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halictus-writer · 4 years

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Welcome to Seattle (Ch. 3 of 5)

Remus deleted Tinder the second the app finished downloading. He was sitting at the dining table/desk combination of his studio apartment, and, unsurprisingly it was raining just outside the window. Seattle felt so new to Remus, although it had now been months since he moved away from his previous life. It took a lot of journaling and time, but he had begun to feel like what had happened–– his ex breaking his heart an hour before his twenty-sixth birthday party–– was meant to happen. His life hadn’t been his own. It was full of so much compromise, as is necessary for a life shared by two people, but the compromises that were made did not further his growth. He was stuck in a rut in his career, he was still in his college town, and he hadn’t even written a word of the novel he told himself he would write after the next big thing––graduation, holidays, birthdays, travel–– finished.

And now, here he was. Living in a big city, alone, but doing it the way he wanted. He had a job that furthered his growth, he had supportive friends, and he had already filled entire notebooks with the ideas, character charts, and plot diagrams that would eventually become his novel. Suddenly realizing that no one was here to complain about the cold, he cracked the window open, letting some of the fresh, rain-scented air in, and shrugged on a sweater.

He was at peace with himself, and for that reason he felt he was ready to give dating another shot. He re-downloaded Tinder, chose a few random pictures of himself, and typed out the bio that Dorcas had helped him draft, cringing the entire time. He closed the app without viewing the other Tinder users within twenty-five miles and two years of his age.

As a treat for his bravery, he decided to get a margherita pizza for lunch. If he exercised self-control, he could save half for tonight’s dinner as well. It was really a matter of simple economics.

***

Remus immediately noticed that the restaurant looked a little different in the midday light, but he also immediately noticed that Sirius was not on the clock. He ordered his pizza to-go.

As he walked back to his apartment, one hand tucking the pizza close, the other brandishing an umbrella, he tried not to think about the fact that he had so far only received free–– and unsolicited–– dessert items when Sirius was working.

***

An hour later, Remus had made his first matches on Tinder. He had also accidentally “super-liked” a person named “DL Top” with a gray image as their only picture, frantically looked up how you could “un-match” with someone, read a very patronizing how-to article on basic Tinder functions, and decided to choose “block” for good measure.

One of his matches was a graduate student at the University of Washington, and Remus liked that his profile said he loved to read. They exchanged normal greeting messages, before the man asked Remus if he was “a LTR kind of guy.” Remus answered him by saying “Tolkien is an amazing writer, obviously, but I have to admit the movies were kind of long.” The man didn’t reply, and Remus figured that his opinions on the Lord of the Rings franchise must have been a deal-breaker for the other man.

Dorcas and Marlene were adamant about hearing his progress with Tinder, so he sent a group text to the two of them.

Remus: Tinder day one is a thing, I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong yet

Dorcas: Yes! Proud of you

Marlene: what’s the weirdest thing that’s happened so far!!!!???

Remus: well, someone asked me what I thought about lord of the rings on the second message, does that count?

Dorcas: haha seriously? What did they even say

Remus: “so are you an LTR kinda guy or what?”

Marlene: HAHA

Dorcas explained that LTR in this context likely stood for “long-term relationship,” with intermittent texts from Marlene such as “how in the heck even” and “you are my favorite person oh my god.”

Remus decided to give Tinder a break for the rest of the day.

***

He made a good deal of progress within his first week of online dating, especially when considering that he started so low, with the misunderstanding of slang and accidental super-liking. It was now a Friday night, and he had a real-life, in-person date set for six o’clock. On Wednesday Remus had met a different match for coffee (but only after Dorcas had cross-referenced his story, friended him from a blank Facebook profile, and found pictures of him at his high school senior prom from nearly a decade ago. “You should be arrested,” Remus had said, horrified but a little grateful). Coffee had been perfectly pleasant, but both men agreed that they would rather be friends than anything more. They even friended each other on Facebook so that Remus could be added to his book club.

Meeting new friends was a welcome side-effect, but Remus was still in the market for a boyfriend. Hence, the anxious shuffling as he waited for the clock to get closer to six. Remus wished his apartment was larger, if only for the chance to have more space to clean. He had already Swiffered the floor, cleaned the bathroom mirror, and remade the bed, and it was still only a quarter past five. The cleaning was just for something to do with his hands and nerves, he knew that his date wouldn’t be seeing the inside of his apartment tonight. As per Dorcas’s prescriptions (and his own self-preservation), Remus’s first dates with strangers met online would take place completely in public.

At 5:45, a message from his upcoming date announced that he was being held a bit late at the office, and asked to reschedule for 6:30 instead of 6. Remus, wanting to be easy-going and amicable, kindly agreed, wishing him luck with his pressing work matters. Internally, however, he was frustrated that he had already taken the garbage out, since now there was absolutely nothing left to clean.

6:30 turned into 7:00, and by 7:15 Remus had taken his shoes off and was laying on the top of his neatly-made bed. The excuses changed from finishing at work, to a friend in need, to traffic, and Remus was beginning to consider just preemptively cancelling it himself.

At 7:45, the match asked if they could just skip dinner and maybe move straight into watching a movie “and cuddling” at Remus’s place instead. It was the final nail in the coffin Remus already saw, so he wasn’t even too disappointed.

