Coming out of Endwalker like... so many thoughts I am not quite ready to organise without looking back, but I think I have figured out why a lot of people see Stormblood as the odd egg out in this story. It's not the pacing, and it's not that the characters are as unbearable as a lot of people make them out to be either, it's just a step backwards thematically. It backs off from the personal emotional stuff and is a big wide plot thing, and it makes sense that it would be, considering a lot of it was apparently plotted out before even Heavensward and still running on ARR logic. But there's this long running thing in this game that was always better expressed through figurative feelsy stuff where the pain is grand and unreal, sometimes literally inconceivably great the way big numbers don't compute in the human brain. Stuff that is tethered closer to emotions than physical events and gets as close to the characters as possible. Write what you know but not with actual events I guess?

FFXIV at its brightest is about grief, depression, denial and escapism and how you have to move past all of that to make your life worth living -- For those we have lost, for those we can yet save -- but more than that, how this is only really possible through new and surviving bonds. You can't save everyone and you can't get those people back. There's no way to rewind or undo the loss and trauma and the characters who cause themselves suffering are all either out for revenge, or reincarnation that they could never live to see, or more broadly they're looking for a meaning in life that has a finite end point. Estinien, G'raha are both extremely relevant additions to the cast for this reason, it's far more than just fan appeal. 1. Guy who lived to kill, not just for lost loved ones but a life he could have had; almost ends the life he has now if not for new love and friendship. 2. Guy who lived to die out of love, and when denied this had to come to terms with the fact that removing yourself from a loved one is not a kindness, and one person cannot be the beginning and end of where you find purpose. The amount of beloved characters who only enter the main cast proper after you stop them from offing themselves was never lost on me.

Anyway, if Heavensward was when this theming got LOUD and ANGRY, Shadowbringers is when it was cold and alone. I came out of Shadowbringers rattled, genuinely exhausted. Endwalker is not like that. It's the story not just for people in the abyss, but those of us who have climbed out again. A lot of people are Hermes in this story, but I'm a Venat type myself... and it's something you can only achieve after digging through the mud. Extremely rare to ever have a story like this written from that perspective. Once I realised what her white robes meant I changed mine. That's neither here nor there but Endwalker eases you in, stresses you out, hurts over and over but keeps giving you anchors to hold onto and relationships to push you forward, and up to the very last second it's harder and harder (for the characters at least,) but then the relief! Shadowbringers felt like washing up on the beach, Endwalker lets you down gently! God it's good.

I know what an actual character end feels like so I wasn't crying in that final area, I think my prevailing emotion was "I hate these nihilist cunts" "I hate that all this destruction was needless" "I hate this fucking crab bucket dimension" but in a completely positive way. It's that frustration I feel when someone refuses to accept that they have defined their own meaninglessness, it is not inherent and it is causing them all this unnecessary pain. This is the suicide expansion, that's just what it is. I had my doubts when that first came up in the patches but not once did it feel cheap, even when the game beats you over the head with it. The end reveal that "suffer with me" was never even supposed to be kindness, because of course it wasn't, of course there's rage and fear in that, Hermes said himself that killing something that wants to live is not beautiful.

And there's debate about whether the Ancients had an "actual utopia" or not -- A. Of course it was because Emmie said so, B. Of course it wasn't because Hermes and Meteion suffered -- but that's not even the right question to ask in my opinion. It was an actual utopia, caveat: in a piece of fiction written with the idea that utopia and perfection is unachievable and would destroy anyone who could reach it. It being actually genuinely all but free of pain for mankind is not a loss of a great society that could never be rebuilt, but a sort of literalised escapism, literalised denial, an unreachable world that people on real world (the sundered one, in-universe) can only wish or hope existed, if somehow we could ever be free of strife. You go to the Garden of Eden and it's a lab. It's heaven bro. It's heaven and you can't reach it through violence.

Ironically Zenos who was such a... ???? ... in Stormblood ended up being best adapted to the themes of Endwalker because here's 3. Guy searching eternally for what meaning he can find through violence, when actually hurt for the first time in his adult life finds it the closest thing to closeness he's yet felt. But instead of identifying that closeness as what he wants, blames it on the violence instead, literally chases you to the ends of the earth hoping you'll kill each other in some ultimate act of physicality and what is, to Zenos, love! The nearest thing to it. The harder he pushes this way the further he pushes any reasonable person away from reciprocating. He gets so close to realising what he's done wrong, not in his actions but in the meaning he has defined for himself. Alisaie gets closer than anyone to cracking him just by telling him he'll die hated and alone. And personally I do think the rescue button was made of his regret, some last second realisation that dying is not what he wanted, and more than that, he does not want the person who at least tried to give his life meaning to die too. Loving or hating this character are both completely reasonably strong reactions but he loves YOU, like it or not. That's kinda the point...

Terrified I'm gonna lose this post so I end it here. Endwalker was unmatched. Best Game.

ESFJ teaching university

INFJ: What kind of course are you teaching this semester? What is it about?

ESFJ: Do you remember ENTP‘s class we had together before the pandemic? We wanted to conduct this experiment with the whole class, but ENTP never followed through with it. And I read up on it and found out that ENTP actually missed some aspects that should be considered in the experimental design, so now I‘m going to do it, but better and actually follow through with the experiment.

INFJ: So, you’re basically fixing ENTP’s previous mistakes, but with new students? 

ISFP: You are such a nerd.

ESFJ: The young students today missed so much due to online classes when it comes to scientific methods and INTP can‘t save all of them. I owe it to the young generation to educate them properly like INTP educated us.

ISFP: Following in her footsteps?

ESFJ: Some day, I hope so. I’m not as good as INTP yet and I’m still new to teaching.

INFJ: But you’ll get there. 

The Psychopath's Crown - Pt. 1

Characters: Jim Moriarty x Holmes!OC

Warnings: None.

Chapter 1: "And you're supposed to be a Holmes."

I strode into Speedy’s, the bell dinging as I swung the door open and made my way over to the table where she was already seated. By she, I mean Eve Watson. Best friend and partner in crime. Well, not quite a partner in crime considering she’s a DI. A smile tilts my lips at the thought as I sit down next to her. She says, gesturing to the waitress bringing over two drinks but not raising her eyes from the newspaper.

“I ordered what you need,

Her lips turned up ever so slightly at the sight of me.

I smile gratefully as I accept the steaming cup of chamomile. As I sip it, I remark, “I suppose I didn’t apply my concealer well enough, did I.”

She replies, turning a page of the newspaper, “I might not be a Holmes but I have picked up a few tricks. You’re clearly stressed out to an observant eye.”

I merely shrug at her words, cupping both my hands around the cup for warmth, “I do quite a lot of work. Mycroft has it worse though.”

At the mention of my elder brother she snorts, finally laying down her newspaper.

“Please. I don’t see Mycroft with dark circles under his eyes and paler than usual skin.”

I retort, placing my cup down gently just as the waitress arrived with Eve’s order, “You don’t see Mycroft at all. With good reason, placed in a room together with no supervision you two wouldn’t last a day.”

