data and run some preliminary stats on them. She could go back to the restaurant and drink a couple more gallons of mint tea. She could stay in bed all day, and it wouldn't make much of a difference.

She turned off the shower and leaned against the tile wall. How long would it take for Delphine to wonder what she was doing in here, or what was taking her so long? Or was Delphine still so annoyed with her that she was happy to have Cosima out of the bedroom for a while?

The steam from the shower swirling around her, she slid down in the bathtub, her face in her hands. Tears pushed out of her eyes before she could stop them, and then she was sobbing.

A minute or so later, the door opened, and Cosima took some deep breaths to try to gain some control, hands still over her face.

“Cosima? Hey, hey, hey....” And then Delphine's hands were on her neck, and her arm was around her shoulders. “Shh... come here.”

She leaned onto Delphine's shoulder and cried some more, soaking her T-shirt and clinging to her arms with wet fingers. “I'm sorry,” she managed. “I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“For not seeing your messages, for not knowing French better, for not helping you cure the Ledas, for everything.”

Delphine stroked her arms and her back and kissed her head. “Chérie, it's okay. I don't expect you to know French very well, and you cannot help me with the Ledas any more than you already are. You know that. You already do so much for them, anyway. And the thing with the messages was just a mistake, a misunderstanding. It's okay.”

“It didn't seem that okay earlier.”

Delphine's chest rose and fell as she sighed. “I was just... irritated earlier. That's all. I'm sorry I took it out on you.”

Cosima held on to her, nose in the crook of her neck. Delphine had some new jasmine-scented body wash that smelled okay, but didn't smell like Delphine. Cosima wanted her to smell liked Delphine again, goddammit. “I love you,” she whispered.

“I know. Je t'aime aussi.” She kissed her eyes, her lips, and the tip of her nose. “We should get you out of this tub, though.”

“Yeah, this isn't very comfortable.” She let Delphine help her out of the tub and into a towel. “Are you still mad at me?”

“No,” Delphine said. “I was, but I'm not anymore.”

She nodded. “Yeah, I was a little bit pissed at you, too.”

“Are you still?”

She shook her head and finished drying herself off. “No, not anymore. I... I can see why you were upset. I should've just kept my phone out the whole time so I'd see your messages, and...”

Delphine folded the towel in half and hung it up on the rod next to hers. “Maybe. I don't think I would've been quite so upset with you if you hadn't been talking to that girl, though, if we're being completely honest.”

“That girl?” Cosima smiled now as she pulled on her shorts. “She's, like, our age or older.”

“Oh? Is she?”

There was an edge in Delphine's voice, so Cosima put her hands on Delphine's waist. “I didn't ask, and she didn't tell me. There is nothing for you to worry about. I'm engaged to you, and nobody else.” She kissed her, but pulled back after a moment. “I mean, we are still engaged, aren't we?”

Delphine's laugh turned into a cough. “Yes, we are still engaged! Just because we can't tell everyone doesn't change that fact. Now come on, let's go to bed.”

Cosima tucked herself into bed and watched Delphine tweeze her eyebrows with the help of a pocket mirror. Delphine did that most nights, and some mornings, sometimes also yanking hairs from her nostrils in ways that made Cosima's eyes water just watching her do it. “What would your eyebrows look like if you didn't do that?” she asked.

“Euhh... let's not find out, okay?” She got one more hair from her left eyebrow and closed the mirror, then turned off the overhead light and sat on the edge of Cosima's bed, looking down at her. “I want to stay attractive for you as long as possible.”

“Yeah, same here. I mean, for myself. For you.” She wasn't terribly attractive at the moment, of course, but she wasn't going to bring that up.

Delphine rubbed Cosima's abdomen through the blankets. “I'm sorry the beds are so small.”

“It's not your fault. And it's not forever. Here.” She scooted all the way to one side and pulled the blanket back. “You can climb in for a minute if you want.”

“A minute.” Delphine stretched herself out under the heavy blankets and faced Cosima. “I think we're both very tired.”

“Yeah, and you're still sick, even if you're moving around better.” She linked her fingers with Delphine's. “I don't want you to think that I don't appreciate everything you do. For us, I mean. For all of us.”

Delphine kissed her eyes, damp again with tears. “I don't think that. I know that you do.”

“Good.”

“And I don't do any of it by myself. I couldn't do any of it by myself, and I would never want to.”

Cosima thought of Delphine earlier that day, spending hours trying to convince a clone that she had a condition that would kill her one day. “Do you want me to go to the clinic with you? To try convincing our skeptical Tunisian sister?”

Delphine gave an amused little huff. “I would like that very much, but I'm not sure it's a good idea.”

“Right. Probably not.” She tucked herself as close to Delphine as possible, angling her face so that Delphine wasn't breathing directly into her eyes. Delphine wiggled her arm so she could hold Cosima's hand between their faces.

“Of course she's allowed to refuse, but I have some ideas that might convince her.”

“Ideas that don't involve clone disclosure.”

“Of course.”

“Are we still doing our five day rule if she keeps refusing?”

Delphine groaned. “No. I think, if she refuses a second time, we let her refuse, and we move on. She'll have our information, we'll have hers, and we can always come back. I am not arguing with her for five days.”

“Fair enough. That sounds like a plan, then. We really do need to come up with a decent name for this disease, though. Maybe not tonight, but some time before we've cured everybody.”

“I've been thinking of one, actually. I thought of it today, when Inès was questioning everything I said.”

“Yeah?” Cosima propped herself up a few inches. “Can I hear it?”

“I was thinking we could call it Fitzsimmon's Carcinoma.”

Cosima remembered the chipper swim coach whose body had taught them so much about what their disease was and the ways that it couldn't be treated, and she smiled. “I like it.”

“I hoped you would.” She pulled Cosima closer and snuggled against her body. “I didn't want to name it without your permission.”

“Well, you have my enthusiastic permission to use it. I'll tell the sestras tomorrow.” She yawned into Delphine's chest and kissed her her collarbone. “Je t'aime,” she whispered.

Delphine giggled. “I love you, too. Very much.”

And with one hand tucked into Delphine's, and the fingers on her other hand hooked on the waist of Delphine's shorts, Cosima drifted off to sleep.

#my writing #continuing travels of cophine #cophine fanfiction

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