Remus sent a polite but clear no, and knew that whoever this person was, he was not someone Remus would be building his life with. His stomach growled suddenly, reminding him that he still hadn’t eaten the dinner he was supposed to have hours earlier. Instead of going to all of the trouble to devise a meal at home, Remus decided that his troubles with the cancelled date warranted a very cheesy, doughy, and effortless meal. He quickly changed from his date clothes–– button down shirt, khakis, and tan buck shoes–– into a more comfortable, eating-pizza-alone-on-a-Friday-night ensemble: cozy sweatshirt, old blue jeans, and nikes.

When he got to the restaurant, he was still moping about getting blown-off from his date. He had sent a quick text to Dorcas and Marlene to let them know that his date was cancelled (otherwise they would have been checking his location religiously every fifteen minutes), but said he was doing okay since he didn’t want to interrupt their own date night plans with his sorrows.

Truthfully, Remus was pretty upset about what had happened. So far, online dating had not been a success, and Remus found himself returning to his secret fear that he wouldn’t ever successfully date again. Maybe it was because he was just too old, or perhaps he was out-of-touch, or it was simply because he had no real experience with dating since he had only ever had to go on one first date, and everything afterwards seemed to fall into place. If Lily was right, and he needed to meet someone organically for a relationship to work, he hoped it would happen soon.

Just then, his inner wallowing was interrupted by Sirius, carrying silverware and a glass of water. Somehow, Remus had forgotten that Sirius may be here, and hadn’t had time to prepare himself for the sight of the attractive waiter. His hair was swept into a loose bun, seemingly held together with a pencil.

“Hey there, how’s your Friday night going?”

Remus almost laughed at the question. Clearly, his night was not fantastic, because if it was, he would not be sitting in the booth of an Italian restaurant, alone, at 8:30 PM. He tried to shake off his own self-pity before answering. “Fine, thanks. How about you? Has it been busy tonight?” One of Remus’s favorite tactics when avoiding conversations about himself to his friends was to get them talking about themselves instead. Or, in the case of James, talking about Lily.

“It hasn’t been too busy today, or at least not since I got here at 5. Although,” he said, smiling almost conspiratorially, “I’ve had three different tables tell me ‘you too’ after I brought them their dinners.”

Remus laughed, and filed away the knowledge that Sirius remembered their inside joke from last time to the back of his mind for unpacking later. “I’ll have to see if I can get that number any higher then.”

“Oh, but you won’t be able to if I change up my script when I bring you your small margherita pizza. I’ll just say something like ‘here it is,’ no wishes of enjoyment included.” Sirius said, with faux sincerity.

“And what if I changed up my order on you?” Remus was surprised but pleased that Sirius remembered not only their jokes from last time about customers stumbling over words when presented with their food, but also the very food that Remus had ordered.

“I hope not, since I told the kitchen to start making it right after I saw you walk in.” Sirius grinned, but then suddenly looked almost bashful. “Although if you wanted something else, you still can order something else, that would be fine, I just thought, well, since it’s kind of late, we might as well give the ovens a head start?” His voice tilted up at the end as the statement turned into a question.

Remus liked this more approachable version of Sirius. He made him feel at ease. “No, you were right, I came here specifically for that margherita pizza. Thank you for starting it early for me.”

Sirius’s nervous smile turned soft.

***

The pizza was delicious, and succeeded in making Remus feel slightly better about the cancelled date. After all, he wouldn’t have been able to eat this much on the date, hindered by an abundance of good manners.

When Sirius dropped off the check, he also let Remus know that they would be closing soon. “You’re welcome to sit as long as you like, but the kitchen did just close.”

“No worries, I’m ready to head out. Thank you!” As Remus signed the receipt, a small to-go box was placed in front of him.

“Kitchen is closed, but you may want that for the road.” Sirius smiled warmly at Remus. “Have a good night!”

As Remus left the restaurant, carrying the small box, he reflected on Sirius’s parting words. He did have a good night, all things considered. Comfort food is one for addressing his emotional turmoil, but having a light conversation with a few inside jokes with another person is another thing entirely.

He also happily noted that he would get to bring the enclosed tiramisu with him to his breakfast with Dorcas and Marlene tomorrow. Pawning off the soggy dessert on them would be good for both reducing food waste and generating karma.

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thetomorrowshow · 4 years

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Faith In ‘Okay’

This was my Secret Santa gift for @sandersarefamily ! I had a lot of fun creating for you--sorry it turned out angstier than I intended. I hope you enjoyed it!

Summary: Logan Sanders is blind, and does not need a service dog. His brother, Roman, convinces him to at least try it--and who knows? maybe Logan will find everything he ever needed.

Rating: G

Word count: 4351

Pairings: Logicality, Prinxiety

Tw: Blind character, anxiety attack, kissing, mention of Remus, mention of Deceit

Logan didn't need help.

He never had. Yes, being blind was a . . . limitation. Sometimes he saw it as a disability. Sometimes he sat in a stupor, trying to remember what stars looked like before the accident. Sometimes he bit back tears in the middle of a conversation, not willing to break down in front of people just because they discussed how best to assist him. Sometimes he yelled at his brother for not leaving him alone.