She shrugs as well, accepting the truth of what I said.

I plunge onwards, not letting her speak, “So I had a proposition.”

She arches an eyebrow and I finish, “We could move in together.”

She says monotonously, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “I wasn’t aware that our relationship had become so serious. Whatever shall I tell Greg?”

I sigh, “I found recording devices in my home and even though I dismantled them, Mycroft refuses to let me live alone and as much as I love my brother I appreciate my freedom. If I moved in with Myc, my life would be very restricted. So, as an alternative, I’d rather live with you.”

As I finish explaining she thoughtfully stirs her matcha before she says, “Well, if that’s the case then sure. I’ll have someone help with your stuff. Just don’t take my room. There’s plenty of others.”

I instinctively lean forward to hug her, forgetting the table and letting out a small “oof” as I bump into it.

She snickers, “And you’re supposed to be a Holmes.”

I roll my eyes and stand up, “You wanted me to meet someone?”

She nods, standing up as well, “My brother, John Watson. He can be a little-”

I complete her sentence, “Overwhelmingly flirtatious?”

She nods again as we exit the cafe, “My brother flirts with every single nice girl he meets. It’s weird. But he’s living with Sherl so you’ll have to get used to seeing him more often..”

I reply as we enter 221, “Oh, I know he’s living with Sherl.”

At the look she gives me I say quickly, “Mycroft’s surveillance, don’t ask. And also, how are you two related again? He’s flirtatious and you despise PDA, even between friends.”

She replies simply, “He’s my brother.”

I refrain from rolling my eyes again and instead rap on the door to 221B, “Sherlock! Open up.”

A man with short blondish hair opened the door, looking rather confused when he saw me but he seemed to realize something as his eyes darted to Eve.

“This is who you wanted me to meet?” He asks her.

She merely says, “I got her along, didn’t I?” She pushes him out of her way and goes straight to the refrigerator.

I chuckle and step in as he stands aside. He starts speaking first, “So, Eve didn’t bother to mention your name?”

I answer with a small smile, “Emberlyn. I go by Emberlyn.”

He smiles as well, “Beautiful name, beautiful woman.”

Flirtatious, indeed. He’s barely known me for five minutes. I hold back a chuckle when I realise he probably doesn’t know I’m related to his flatmate.

As if on cue, Sherlock strides in, his pale blue robe billowing as he walks, “Where’s Eve?”

I point to the kitchen, and he seems to realize I”m here, “Oh, hello sister. John, I’d recommend not flirting with her unless you want an earful from Mycroft. You might even get maimed if you’re lucky.”

Eve adds, peeking out of the kitchen, at John’s incredulous look, “Mhm. Just try not to hook up with her.”

I finally let a laugh bubble out, “I forgot to mention, My full name is actually Charlotte Emberlyn Tara Holmes. Bit of a mouthful so I go by Emberlyn.”

John continues to gape at me for a moment and before I can register anything else there’s a blast. I’m thrown off my feet and backwards almost headfirst into the fireplace. I feel a ringing in my ears as I stand up and stumble towards the kitchen, “Eve? Sherlock? Are you alright?”

Worry seeps through my voice despite myself and I see that Eve is just now getting up with a wince. Sherlock has already dusted himself off and extended an arm to help her up. She stands up with a small groan and I see red contusions on her elbows.

I murmur slightly, my ears still ringing, “That is going to bruise.”

She retorted, though her voice was still weak, “You’re one to talk with the way you’re clinging to that counter.”

I grimace and ask Sherlock, “You’re alright, yes?”

He nods swiftly, still analyzing our injuries. Confusion passes over Eve’s face as he bustles over to put the kettle on.

He explains, “Mycroft will be here soon. I’ll give it ten minutes with the commute. If it was just us it would’ve been an hour or so. Emberlyn is involved thus expediting the travel time.”

I scowl but gratefully accept the muffins he passes to Eve and I. By the time we finish the whistle of the kettle sounds throughout the house, almost in unison with the knocking on the door.

Eve hollers, “Come in Mykie.”

He answers, irritation clear in his voice as he steps in, “Good morning to you too Evangeline. No major injuries I see. Pity. A week in a hospital would have done wonders for your complexion.”

Sherlock steps forward, almost ready to engage in argument but I beat him to it, “It’s much too early in the day to beat one of my imbecilic brothers over the head with a lamp but I won’t hesitate.”

They both pause at that and Eve says, rolling up her sleeves, “I don’t have any such forebearing about beating one of them over the head with a lamp.”

I sigh exasperatedly, “Myc sit, Sher get the tea from the kitchen, Eve, you can go to another room if you can’t stand to be civilized.”

I pause and wait for them to comply, which they do. John murmurs to me, “Impressive.”

I laugh slightly, “It’s a skill.”

Eve busies herself in the kitchen, still grumbling under her breath about how she’d like to maim Mycroft, while Sherlock arrives with the tea tray, purposefully positioning it away from Mycroft. I roll my eyes at his antics but gesture for Mycroft to proceed.

*mycroft’s andrew west explanation*

Mycroft stands up and hisses, “Sherlock, this is of national importance.”

He scowls, “Then get Emberlyn to do it.”

Mycroft retorts, “Emberlyn has other work to do, especially with the Korean elections approaching. But you don’t need to know anything about that, do you?”

Sherlock lifts his violin and I sigh, dreading what was to follow. Sure enough, screeching emitted from his violin as he deliberately played off-key. I heard a crash in the kitchen accompanied by the sound of glass shattering.

“DAMMIT SHERLOCK!”

I snorted and even Mycroft smirked, “Good luck brother.”

Sherlock grimaced as Eve peeked out of the kitchen, “As much as I adore torturing Mycroft, giving me a warning first would be lovely! I just shattered my favorite champagne glass.”

John said incredulously, “You don’t even live here!”

Sherlock explains, “She gave me a glass which she used whenever she came around my flat.When I moved here, I took it with me.”

I interjected, “More concerningly, why were you touching the champagne glass at 10 am. Don’t tell me you were admiring it. You’re not sentimental.”

She sulked, “Listening to Mycroft talk is deserving of a glass of champagne. Not that I ever did get to drink it.”

She glares daggers at Sherlock who winces.

I stand up and shake my head, “Well, as long as she didn’t drink any alcohol, no harm done. I’ll leave you to wipe up your champagne puddle Sherlock. Mycroft will be waiting for me down.”

He nodded, dragging his feet as he went to the kitchen, Eve still looking put out over losing her glass of liquor. John waved as I left the flat. Soon I was out on the side walk of Baker Street. I didn’t see Mycroft but a familiar black BMW rolled up to me, the back window was rolled down and Megara came into view.

“We can talk in the car.”

I complied, sliding in as she opened the door.

“So, what does Mycroft have for me today?” I ask, as the car drives off into the street and towards my flat.

She brushes a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and takes out a few folders. She hands me a sheet, “This would be your schedule for the week. I’m sure you have Ms. Watson’s permission so your things are being moved currently. We’re merely heading to your house for a last look for anything they might’ve missed. For this week you don’t have any active teams to look over. Andrew West, as you know, will be taken care of by Mr. Sherlock Holmes. In your schedule you can see your meetings for the week.”

I nod, rifling through the papers she has given me. A beautifully detailed itinerary of my week.

“Currently, Mr Holmes has only asked you to see the physician that we’ll be stopping at on the way. “

I cut her off with an incredulous look, “I only have a few bruises.”

She arches an eyebrow, “It’s about time for your monthly check up anyways.”

The vehicle comes to a stop outside the physician’s building and I grumble slightly as she marches me to the door.

I’m still scowling as we enter the vehicle again.

“Completely unnecessary.”

She allows herself a small snicker but says in a professional tone, “I almost forgot to mention the coffee I got you.”

I stare at the coffee and then at her, “Is this supposed to be the adult version of giving a child a lollipop after a doctor visit?”

Though she shrugs her eyes sparkle with mischief and I accept it with a sigh.

She continues her briefing from where we left off, “Mr. Holmes, only wishes for you to rest up today. Your main assignment this week would be researching one of our high profile potential criminals.”

She delicately hands me a rather thin file. I flip through its meager two pages with surprise, “This is all we have?”

She nods, “Precisely, why he wants you to investigate further I presume. And, you didn’t hear this from me but he probably would also like you to lay off the legwork for a while.”

I grumble at her words but I’m more pre-occupied with the file before me. Attached it a clear cut photograph of the man and I find myself mildly amused as he seems to be striking a pose despite the photograph clearly being taken by a security camera.

“James Elwin Moriarty.” I murmur the name to myself, taken aback by how soft it sounds. So gentle and distinguished. Rather contrasting to the number of illegal deeds he has been suspected of being an accomplice in. Suspected being the key word there. He was rather thorough and careful. A puzzle indeed. Despite having much information about his suspected crimes there was little to none personal information. Education, childhood, parents, family. As if he was nobody. I suppose that’s what Mycroft wanted me to investigate.

Everyone has a weakness Charlotte, if you find it, they’re yours.

His words ring in my ear. Precious but cold-hearted advice which he gave in my first years at the secret service. Before I was a famed interrogator there. I closed the file and leaned back, closing my eyes.

“Thank you, Megara. I think I’ll take my brother’s advice and take a short nap. Tell me when we arrive.”

“Of course, Ms.Holmes.”

Let my hands guide you

Pairing: Akaashi x reader

Genre: fluff! And strangers to lovers

Summary: You meet Akaashi at a pottery store. (PLEASE TAKE NOTE THAT I NEVER DID POTTERY IN MY LIFE, SO PLEASE DON’T TAKE IT TOO SERIOUSLY PLS)

Word count: 1.3k

a/n: ...... ok so I’m not sure I like this, the scenario in my head is way better so I might do a different one with pottery!Akaashi because I can hahaha; I hope you lovely people had a nice weekend and here’s a fic to handle the week! Enjoy!

///////////////////////////////////////

You opened the door to enter the shop. It was a pottery store where they taught classes for beginners, sold from every type of work from mugs, plates and vases to original decorative art pieces some students were willing to sell.

It was your first time to come here, a little intimidated by the beautiful artwork displayed. You shook that feeling away, determined to simply enjoy yourself and have fun creating something. A feeling of excitement washed over you, ready to try pottery for the first time.

A kind girl greeted you, showing you the way to the back, the workspace for classes and artists. You put on an apron and followed her to your assigned molding stand for hand building method of making pottery. She showed you the three main techniques; the pinch pot, coiling and slab.

Once she taught you every method and the use of each tool, you thanked her as she left you alone to concentrate on your work. It was fun and relaxing. Concentrating on the details of your pieces and handling the tools. It was strangely therapeutic. You made one bowl, one mini pot for one of your plants and, with the clay that was left, you made a small ladybug to go on the pot as decoration. You were proud of what you accomplished and turned to notify the nice girl but you couldn’t find her. You were nervous to explore and leave your familiar workplace. Thankfully, another staff member saw your distress.

“Do you need anything?”

He took your breath away. You couldn’t believe you got the chance to lay your eyes on his beauty. He glanced at your workspace and you remembered what your goal initially was.

“Oh, I just finished my clay and I was wondering if I could know how to finalise it?”

“Yes no problem. They are wonderful for a beginner,” he complimented you, making you even more confident in your new hobby,”I can take care of this for you. So first we’ll -”

He then proceeded to show you how to finalise your pottery, explaining everything methodically and clearly. You listened as he kept on talking, entranced by both of his looks and his words.

He notified you that it would take three to eight hours for the clay to harden. They would supervise your work, taking good care until your next visit. He accompanied you to the front desk as you paid for today’s expanses.

“I would also like to book another session, preferably one with an electric wheel?” you asked.

“Of course,” the pretty staff member smiled at you and proceeded to book you your next appointment.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

You realised that you never asked for the pretty staff member's name. When you picked up your artwork, you didn’t see him for the entirety of painting your mug and pot. But even at that, you enjoyed brushing the paint on the clay and continuing your newfound hobby. Akaashi was forgotten at the back of your mind, too busy enjoying your new favourite activity.

You painted your mug your favourite colour and added some details to your liking. For your pot, you chose a nice blue colour to mimic the blue sky, a contrast to your plant’s different hues. Your ladybug sat nicely on the side of the pot. It might not look hyperrealistic, but it was still one you were proud of.

Your day finished well as you returned home with your new acquired creation. Putting your plant in the new pot, it was well decorated and a feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction overcame you. Pottery made you happy and you were eager to start new projects in the future.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

For the next few sessions, you made various mugs and tableware for the shop. Making these allowed you to not pay for anything as you were producing for the shop. But of course, once in a while, you would create for your own place. Pottery soon became a regular activity of your weekly routine.

With how much you spent time there, you met the pretty staff member again, often at that. His name was Akaashi and he was the one who always put your clay to harden. He always complimented you on your work and helped you if you needed any advice. Akaashi quickly became a friend to you.

The nice girl who first taught you the basics, Yukie, was also a friendly person you could depend on.

Currently, you were frustrated because the clay wouldn’t do as you guided it to do. The shape you wanted to achieve was a challenge and the shape you had was all deformed and abstract. You turned off the power of the wheel and let out a sigh.

“Do you need any help?”

You gave Akaashi a desperate look, your eyes clearly saying yes. He smiled a little and pulled a seat facing you. He fixed the oddly shaped clay, and let your hands work. When you started to mess up the shape, Akaashi joined his hands over yours, guiding them to the proper movements of your shape. His hands were covered in clay, as were yours, but the gentle way his hands held yours made your heart skip a beat. His long fingers corrected your mistakes as he explained what you were doing wrong.

For the first time, your ears didn’t listen to him. You were surprised by how he held your hands so easily. His gaze was focused on the clay as he kept on rambling about pottery, but yours were on him. You noticed that everytime he talked about his passion, he got more talkative, having this eager tone that made his eyes light up.