But Logan was also fine. So when his brother, Roman, suggested a guide dog, he was more than a little irritated.

“You keep talking about wanting to be independent!” Roman argued. “Maybe, if you had a guide dog, I could move out!”

That was the argument that kept coming back. That was what Roman wanted. He was tired of always having to help his disabled— limited— brother, and it was showing. Logan knew Roman wanted to attend a school out of state. He knew that Roman desperately wanted to act, to try out for shows, but never had time.

That was probably why Logan agreed to look into the idea.

It took two weeks for the online application to be approved, then another two to get the phone consultation done. The additional forms to complete hadn't taken too long, but it was another three weeks before anyone could come to complete the home evaluation—see if Logan was physically able to have a guide dog, see if his home was safe for one, etc. It all happened, though, and soon they received the approval notification letting them know they had found two dogs that might match with Logan and that they were ready for him to come stay at campus for the two weeks it took to go over the training course.

The day came to leave. Logan was still unsure about this, but Roman insisted it was too late to back out now—then they would've wasted not just their own time, but countless people's time. So Logan begrudgingly followed Roman to the car. He knew the way down the driveway, but Roman had been struck by some protective urge and not only taken his suitcase from him, but had insisted on making him use his white cane. Ridiculous.

Logan settled in to the familiar worn leather of the passenger seat and felt the warmth of the morning sun on his face. It was pleasant. He could almost pretend that they were going to visit friends, or going out to eat.

Then he felt an arm reaching over his chest, and he slapped Roman away. “I can buckle my own seatbelt,” Logan snapped, but didn't move to pull it around his waist.

“Well, you weren't doing it.”

Grumbling, Logan buckled the seatbelt. On the drive he tried to ignore Roman's incessant noise, show tunes and Disney songs alike blaring from the radio. If his brother didn't insist on singing along, it wouldn't be so bad.

Instead, he tried to clear his mind. Long division generally did the trick, but it wouldn't on this day. He tried some basic trigonometry, but just couldn't focus.

His head kept circling back to the dog. What would it sound like? How big would it be? Would it truly allow him to live alone? He lived within walking distance of both the university he attended and the grocery store, and could technically get to both places without physical help—a GPS speaking into his ear didn't count—but rarely did. His school, CSU, helped him immensely with classes and getting to different areas of the campus. Roman drove him to school every morning and to and from the grocery store.

Deep within, he knew that Roman would never move out. Logan was notoriously bad with money—why did all the bills have to feel the same? Folding them differently could only do so much—and, with how often the store was rearranged, he could never reliably find what he was looking for. The few times he had gone by himself, he'd ended up having to ask for help to identify which can was cream of mushroom soup, which milk was 2%, which carton of strawberries looked the best, if what he was holding was hot pockets or a microwave dinner—and all with a clerk guiding him the sections.

A seeing eye dog couldn't help with those things. Only Roman knew what he—they—needed.

“It's good to meet you! Glad you're able to stay with us for the next few weeks. Would I be correct in assuming that you're Logan?”

Logan shook the stranger's hand. “That is my name,” he confirmed.

“I'm Patton Hoyt, and I'll be introducing you to the two dogs we've matched with you! Would you like me to guide you by your arm, or just speak directions?”

Logan's eyebrows rose. That was a first. Generally people did one or the other (usually the first) without asking his preference. Of course, Patton was likely trained to ask. “Spoken directions, please,” he replied.”

Roman still guided him with a hand on his back.

“This is Layla, she's a lab retriever. . . .”

Layla was fine, Logan supposed. She seemed to know her stuff. She just . . . didn't seem to like Roman. That would be a problem, seeing as how Roman wasn't going to be moving out anytime soon.

“Do you want to meet the other dog? If Layla doesn't feel right, I can be back in fifteen minutes with Crofters.”

“Like the jam?” Logan asked, smiling despite himself. “I had some on toast this morning.”

Patton giggled, somehow small and loud at the same time. “Probably,” he said, a grin in his voice. “Would you like to meet him?”

“Why not?” Logan found himself responding. He didn't really want a service dog, he reminded himself. It would be just perfect for Layla to not work out, so they could go home and forget about this whole thing. Roman was the one who wanted the dog.

He was only agreeing, he realized, because he was afraid of hurting Patton Hoyt's feelings. Logan had never really had much regard for others' feelings, but he liked this Patton. He was kind and considerate and funny. His voice held a bright quality, a constant warmth. Logan didn't want to let Patton down.

Not that Patton would be let down. It was his job to be kind. At the end of the day, he would still get paid. Somehow, though, he got Logan to agree to meeting this dog.

Logan knew immediately that Crofters was the one. Instead of licking his hand, or barking at Roman, or ignoring them both completely, Crofters bumped his head gently against Logan's right knee then backed up a step.

“Aww! He nuzzled his noggin! Crofters is usually a bit shy!”

Logan grinned. He still didn't really want a service dog, but he thought maybe he could like this dog. Patton told him about how excited Crofters was, how well he'd done on all his tests, and how much Crofters had enjoyed a sweet potato that had been left out from an employee's lunch. Patton talked a lot, and didn't seem to mind when Logan interrupted to provide random bits of knowledge, or review some of his basic needs in his routine.