Sensing that your hands were not moving and that you didn’t respond, he looks up, meeting your eyes. None of you could look away as nothing was said. The wheel continued to spin, the room was still noisy from other workers, but it seemed that the both of you were frozen in time, neither of you moving.

Then, someone bumped into you, from behind, making you fall forward into Akaashi. This seemed to wake you up from your trace as you quickly excused yourself and went to pack your stuff to go home.

Akaashi was still in the same position, looking at the door you left, wondering if you felt his heartbeat quickened.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

You proceeded to avoid Akaashi for the next few days, too embarrassed to face him again. You came when he didn’t have a shift, Yukie keeping you company.

Pottery helped to take your mind off of him. You concentrated on making various creations, new pots for your new plants. The spinning of the wheel drifted your mind elsewhere, your surroundings fading away. Maybe that’s why you didn’t notice him.

“Can we talk?” You froze entirely. You already felt bad avoiding him, you might owe him an explanation.

You agreed, following him to a more private area of the store, your hands still tainted of clay. Akaashi on the other hand was dressed casually, the first time you saw his style. Of course he knew how to dress with style too. His only sign of nervousness was him playing with his fingers.

“I’m sorry if I crossed a line when I touched your hands, I should’ve asked first, I-”

“That’s not it Akaashi,” he looked at you curiously, the script he memorised completely unnecessary, “When we held... well touched hands, I felt something that may cross the line of friendship. I needed time to myself-”

“What if I told you I also felt it”, your look of surprise met his, “If you are willing to try, for a relationship, I’m willing to try.”

You didn’t know what to say. Were you ready to be in a relationship with Akaashi? Would you risk your friendship? You did think he was handsome, and kind, and easy to go along with, and easy to open up to, and your heart was clearly affected by him. But was that enough? Maybe it was.

“I’m willing to try.” Your affirmation put a smile on Akaashi’s lips. Maybe, just maybe it was worth it.

hi! could you write a keith x reader where there is a sixth, purple lion and allura describes the qualities someone would need to have to pilot that lion and keith realizes his s/o back on earth would be perfect for it? so they go back to earth to get her and keith x reader reunite and it’s fluffy/angsty? (like she’s not mad at him, she was just so worried and is so relieved to see him and lance is all like lol there’s no way keith has a gf and boom there she is)

Words:  2140

 Genre: Angst – Fluff

  Notes: Here you go! x

  ***

   Keith hadn't realised he had been waiting for this chance untilthe chance actually arose.

   It was a weird feeling for him. Caring so much about something –someone – he had left behind in his old life. Most thingsback home, he craved to forget. The run-down old estate he lived in,the violence he grew up around, the missing chunk of his childhoodthat only his parents should have been able to fill, but failed to doso. He wanted to forget about all of that, concentrate purely on hisnew life in Voltron.

   It was funny how the moment Allura started describing thecharacteristics for the purple lion, you were the first person whocame to mind.

   He thought for sure it was over. He hadn't contacted you since hedisappeared in the desert all them years ago, and he had to admitthat he felt bad about that. Though he wanted to forget his time onearth, it was easier said than done whenever the one person he evertruly loved was still stuck there, waiting patiently for Keith'sphone call which never came.

   As Keith and the other Paladins arrived on earth and startedwalking towards the smoothie bar you worked at, Keith began to doubthimself. Whenever he had agreed to this, it had been because ofbusiness; the team needed someone to pilot the purple lion, and youseemed to have the characteristics down almost perfectly – someonepatient, someone comforting, but also someone who wouldn't take shitfrom anybody.

    Keith immediately thought of you, and that was why he was here.He was here to offer you a place in Team Voltron.

    But now that he was actually here, surrounded by the familiarsceneries of his childhood, he was beginning to think that perhapsthis wasn't a good idea afterall.

   What if you hated him? What if you had gotten another boyfriend?Of course, you had every right to do so. It had been over a yearsince Keith had left, over a year of absolute radio silence betweenthe two of you. But the thought of walking into this smoothie bar andseeing you hugging someone else, smiling with someone else,had Keith half tempted to say there was no point and turning back.

   Shiro pushed open the doors to the smoothie bar, and Keithrealised there was truly no turning back now.

   He inhaled deeply as Lance shoved him in first; he was theone who knew you. It only made sense that he was the one who askedfor you.

   “I cannot wait to see if he's actually telling the truthabout this girl,” Lance chuckled, nudging Hunk playfully. Keithcould barely hear him over the sound of his heartbeat as heapproached the counter and asked, shakily, for you.

    The girl who had served him disappeared into the back for amoment before reappearing with somebody by her side. As soon as Keithlaid eyes on you, his mouth grew dry and his fingertips tingled withthe need to reach out and touch you, feel your skin on his just likehe used to.

    But you were frowning.

   “Keith?”

   His name coming out of your mouth felt like a ton of brickstoppling on top of him; it had been so long since he'd heard his namesound so sweet, been so long since a single word had triggered somany memories. He bit down on his lip to fight the urge to kiss you,looked down at the floor and allowed Shiro to take over.

   “Are you Y/N L/N?” Shiro asked, nudging Keith to the side alittle bit.

   You didn't reply to Shiro. Instead, you kept your eyes firm onKeith, who was now trying to make his way as far to the back of thegroup as he possibly could. He wanted to escape your gaze. He wantedto run and turn back, let the guilt eat him up in peace. Maybe if hedisappeared now and let the others handle it, you would forget he hadeven been standing in front of you and you could get on with your-

    “So you're really just gonna ignore me, huh?”

   Keith's eyes snapped up, catching yours immediately. Eye contactwas not Keith's strong-point, but it was a known fact that he oftenfound it difficult to break away from yours.

   He swallowed thickly. “We came to ask you something.”

  “Woah, woah, woah, woah, wait!” Lance suddenly exclaimed,barrelling through the middle of the group. “This is thegirl you were talking about?”

   You frowned, narrowing your eyes in confusion. Keith flushed,stuffed his hands in his pockets as he slowly nodded – there was nopoint in lying. He had been gushing about you for the entire ridehere. It was only when he actually landed did the nerves start to getthe better of him.

   “Keith, are you stupid?” Lance continued, spinning around andgrabbing the red Paladin by the arm. Keith yelped as Lance pulled himto the front of the group, and now there was no backing out. You wereright in front of him. He could reach out and touch you if he wanted.He could smell the familiar vanilla body spray you used to alwayswear – it almost made him smile to think that you still wore it,even after so long.

   “I'm sorry,” Keith mumbled. “I didn't – I couldn't getin contact with you. I'm sorry about that.”

   Your lower lip trembled, the first sign of emotion you showedsince Keith had walked in. “Can we talk in private?”

   Keith nodded, despite not entirely wanting to. He was awkward.There would be a long, out-stretched silence, or perhaps he wouldmake the situation worse by talking and saying something idiotic. Buteither way, he needed to explain himself. He wasn't sure hecould leave without you knowing that he loved you still, that himbreaking contact with you hadn't been entirely his choice.

   And so, you stripped off your apron, walked around the counterand led Keith outside, leaving the other Paladins to stare after thetwo of you in shock. None of them could believe that Keith hadactually had a girlfriend before leaving for the Garrison. They allthought he was lying, and yet there you were.

    You stepped outside and turned to face Keith, arms folded overyour chest. He smiled awkwardly, tucking his hands into his pockets.

   “What are you doing here, Keith?” you asked immediately.“Where have you been?”

    “I've already apologised,” Keith replied.

   “That doesn't answer my questions.”

   Keith sighed. “I'm here because we need you – relationshipaside, we need you. As in, the entire group. Not just me.”

   You nodded slowly. Keith raised a brow – you seemed so calmabout that fact. “And my second question?”

    Keith swallowed thickly, trying to fight the urge to look away.“I've been – busy with some stuff. Stuff you'll only understandif you come with us.”

   “Come with you?” you exclaimed, making Keith jump withthe intensity of your tone. “Keith, you walked in in the middle ofmy damn lunch break! I work at a smoothie bar, for crying outloud!I'm just trying to have a normal day and my ex-boyfriend walksin after a year of not talking to me, suddenly asking me to join himfor a damn day trip with him and his gang of buddies?”

    Keith's eyes widened. “Ex-boyfriend?” And he wasn'tentirely sure why that was the first thing he could hear within yourjumbled array of awkward sentences. He should have been offended,perhaps even a little understanding, but the word ex rattledhim – he had expected it, of course. He wasn't special enough forsomebody to wait for him for over a year, but he at least had somehope.

   You seemed to realise what you had said then, your face droppinga little bit. “Yes, Keith. Ex. What did you expect?”

    Keith scoffed. He could feel his unnecessary hostility risingup, clawing to the surface. “You don't even know what I was doingthis entire time. Things I've done, people I've saved – I didn'tjust disappear, Y/N. If I had the time to pick up the phoneand call you, god knows I would have. But I don't think I've seen amoment of peace in over a year.”

   “That is not myproblem,” you growled. “You can't just walk back in here andexpect me to wait on you just because you're a little bit busy.I've been busy, too, Keith. Busy trying to get over you. Busytrying to tell myself that it wasn't my fault you stopped talking tome completely.”

   Keith blanked. “You thought it was your fault?”

  “Well what else was I supposed to think?” you exclaimed,trailing your hands through your hair. Keith could see a thin sheenof tears glossing over your eyes, making his heart break.

   “Anything,” Keith mumbled. “You could have thoughtanything. You could have assumed I was dead. But you should haveknown you weren't the reason I left. You should have known that,Y/N.”

   The first tears fell. You reached up to swipe them away, butKeith was quicker. His hand shot out, grabbed your wrist, dragged ittowards his chest and placed it over his heart. He wasn't sure why –he had never been one for soppy moments like this, but there wassomething about you that made him want to be soppy. You made him wantto express his love, shout it from the rooftops in a way that nobodyhad ever made him feel before.

   But the most he could do was let you feel it, beating softlybeneath your palm through the fabric of his shirt.

   You closed your eyes, fingers instinctively curling and grippingonto the material.

   “You left,” you said, voice cracking. “You let me fall inlove with you, and then you left.”

   And if Keith'straumatised, shattered, destroyed heart could break all over again,it did. He felt it like cracking glass – small at first, but asingle hit could shatter it.

   “I loved you,” Keith whispered. “I love you, Y/N. Ididn't just forget about you the moment I left. I couldn't justforget about you. You were the only thing keeping me sane whenever Iwas on this god forsaken planet.”

   You raised a brow – Keith quickly moved on before you could askhim about what other planets he had been on in the past year.

    “I never wanted to break contact with you, and it was one ofthe worst decisions of my life. I know I shouldn't expect you to comewalking back into my arms after so long, but if there's one thing youtake from this conversation, it should be that I love you. I neverstopped loving you. You could never be the reason behind me leaving –in fact, you were one of the reasons I was going to stay. The onlyreason I was going to stay.”

   You bit down on your bottom lip, more tears pooling around youreyes and rolling down your cheeks, though you made very little effortto wipe them away. You kept your hand curled in Keith's shirt, hisfingers still burning holes in your wrist.

    “I was so worried about you, you know,” you whispered. Keithlet his eyes close, an airy breath escaping his mouth that soundedclose to a sigh of relief but was anything but. “I thought you'ddied. I thought the Galaxy Garrison had – had done something toyou. We called them up asking to talk to you, and they just said youweren't there and hung up. We didn't get answers for months, Keith.For months, I thought you'd died and they were covering it up orsomething. It was torture.”

   Keith nodded as if heunderstood, but he didn't. “I'm sorry.”

   “It wasn't your fault.”

   “I should have told you.”

   You shrugged. “A little warning would have been nice.” Yousmiled then, Keith opening his eyes just to gaze at the newexpression on your face. “B-But you're here now. And you're goingto explain yourself, aren't you? You're going to tell me all aboutyour travels, about all the people you met and about that crazy bunchof people we just left.”

   Keith nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

   You grinned. “It'll be like two friends having a catch up.”You shrugged. “Only we just happen to be two angsty teenagers whoare in love with each other.”

Grand Jeté - Ch. 3 & 4

When George Warleggan quits a high powered job in the City to take care of the finances of the South West Ballet, run by his friend, Francis Poldark, it changes his life - even more so than he expected.

Elizabeth Chynoweth came to the South West to come back home, take on new challenges, and leave behind a less than perfect time in her life. She intends to focus on her art, but everyone knows what they say about best laid plans…

Ch 1 & 2 

~

Chapter 3 

“And it’s worth the investment?” Francis tasted his coffee, made a face and reached for another milk.

“Yes. It’s a decent outlay, but since you’re a registered charity they’ll give you a discount. And it’ll save a lot of time and unnecessary paperwork – the system can handle everything: general accounting, payroll, personnel, even scheduling for your studio space and performances.”

“Wow, really?”

“Yes, it’s a few different programs, but they all work together, and there’s another discount if you purchase several of them.”

“God, George, this all seems so simple and yet so complicated at the same time. I honestly had no idea about any of this.” He shook his head.

“Look, you don’t need to know all this. You’re the Artistic Director. It’s like expecting me to know about…..fouettes? Is that a thing?” George frowned and Francis laughed heartily. George had heard Francis and Verity discuss dance endlessly, but he had to admit he hadn’t taken a lot of it in.

“Yes, that’s a thing. You’ll pick up a fair bit of stuff quickly, I imagine. Rosina will help. She trained as a dancer, you know.”

“She did?” He’d talked quite a lot with Rosina in the two weeks he’d been here. He’d learned that she was born in Marazion, and had studied at the University of Falmouth, but she’d never mentioned any ballet training.

“Yes, but she couldn’t continue. Injury, I think.”

“Shame.”