Logan was growing . . . attached, he supposed. He begrudgingly admitted that he had been looking forward to the idea of having a dog. Now, he didn't know if he was attached to Patton, or to the idea of having a dog. He supposed he'd find out.

Now he knew. He began to know when Patton timidly asked if Crofters was right, and if he wasn't, they could go through the application process again and ask for a different dog. Logan cut Patton off and agreed to begin working with Crofters, because yes, he would love to adopt the golden retriever, and yes, he would be willing to stay on campus for the duration of the two weeks of training. Now, as he patted Crofters's head while Patton explained (even though he'd said the same thing every day for the past week at training) the schedule for the day, he knew.

Logan was certainly very open to the idea of having a seeing eye dog.

He was also experiencing a crush on Patton Hoyt.

“I'm just rambling now, aren't I?”

Logan smiled. “Possibly,” he allowed. “However, your rambling is . . . pleasing to listen to.”

Patton laughed. It was almost drowned out by the noise of the buffet.

Six weeks had passed since training ended. Patton had scheduled one meeting (ahem, date, ahem) a week, so they could go over any problems Logan might be experiencing or any questions he had. At least, that was the purpose of the meetings.

“Do you want anything else to eat?”

“No, no,” Logan waved him off. “Whatever the fried item you got me was may be a cause for gastrointestinal surgery.”

Patton giggled again. “It was okra,” he said. “Is Roman picking you up, or do you and Crofters want me to drop you off somewhere?”

“Patton, I believe we should stop, to use a figurative statement, beating around the bush.”

Silence from Patton. Logan heard a rustle and caught a whiff of perfume as someone passed by. A child screeched over the beastly rumble of chatter. Logan took a deep breath. This was going to be hard to bring up, so he worded it in the most detached way possible.

“I have developed feelings of romantic attraction for you.” Wow, that was blunt. Not for the first time in that day alone, Logan wished he could see. Patton's silence didn't tell him if he'd reacted positively or negatively.

“If this makes you uncomfortable, I promise to never bring it up again.”

Silence. Again, Logan spoke, panicking now.

“I apologize for mentioning it. If you would drop me off at the CSU campus, that would be wonderful.”

Finally, Patton spoke, his voice low and sing-songy. “Two bros, chilling in a buffet. Five feet apart 'cuz they're so gay.”

“What?” What was Patton talking about? His verbal cues were giving him nothing—but he liked the sound of 'gay'. That seemed hopeful, didn't it?

“Logan, we haven't said a single word about Crofters all lunch. I was so flustered about trying to get you to like me, I wore a tie.” Patton's voice was shaking. Tears or laughter? Logan wondered frantically. “Logan, you can't see! How were you supposed to notice a tie?”

Then Logan was laughing, and Patton was laughing, an adorable little giggle accompanied by the occasional snort. Their hands ended up clasped over the table, and Logan, almost subconsciously, leaned over the table, somehow knowing that Patton was doing the same thing. Their laughter died down. Logan felt his forehead bump lightly against Patton's, his skin burning at the sudden impact, and he knew he was close enough.

“People are staring,” Patton whispered. Logan shrugged.

“I'm told people stare at me a lot,” he said. “I assume it's usually because I'm staring at them and don't realize.”

“And your dashing good looks,” said Patton playfully. Logan's cheeks burned—he hadn't expected this to happen. He liked where it was going, but what if Patton thought they were moving too fast? Just minutes ago, they'd been colleagues. Now they were . . . romantic interests? It happened so quickly, one could've blinked and missed it. That was surely too fast. Not to mention, Logan had a plethora of special needs. He didn't want to dump them all on someone so—so wonderful!

“Patton,” Logan said before anything could happen, “I've already confessed my attraction. But is it wise to continue? I-I am blind, after all.” The lame excuse fell flat on his ears. Patton seemed to find it a poor reason as well, as he squeezed Logan's hands and whispered a question.

“Would you like me to guide you to my lips, or just speak directions?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Roman wasn't upset. He truly wasn't! He was incredibly excited that Logan had a boyfriend. He'd already planned three perfect dates for them, including one that would be enjoyable for Crofters. He'd suggested a road trip to visit family, he was so certain their aunt would love Patton. Just the other day, he'd caught himself daydreaming about what songs would be best for their wedding dance. What could he say? He was an imaginative guy.

No, Roman definitely wasn't upset. But he was worried. He worried that Patton would never figure out exactly how to toast Logan's toast. He worried that Patton would always forget to set up the table correctly. What went where in the fridge. Where to find the type of clothes Logan liked to wear. When to let him walk to school and when to drive him. But most of all, Roman worried that Patton would get tired. Tired of all of Logan's needs and routines. Tired of holding Logan's hand when they crossed the road. Tired of having to shop for him. Tired of not being able to do normal things with him.

He was worried that Patton would abandon his brother, breaking Logan's heart in the process.

So who could blame him for growing more protective?

It all came to a head one day.