“Yeah.” Francis glanced at the clock. “Oh, I’d better go. Afternoon practice. Our Rodeo debut is getting closer.”

“You’ve completely sold out, by the way.” Francis looked momentarily taken aback.

“We have? I have to admit, I’m surprised. It’s not the best known show.”

“Perhaps not, but the company has an excellent reputation. The reviews for your last season couldn’t be more glowing.”

“I thought you didn’t know anything about ballet?” Francis cocked an eyebrow at him.

“I may not have the technique down, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t do my research!” Taking the job might have been a rather impulsive decision, but he wasn’t going to join an organisation without so much as a quick Google. Every local newspaper, and even a few nationals, had been full of praise for the company’s recent productions, which had certainly given him hope that it wouldn’t be too difficult to put them on a financial even keel.

“Well, that’s a start, I suppose. But you’re going to have to properly immerse yourself. Not like when you used to hang around with me and Verity in London. Once I finally get myself in gear and get you introduced to everyone, you could come and watch some rehearsals. You never know, might even let you join in…” Francis left, cackling at what George was sure was the look of sheer terror on his face.

~

The clock in the stage manager’s office read 6:15pm. Ellen Tabb was her name, a bespectacled woman in her 40s who exuded an air of competence. Francis had told George that Ellen was invaluable to the running of the company, and it hadn’t taken much to see why. She’d been highly amenable to all of the suggestions George had had so far about more efficient management and already come up with plenty of ideas about how to implement them. She’d made a point of introducing herself to George on his second day and said he could come to her with any questions he had about the running of the place if Francis wasn’t available, or it was to do with her responsibilities, for which George had felt pathetically grateful.

Since the company was deep in rehearsals for the new season, Ellen had a lot on her hands, and her work-room was almost as chaotic as the finance office had been when George arrived. That seemed to work for her, however. He didn’t like to pry, but he’d seen the walls covered in what looked like plans of the Hall’s performance spaces and sketches of set designs, along with typed notes on half a dozen things. Her desk was piled with copies of programmes, photographs of dancers in costume, and even sheet music. Somehow she had to cohere all of this into a final production, overseeing the co-ordination of every department, from dancers to costumers, stage hands to musicians. George had considered his own task something of a challenge, but it was nothing compared to this.

She seemed to have taken a well-earned finish at a reasonable hour today which, considering it was Friday, was fair enough. So George left the paperwork on her desk, hoping the fluorescent orange Post-It note Rosina had stuck to it would make it noticeable enough amongst everything else.

The Hall was quite an extensive complex, and he still hadn’t fully got his head around the layout. He realised he’d taken a wrong turn and was about to double back when he heard an unexpected snatch of music floating down the corridor towards him. Music in general wasn’t unexpected here, of course, since he’d inadvertently ended up in the direction of the rehearsal spaces; it was just that what seemed to be playing was rock music. Muse, if George wasn’t mistaken. Intrigued, he couldn’t help but follow the sound, finding it emanating from the closed door of one of the studios. Without thinking, he looked in through the window.

A dozen or so dancers, still dressed for practice by the look of them, were in the room, dotted around the sides, leaning on the barre – he knew what that was – nodding their heads to the music. He hadn’t been properly introduced to the full company, but he’d read all of their personnel files, feeling like he was prying the entire time, despite the fact that save a few payroll details, most of the information was in their profiles on the South West’s website. As he watched, a young dancer with a short, dark bob who he recognised as Morwenna Chynoweth stepped into the middle of the floor and, in time with the entirely incongruous beat, executed a series of perfect – to George’s completely untechnical eye – turns across the room before effortlessly leaping into the arms of a slim young man who lifted her into the air as if she weighed almost nothing. George had met this dancer by chance when he’d previously dropped by Ellen’s office. Hugh Armitage was his name, and he’d shaken George’s hand with a strength he seemed unaware of, welcoming him sincerely to the company.

A few others cheered and clapped as Morwenna delicately came down from her lift, and then two male dancers – Paul Daniel and Ed…something– performed a sort of Cossack-style dance to much laughter. George smiled to himself and was about to turn away when two ballerinas came forward on the other side of the room. Both tall and dark-haired, they were a striking pair. The one closest to the door was Margaret Vosper, who had frightened the life out of him by loudly greeting him in the car park as he was about to go home a few nights previously. Like everyone else so far, she had been extraordinarily friendly, insisting he come for coffee with the dancers the next time they went.

But it was the other who really captured George’s attention. The other Miss Chynoweth. Elizabeth. He’d found his mind drifting back to his first day quite a few times since, remembering the faint blush that had come into her cheeks when Francis had called her their ‘prima ballerina’, not to mention her wide smile and soft eyes. She’d seemed keen to get away, however, although he’d hoped it was nothing personal. Rather guiltily, he’d researched her a bit more thoroughly than he had the other dancers, even finding a video online of her performing a solo in the title role of Madame Bovary the previous season. On stage, she was just as stunning as off, her movements elegant and lyrical, the emotion of the dance written in every gesture.

Even here, dressed in her simple practice wear, accompanied by pop music, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. In perfect synchronicity with Margaret, she took several flowing steps forward, picking up speed to leap into the air, hitting flawless splits and landing effortlessly, the women finishing en pointe at the exact same second, to whoops of approval from the others. George barely noticed Margaret, however. As Elizabeth spun out of her finishing position, she paused for a moment facing away from him, exposing the low back of her top and the nape of her neck bared by her hair piled up in a bun.

She glanced in the direction of the door and, although he couldn’t be sure, George thought their eyes met. With a gasp he pulled back, striding quickly away down the corridor, feeling horribly embarrassed and trying desperately to put the image of her sailing through the air, face alight with joy, out of his mind.

Chapter 4

“All right, Folies-Bergeres from the top. We won’t need most of you until after lunch now, so you’re free until then. Back here by 2:15 at the latest for Dracula in full.” At the balletmistress’ words, a few dancers gathered up their things and headed for the door, either to another practice room, or for a long lunch. After an hour’s general class first thing, they’d run through Checkmate and now it was time for its companion piece. Both had been devised by the legendary Ninette de Valois, but were very different in style. Bar aux Folies-Bergeres, to give it the full title, was a much more romantic counterpart to the avant-garde Checkmate. Inspired by the Manet painting, it was a one-act piece with an even smaller cast than its partner. It was Margaret’s proper come-back in a way, as she was playing the role of the seductive can-can dancer La Goulue. Considering she had to dance the famous high-kicking steps, it was a challenge with her injury, but if she said she could do it then Elizabeth believed her.

Her co-stars were primarily soloists – Emma Tregirls had been cast as the barmaid, a role for which she had both the perfect look and more than the requisite ability. Paul Daniel was to play the waiter she loved, with Ruth Teague, Keren Smith and two girls from the corps as La Goulue’s fellow dancers. As she made her way to the centre of the room, Elizabeth caught Ruth sending a nasty look at Demelza’s back and rolled her eyes. Ruth was not a bad dancer, but it was generally accepted that she had her place in the company primarily due to the fact that her mother was the head of the St Ives School, which supplied the company both with potential candidates and youth cast members.

Ruth had coveted Verity’s principal slot and been the most vocal in her sneering at Demelza’s appointment. Demelza, to her infinite credit, had been nothing but unfailingly polite to Ruth in return and if she saw the look, she pretended she hadn’t. Like Elizabeth, she’d obviously decided to stay and watch, as had Caroline, and the three women settled down in an unobtrusive corner. Morwenna came over to join them, but Hugh pulled on his hoodie.

“I’m going to nip in to see Donna, my shoulder’s aching a bit.” Donna was the company physiotherapist.

“That’s chucking Elizabeth about – ow!” Caroline made an exaggerated hurt expression as Elizabeth whacked her on the arm. “Seriously though, are you okay?”

“Oh, fine, just stiff I think. Catch you this afternoon.” With a quick wave he disappeared out the door, the last to leave. Anne closed it firmly and then clapped, signalling it was time to begin.

The practice went off without a hitch. Paul and Emma’s pas de deux was sweet and beautiful, and Margaret’s high kicks were flawless, as were the rest of the women’s, even Ruth’s. Elizabeth considered herself an experienced and skilled dancer, but she didn’t envy them the task of perfecting the can-can en pointe.

At the final note, as Emma returned to that iconic pose, the observers burst into applause, cheering and whooping. With a laugh, Emma took a bow, blowing her ‘audience’ exaggerated kisses. After Anne had given the cast what few notes she had, she announced it was time for lunch and reminded them when they needed to return. She gathered up her own things and departed while others changed their shoes and slipped on sweaters. Margaret sat down next to them and pulled at the ribbons around her ankles.

“That’s was amazing, Margaret.” Demelza smiled. “How’s the knee?”

“Okay, actually. That’s the first time I’ve really gone for it and I was expecting it to lock any second, if I’m honest. I’m really pleased with that.” She’d danced with her knee strapped, and she adjusted the tape, flexing the joint gently. “I’ve got plenty of time, so it’s looking good, all in all.”

Margaret wasn’t in Rodeo and had only a small role in Dracula, as one of the Weird Sisters. For most dancers, such a long period of inactivity would be highly frustrating, but when recovering from an injury it was a blessing. Elizabeth herself had sadly been forced to miss their last Christmas production – The Christmas Carol – due to bruised ribs. As disappointed as she’d been, it had allowed her to be fighting fit in time for their spring-summer season.

“Lunch, girls?” Caroline asked as they headed out. “We’ve got a couple of hours so how about we treat ourselves to trip to Craftworks? Build up our energy for the Count!”

Everyone was prompt back for the afternoon session and there was palpable excitement in the room. Ever since the earliest of prep, it had been clear that Dracula was going to be a great production, and this was their first full run-through. Elizabeth loved her role of Mina, and was dancing with Hugh again, as well as a beautiful and unusual pas de deux with Caroline’s Lucy.

While the dancers were finishing off their warm ups, Francis – the Count himself – entered, accompanied by another man, a tall blonde with a handsome face. He was lithe enough to be a dancer, but didn’t quite have the right posture.

“Hello, everyone! Before we start, I’ve got some introductions to make. This is Dr Dwight Enys – he’s going to be our Medical Director, so Donna and Leila will be working under him.”

“Lucky them,” Emma whispered from somewhere further down the room before hissing as Morwenna elbowed her in the ribs.

“And – ah! There you are! – this is – “

“George!” Caroline cried when George Warleggan slipped in behind the other two men. Elizabeth frowned as her friend skipped across the room and embraced him fondly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Demelza and Margaret raise their eyebrows at each other and felt an odd sensation in the pit of her stomach.

“Oh, I didn’t know you two knew each other?” Francis glanced between them.

“Oh –er – “ George glanced around, obviously a bit embarrassed by having the attention of the company on him. “I didn’t actually know Caroline was with you.”

“It’s been ages!” Caroline exclaimed, still holding onto him.

“Yes, well you can catch up later!” Francis said. “Since we’ve got some rehearsing to do. Everyone, this is our new Financial Director, George Warleggan. Now, let’s get on. Would you both like to stay for the rehearsal?”

“Oh, yes, please.” Dwight smiled and George nodded in agreement. Francis chivvied the dancers into place, and they finally organised themselves, starters moving into position, the two newcomers sitting down by the piano. As she took her place, Elizabeth felt hyper-aware of eyes on her, but it wasn’t the doctor she was concerned with. 

~

With a sigh, Elizabeth tilted her face into the spray, letting the warm water of the shower relax her whole body. She’d slept late, and was feeling refreshed. Tonight was the opening night of Rodeo, so they’d been given the day free. Although they rehearsed productions while others were in performance, it was tradition that they rested before the first night. Even the most experienced dancers had first night nerves, and a quiet day often helped. Her role was a small one, so she was mainly just enjoying the free time. Or trying to enjoy it, at least.

Ever since that first Dracula run through she’d been feeling a bit odd, and she knew it was to do with George Warleggan. She’d been dancing in front of people for over 20 years, but she couldn’t remember ever being so conscious of being watched. It hadn’t affected her performance if Anne’s notes were anything to go by, but the sensation of his gaze on her had been almost physical. She couldn’t explain it. Or understand it.

Nor could she understand the feeling she’d had when Caroline had greeted him so warmly, or when she’d seen them chatting animatedly at the company dinner the new staff had been invited to. She’d still never got to the bottom of how they knew each other, but Caroline was a beautiful, sophisticated young woman and George was a handsome, intelligent man. One possibility certainly sprung to mind.

She’d run into him outside of the restaurant as she waited for a taxi home. He’d asked if she’d like a lift, but it turned out they lived in opposite directions; kindly, he’d offered to take her anyway, but she’d demurred, not wanting to put him out, and disconcerted by how much she wanted to go with him. She barely knew him. When a cab pulled up, he stepped forward to open the door for her, and when she turned to thank him as she stepped in, he’d said:

“You danced beautifully today. I just wanted to say.” It had been a simple, sincere statement and had completely thrown her for a loop. She shivered slightly now as she remembered the look in those fascinating, icy eyes as he’d spoken.

With a sigh she sat down on her sofa, wrapped in a soft dressing gown, and rubbed her hair with a towel. With hairspray, temporary colour and everything else required for performances, it went through a lot, so when she could she let it dry naturally instead of blow-drying. She tossed the towel to one side and leant back, putting her slippered feet up on the coffee table.

Absently, she gazed ahead of her. On the wall above her television she had a large picture frame filled with a collage of special photos. She would need a bigger frame soon. Her eyes wandered over the images – baby Elizabeth in the arms of her late father; a tiny Morwnna in a too-big tutu; Elizabeth, Francis and Verity in their RBS uniforms; Caroline, Margaret and Demelza blowing kisses to the camera in full stage make-up; and a recent addition, Verity in full Highland dress for the Scottish Ballet’s Ivanhoe. She missed her friend badly, although they talked as often as possible. Elizabeth wished she could call Verity now, but she was in rehearsals this week, for the title role in Jane Eyre. Verity knew her better than almost anyone, and most importantly, would understand exactly why Elizabeth was finding being attracted to someone – because that’s what she was, there was no doubt about it – very worrying indeed.