“Get in the car, I'll grab your cane. Crofters! Here, boy!” Roman called. Logan had just seen fit to inform him that he had an interview that day. He was certain that Logan would be a wonderful teacher's pet—aide for CSU, where he attended classes, but . . . Roman was going to miss an audition if he took Logan. He'd been really excited about it, too. He was auditioning to play Feste in Shakespeare's Twelfth Night , but . . . he found himself doing the math in his head. The drive to CSU was fifteen minutes counting traffic lights, then the interview would likely be longer. Then a good brother would take Logan out to eat, regardless of the results of the interview. The audition was half an hour away, just in the other direction. He couldn't make both. Logan's needs and wants came before his. He knew that.

Needless to say, Roman was very surprised when Logan didn't move. “Come on!” Roman urged. “We don't want to be late.”

“Patton has agreed to provide transportation to the interview. If he doesn't show up, we live within walking distance of the school,” Logan added, forestalling Roman's next argument.

Roman didn't really know what to do with himself. Patton picked up Logan and Crofters. Roman tried to watch TV. He tried to rehearse his monologue. Eventually he left, arriving early at the audition.

It went fine, as far as he could remember. Nothing like the auditions from his high school days, but probably okay. He couldn't stop thinking about Logan—was he safe? Would he get lost? Taken advantage of? Who would comfort him if he failed the interview?

Roman left the theater and drove. He didn't know where he was headed. He drove until he arrived at the mall.

Roman had often had fun at the mall—he and his twin, Remus, had often come here to mess around. He had dozens of pictures of Remus running through the kids' play area, or of he himself posing as a mannequin, dressed in the most uppity clothes they could find. The memories were nice enough to look back on, but they carried a melancholy air. He hadn't seen Remus in four years, since they were eighteen. His twin had moved across the country, scared of the responsibility of their younger brother Logan when their parents had died. Roman had had to grow up fast.

Through the smog of memories, Roman realized he'd wandered into Barnes & Noble, the smell of books reminding him of Logan in a comforting way.

“Welcome to Barnes & Noble. Can I help you find anything?”

Roman spun around. The clerk standing behind him let his bangs fall in front of his face and didn't even try to smile. Roman forgot his woes momentarily as he was struck with a second of gay panic. This clerk was hot . Like, skater gruff mountain man mixed with Tom Holland. An emo baby with scruff. The heir to the evil legacy who loves the good prince. The type of dude on the big poster in the window of the shoe store. His eyes caught the nametag—Virgil. Even his name was hot.

“Thank you, but I think I've just found what I'm looking for,” Roman found himself flirting. The clerk blushed and averted his eyes, muttering a small “whatever” and walking past. Roman turned to watch him go—was he hot from behind?

He didn't get to know, as the clerk turned as well and met his eyes. “Nice hair,” Virgil said, cheeks still red. “Purple. Looks . . . edgy.”

Roman laughed. A little too hard. It made Virgil smile, though, so maybe it was okay.

“My lunch break's in twenty minutes,” Virgil said. “Can I, uh. Can I get you some Panera?”

“—and I wasn't entirely certain that I'd done the character justice, you know? I know it was just a cold reading—”

“Dude, Roman. Calm down. I'm sure you did awesome,” laughed Virgil. The two were sitting in a booth at Denny's, hands entwined over the table.

Virgil was being reasonable, but it was so hard to calm down. Roman tried to change his train of thought and ended up thinking about Logan. His brother was representing CSU at a college fair. Roman had argued against it (“I'll have Crofters and Patton, I will be fine. Fracture a femur at the callbacks and enjoy your outing with your boyfriend.”) but had lost. His mind started spiraling again as he wondered: what if Patton forgot about Logan? What if someone dognapped Crofters? What if someone took advantage of his naive, blind, baby brother, who would be standing proudly at his school's table with a smile and a brochure? What if—

“In for four, Ro. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. Breathe, and focus on my voice.”

Roman hadn't realized he was panicking outwardly, but he tried to do as Virgil instructed. The breathing didn't feel like it was helping, though, and soon he ignored the rhythm. He kept thinking about all the dangers Logan was in, and wished he could keep Logan in the safety of their routine, where nothing changed and nothing was unknown.

“Tell me five things you can see.”

Roman hadn't noticed that his eyes were closed. He blinked them open to find his vision blurry with tears. “A beautiful man,” he managed, eyes sweeping over his boyfriend then the restaurant. “Uh. The carpet. That painting of the dogs playing poker. That boy's hat. And the hanging light.”

“I love you, you're doing great. Four things you can touch?”

“The booth, your hand. The table. My phone in my pocket.” When had he become so tired?

“Nice,” Virgil said quietly. “Three things you can hear?”

“Your voice. Music, and the news playing on that TV.”

“Almost done, you're doing awesome. Two things you can smell?”

Roman sniffed. That was easy. “Your lasagna, the syrup from my pancakes.”

“And one thing you can taste.”

Roman licked his lips and grinned. “Your lasagna.”

Virgil rolled his eyes, but smiled anyhow. “Feel a bit better?”

Roman nodded. He was still worried, but it was better. The sleepiness that filled his veins made him not want to think about it. He wondered sometimes how Virgil always knew how to calm him down.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Roman took a deep breath, then nodded again.

“I have a brother,” Virgil said. They'd finished eating and relocated their conversation to Virgil's pick-up truck. There Roman had spoken his worries, confessed that he couldn't seem to stop being anxious about Logan.

“Not really, I guess. I mean, I think of him as my brother. My parents foster. So he's my foster brother, but that doesn't matter. His name's Dee.” Virgil ran a hand through his hair. He spoke again.

“Dee . . . can't talk. Something happened in his birth home—I dunno if he was born like that, or abuse or what—but it was hard. Hard to not try and take care of him. He's in pain a lot of the time. More often than not, he has to have a feeding tube because swallowing hurts too much.

“It was hard to let him go. Dee's such an individual!” Virgil laughed slightly. “He got into debate when he was thirteen. He's super good at it, too. I just—I couldn't stop worrying. What could someone do to a boy with no voice? A boy who can't say no. A boy who can't yell for help.”

Roman felt a pang of familiarity. He'd had very similar thoughts about Logan.

“When he was sixteen, we got into a fight,” Virgil continued. “He was yelling—I say yelling. His hands were moving angrily—, I was yelling, and he finally snapped. Dee told me I was too protective. He could handle himself. Bunch of other stuff. He ended up telling me that one of us was going to have to move out, and he was fine with it being him.

“I wasn't—he needed help, and our parents could help better than some roommate. So I left. Moved out of state.”

“How?” Roman heard himself whispering. He couldn't imagine ever doing that to Logan.

Virgil shrugged uneasily. “I was pretty mad. I was still anxious, though—for a while I called home every day. Heck, I texted Dee all the time to make sure he was okay. I stopped when he told me to. I got a job, enrolled in a few classes at CSU. It got easier. Dee skypes me on Sundays to ask about my week. It's okay.”

“Logan wouldn't kick me out, though,” Roman said bluntly. “He—”

“Can survive without you.”

“What?”

Virgil smiled and took his hand. “Logan can survive without you,” he repeated. “He has strengths, even if they're different from yours. It's okay to be scared. Scared of someone hurting him. But it sounds like. . . .”

“Yes?”

“It sounds like you're scared of him not needing you.”

Roman felt tears filling his eyes. That—that was it. He hated to admit it, but that was it. “Ay, there's the rub,” he choked out. He collapsed against Virgil's chest, his body shaking with sobs.

“It's okay . . . it's okay,” Virgil murmured.

“I just—I've been there for him since our parents d-died,” Roman sniffled. “My b-brother left us and Lo was so—so lost, and I-I love him so much! I packed his lunch when he was sixteen and drove him to school and got a job and gave up everything! Just to take care of him! He—he's my purpose! He's been my purpose for years! How—how can I just mo-move on?”

“No one expects you to just move on,” Virgil said, tracing small circles on Roman's back. “But I'm here to help you get through this, and so is Logan. It's going to be okay. Depend on us. It's all going to work out. It'll be okay.”

“You must be Patton. It's good to meet you,” Virgil said, shaking the bespectacled man's hand. Patton grinned at him, then gently pulled forward the man whose hand he was holding.

“That's me! This is my boyfriend, and his dog, Crofters.”

“Thank you for introducing my dog, Patton,” the man said dryly. Virgil knew his name before he said it. It wasn't just because Logan was attached to Patton, or the fact that his golden retriever was named Crofters, or even the classic sunglasses shielding his eyes. It was the smattering of freckles on his nose. It was the dimple in his right cheek as he smiled fondly in the direction of his boyfriend. It was the slightly round way his voice sounded. There was no doubt that this was Roman's brother.

“I'm Logan. I must presume that you are Virgil?”

Virgil ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. How's the move going?”

Patton grinned. “Really well!” he said excitedly. “I'm definitely picking up on Lo's routines, and Crofters is adjusting too!”

“That's good. Let me know if you need to borrow my truck. Anything for Roman's family.” He tugged awkwardly at his stiff collar. He hated dressing up, but this was for Roman. “Shall we go in, then?”

They walked into the theater, making a chain of sorts: Virgil leading Patton by the hand to the seats he'd already reserved for them, Patton leading Logan by the hand so he didn't run into anyone (something, as Logan pointed out, Crofters could do just fine).

“Do you want to hear Roman's bio?” Patton asked Logan once they were settled in, the program held open in his hands.

“I'm relatively certain I edited it for him, but read on, love,” came Logan's reply.

“'Roman Sanders, Prospero—Roman Sanders is pleased to make his acting debut as Prospero in—'”

The lights flickered. One minute before the show. All around them, people began to sit. Patton closed the program and quietly informed Logan that the show was about to begin.

Then the curtains parted.

Patton watched Logan, hoping he was following the story, and grinned at the look of interest on his boyfriend's face as he settled back into his chair. Everything was okay.

Logan listened closely. He'd heard Roman's lines a million times when his brother rehearsed at home, but this was different. All the characters came together in a complex symphony that made him never want to stop listening. Everything was going okay.

Virgil watched Roman throw his arms dramatically, miming control of a giant storm while Shakespeare sang from his lips. He felt a surge of affection, of love, for the man who had come so far. Everything would be okay.

Roman caught a glimpse of his family in the audience and smiled inwardly. They'd all come, just to see him. Everything was okay. Everything was going okay. Everything would be okay. It was okay to move on.

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httphopewrld · 4 years

Text

hot summer (sneak peek pt.2)!!!

He was a boy across the street—no—an attractive boy across the street who happened to be a tattoo artist. You didn’t want to do anything about it, but your friends encouraged you to either stop sulking or make a move. And you chose the latter.

Pairing: tattoo artist/neighbourjungkook! x female reader

Genre: fluff and smuuuuuut

Rating: 18+ because there’s some smuuuuuutttt (it’s the most detailed I’ve ever written, soooo proceed with caution) and swearing

Warnings: smut, soft sex, dom!/sub!jungkook, dom!/sub!femreader, penetrative sex without protection (don’t be silly, wrap your willy!), bullet vibrator, oral fem receiving, creampie, fingering, making out, and swearing. There are mentions of domestic violence, but it is not detailed. It is in the perspective of the reader, who is witnessing this from a distance.

Word Count: 9,000-10,000 (each because there will be 2 parts)

A/N: Uni has been a lot, so I will be post the full part 1 on Monday. Thank you so much for waiting, and for all the support and love I’ve gotten from the previous sneak peek! Here’s a little more to keep you on your toes ;)

Also, if you’d like to be on this fic’s (and future ones) taglist, comment your username, and I’ll update this fic and have your username in future fics too!

⊱ ────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ────── ⊰

You looked across the traffic, into the apartment building across from yours. A boy sat back into his chair, holding a book in his hands. He began to read, of course, in a simple manner. His eyes scanned the pages, imagining the words written in his mind.

He was man, most likely, in his early twenties, but referring to him as a “man” felt odd.

You were fascinated by him. He was good looking, even from kilometres away. If you leaned against your balcony’s rails, you could see his dark wavy brown hair, his slightly sun-kissed skin, and his all-black clothing ensemble. He wore no shirt, probably from the heat or being in the comfort of his own home.

You stepped away from the railing and back into your apartment, drawing back the curtain and turning your back to the balcony.

How long have you been gawking at this stranger? Had he glanced up from his book and saw you standing there?

You drew all your curtains closed, paranoid, and embarrassed.

People crowded the city’s streets.

The sun was out, which meant everyone became runners, joggers, and walkers. People, families, and friends came out from their hideaways and into the sunshine. You, on the other hand, sat safely on your balcony.

Crowds made you nervous. You liked meeting people, but the thought of pushing through a dense mass of strangers made you shudder.

So, you watched people push and brush pass each other from ten floors up, sipping at your iced tea.

You gazed at the apartment from the other night.

It was empty.

You could see simplistic black and white art and photographs decorating the walls and modern furniture. His bedroom is to the left, with a gaping window that allowed anyone to look in. The same applied to the rest of the apartment: big windows and no curtains.

You sipped your iced tea.

You could imagine this man’s wardrobe. Minimalistic shades, and maybe some pops of colour. Chunky black sneakers and dark accessories. He must’ve been an artist of some sort.

Your phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Y/N!” Your friend, and roommate, Ashly, chimed on the other end. “Are you busy at the moment?”

“Not at all,” you replied, setting down your drink, “what’s up?”

“I was thinking of having a get-together. There’d be wine, snacks, and music. It’d be small, maybe five people, including ourselves?”

“You want me at your party?”

“Well, it isn’t a party—just a few girls and gossip.”

You pondered for a moment. “Where is it?”

“The get-together?”

“Yes,”

“It’d be at our place in two weeks.” Ashly sighed. “Is that enough time, mom?”

You chuckled. “Yes, my child.”

“Awesome! We can plan when I come back from work.”

“Okay, see you soon.”

“See ya!”

“Bye.” You hung up and looked back at the apartment.

The boy had come back. He wore a back cap, which he quickly took off and ruffled his hair, and, like a few days ago, adorned a full black ensemble. Despite the warm weather, he had worn a black leather jacket, jeans, and sneakers.

You watched him shuck off his jacket and toss it on the couch, and head to his bedroom.

He, with a lack of better words, flopped onto his bed and appeared to take a nap.

You chuckled to yourself—definitely a boy.

It had been a week since you looked back at the apartment.

You had just come back from work, and Ashly usually arrives back home an hour later.

The apartment you shared with Ashly was a carbon-copy of an IKEA display. You joked about it before, saying, “if someone were to flip through a 2019 IKEA catalogue, randomly choose a page, you’d probably think our place looked the same—or you’d find one of our pieces of furniture.”

It wasn’t a bad thing. IKEA was a popular place to shop at, and it was excellent quality.

Your furniture was various shades of white, navy blue, grey, silver, and light brown. The colour palette continued to your cutlery, kitchen items, and your bedrooms.

The place was cozy and didn’t leave room (pun intended) for a frivolous lifestyle.

The boy’s apartment was similar yet different. There was a sense of minimalism, like yours, but the furniture was dark—almost raven black.

As remarked before, there were black and white photographs and inky modern furniture. There were no colours in his home, just assorted shades.

His front door opened, and two bodies tumbled inside—his and a female.

Their bodies entangled with one and other and gripping each other’s clothes. The female’s clothes were the first to come off, exposing her bra and lack of underwear. The boy seemed pleased because he smirked before attaching his lips to her vagina.

You were shocked, scared, and worried all at once. You wanted to look away but found a curiosity within.

This man—boy—didn’t appear to have any desire to shut the world out.

You watched as this boy perform oral sex to this female—in the right way because the girl appeared to be moaning a lot—and you couldn’t look away.

It was like watching live porn, in a weird and public sense. It was, slightly, pleasurable too.

They took off their clothes shortly after the girl seemed to orgasm and engaged in penetrative sex. He took her from behind, against his couch. You, and whoever else stumbled upon this erotic scene, had a perfect view of their naked sides.

“Oh, my lord,” you gasped.

You felt the familiar tingle in your lower region.

Realizing this, you cursed under your breath and closed your curtains.

“What the fuck,” you exhaled, leaning forward on the dining table.

“I just watched my neighbour have sex,” you muttered, “and enjoyed it.”

You paced the room as if giving a lecture to a child.

“You were turned on by your neighbour having sex!” You shouted at yourself. “What the hell?! Were you fantasying? Him?! What the fuck, Y/N? Might as well be Joe Goldberg, and whip out your—”

“Y/N?”

You stopped in your tracks and turned to your front door. Ashly stood in shock.

“Are you alright?” Her Australian accent was thick with concern.

You smiled, “Never better.”

She let out a pulse of nervous laughter before tossing her keys in the small dish on the kitchen counter.

“What were you saying about Joe Goldberg? The guy from You? And why are the curtains closed?” Ashly leaned her hand against the counter, and her other on her hip. She resembled a mother about to lecture their kid about a text from a stranger.

You chuckled. “Nothing of importance—anyways, how was your day, Ash?”

“Oh, no, no, no, no, Y/N. You’re not escaping this one.” She walked up to you and firmly placed both her hands on her hips. “What is all this that about?”

“Look who’s the mother now,” you muttered, making Ashly raise her eyebrow.

You inhaled a lungful of air. “The boy in the apartment across from us is having sex right now, and they’re bare-ass naked in front of their big-ass windows. I had to close the curtains because I felt like I was intruding on their sexual activity, and it was just weird that they didn’t close their own—but I feel like that boy doesn’t own any curtains—so I just closed our curtains.” You said in one breath.

Ashly’s eyes widened with shock, “What?” She walked past you and threw open the curtains.

“Ash, don’t just rip them wide open!” You rushed over and closed the curtains.

She glared at you before cracking the drapes a bit to take a look. “Oh, my God.” She gasped. “They are having sex.”

“Still?” You crouched down and peered through the break.

“Oh yeah,” she nodded, “and harder than ever.”

You both watched, only for a few seconds before closing the curtains again, the boy drill into the girl. The boy faced the windows, leaving everyone to see his face and the top of the girl’s head as she tilted it back with pleasure.

“Well, he seems very good at what he’s doing,” Ashly commented, walking away as you closed the drapes.

“Ash!” You said in a loud whisper as if the boy across the street could hear.

“I’m just saying, the girl seems like she’s having the best time of her life, being pounded by that dude!” She defended.

“Jesus Christ, Ash, shut up!”

“I’m not wrong,” she shrugged.

You looked at her sheepishly, and you both burst with laugher.

Both of you spent dinner recapping your days: Ashly was currently dealing with an HR (Human Resources) problem in her company—she couldn’t go into details because of confidentiality, but it had to do with a problematic employee who was spouting racist nonsense online, which could affect the company’s image; and was immorally wrong because racism and any discrimination based on sexuality, race, religion, and so on, cannot be tolerated.

Your day and work-life were conversely dull.

You managed finances and taxes for your corporation, and the only exciting event to date was the incorrect money evaluation from a co-worker, which lead the company to believe there was wiggle-room for spending; when in reality, they were spending too much.

You pushed the pasta around in your plate while looking at the covered windows. You watched the curtains sway in the wind. Ashly had opened the windows a few minutes ago to let the hot air out of the apartment.

It was the hottest summer since you moved to the city five years ago, including the weather and the recently noticed neighbour across the street.

You continued to think about him and the way he had sex with that girl. It was romantic, yet aggressive and needy.

Fuck. You cursed.

“Hello?” Ashly waved a hand in front of your face. “I know that HR can be boring to listen to, but please try to look interested.”

You chuckled, “Sorry, Ash. I just zoned out a bit.”

“Oh, I know,” she replied, “but thank you for the apology.”

She sighed. “Well, I’m ready to watch some Netflix.” She looked at her watch, “And as it is almost eight o’clock, I think I’ll only be able to last for a ripe two hours until my old body starts to shut down.”

You laughed, taking both of your empty plates and cutlery to the kitchen. Ashly joined you, bringing the drained wine glasses.

“Care to join me?” She asked while you loaded the dishes.

“It’d be the highest honour, m’lady.”

⋅. ✯ .⋅

Reminder:

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- Mae (httphopewrld)

#jungkook #bts #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #bts smut #bts fanfic #bts fluff #jungkook smut #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fuff #ficswithluv

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