Loose Change Chapter Two- I'd Love To Pop Some Tags But I've Only Got A Fiver In My Pocket

After much anticipation, chapter two is now complete! As always feedback is appreciated! I thrive off it. So, with out further ado... 

I sat at my designated table, furiously scribbling notes as a way to past the time until I closed up shop. My books spread out across the surface, highlighters of every color littered between my books and notebooks. I chewed on the top of the pen as I read, something I did when I was super focused, unaware of it until the cram sessions was over. I put my pen down, rubbing my eyes as the words on the page began to blur. There was a couple patrons scattered amongst the shop, most in the same situation I was. I didn't notice how late it had gotten until they apologised for staying over closing hours as they paid for their drinks. I waved them off, bidding them a good rest of their night. I flip the open light off, before making myself a fresh cup of coffee before plopping back down at my table. I took a sip of my coffee before picking up my pen  and I trudged along, deciding to finish the chapter before heading home. I heard the door creak open timidly, my eyes dragging away from the page to see Ed's face peering in.

"Er...can I come in?" His face the definition of uncertainty as he lingered, half in half out. "I know the sign says closed but...I thought I'd stop in and see how you were doing."

"Hey stranger!" My bright tone echoing through the quiet shop, "Sure, you can come in. Just do me a favor and lock the door behind you." My eyes dropping back to the page picking up where I left off, "You know you can come in while we're open right? You don't have to wait until we're closed or people leave."

I heard the door open and close again, the soft clunk of metal on wood told me he had brought his guitar case in. My eyes leaving the page again to see him stripping off his hoodie, one of the tshirts I had gave him was underneath. He scooped up his bag and case as he made his way across the room, grimacing every time his case brushed against a chair, a muttered sorry after every one. As silly as it sounded I couldn't tell if they were towards me or the chairs.

"I can't really buy anything, isn't that just loitering at that point?" Setting his stuff down beside my table.

"All you'd have to do is order water." I tell him, shuffling through the notes I made during the lecture, "Either way I wouldn't kick you out. Loads of people come in here just to study." Switching my pen out for the highlighter, dragging it across a couple choice phrases.

"Oh...I didn't realise you were busy..." His tone caused me to look up, soft and almost regretful, "I could go so you can finish studying." His hand resting on the back of the chair, caught between pulling it out.

"No, stay." I brought my foot up, giving the chair a slight push outwards, "I haven't talked to you for a while. I want to catch up. I'll be done real soon."

He slowly sat down, taking extra care to keep his hand off the table, resting them in his lap. I wonder if he was a fidgeter? Or was he worried he's mess up my clearly organized stack? Either way, his hands remained off the table, moving from his knees to under his armpits as he crossed his arms. We hadn't physically sat down and had a full conversation in a couple weeks. Our main form of communication had been notes passed between one another when I stopped by to drop off some form of food and a a buck or two. At least enough to cover his bus fare. Most of the time his notes consisted of  just some sort of ridiculous commentary on the meal and what sort of interesting stuff happened during the day. For example yesterday's drop off was two pb and jelly sandwiches. The note I had today, scribbled on a piece of a brown paper sack ' I butter thank for the sandwich, they really got me out of a jam' then went on to talk about how Americans were an odd bunch, holding conversations with complete strangers.

  At first I left notes asking if he needed specific things, mostly in the apparel department since we were still in the middle of quite a cold snap. He conveniently ignored that part of the note, just thanked me for the meals and proceeded to tell me about how he shared his fries with an angry looking pigeon that he was pretty sure would actually fight him over them and he wasn't sure he'd win. 'Best to stay on their good side. I don't need to piss off the birds. There's too many to fight, innit? Think you could put a good word in for me?' If I hadn't gotten a slight glimpse at his off the wall oddball humor, I'd think he was raving. I came to the conclusion he would never out right ask for certain things, it would be up to me to just guess what he would need.

He craned his neck, skimming over the upside down text, "This system you got here is really something." I could hear the wonder in his voice, I didn't need to look up to know his expression matched,  "Don't most people type everything digitally now? This seems complicated and kinda unnecessary."

"Mhmm? Oh, no, it helps the info stick in my brain better than typing it all out. Call me old fashioned I guess but nothing beats the feeling of a pen gliding over the paper, your hand creating the words. Plus the feel of paper under your fingertips. Sorry, having it on a computer just doesn't work for me."

There was a smile that crossed his face. "I completely agree with you. Nothing will replace handwriting everything. Things just seem to flow easier when you use a pen. Which is why I write everything instead of type." He paused, his smile turning sheepish, "Well that and the fact I can't really afford a computer. Which is a good thing, really. Means I'm not likely to get targeted for a mugging."

I feel my eyebrows draw together as I tear my eyes away from the page. He seemed completely relaxed, his head bobbing around to some beat trapped in his head as he looked around the room. When his eyes settled on me he seemed slightly surprised at my gaze.

"Ed, be straight with me. Have you been mugged?" My concern ringing true as I stared him down. There's almost no way he's be able to handle himself in a fight. He just seemed so fragile.

"Look at me Cassidy. Does it look like I'm that well off? Do I look like I'd have anything of value?" His arms spreading wide to emphasize his point. " No. I look fairly second hand. Not worth a second glance."

He had a point. He did look pretty down on his luck. Everything he had was noticeably second hand and heavily worn. He was right, he didn't look like someone that would have anything of value. Nothing worth fighting over. Even his pack had seen better days. It was this frayed army green canvas pack, the leather straps that held it closed shown obvious wear, the holes were stretched out from the use. The whole thing looked like it was one good tug away from coming apart. The guitar case however was still in pretty good condition, apart from a couple scratches and scuff marks. It appeared that he took better care of it than he did himself.

"Well, you've got that fancy guitar. That's worth something to a strung out junkie looking for something to sell for his next fix." I point out, causing his mouth to come down in a frown.

"That is true." He pondered, his hand rubbing his chin, "But Cyril is pretty battered. You're not gonna get much out of him. He's about as broken down as I am." His fingers opening the clasps with fluidity that comes from the repetitive act. He pulled it free from its felt nest, giving it an almost loving strum, "I'm afraid he's only priceless to me."

I hadn't noticed as he played, my gaze was usually drawing to his fingers or just him in general has he bounced around. I never focused on the guitar itself. The finish had began to chip away, from the use. There were scratches covering the face of it and the back of it was a disaster zone of criss crossed scratches, most likely caused from the zipper of his jacket grinding into it. The tuning keys had lost their luster, dulled by the constant turning. He was right, It had seen better days.

"Still...just be careful okay? Some will scope you out for days, waiting for a really good haul  then make their move." I could hear my tone slipping into lecture mode, the same I used with the kids I worked with.

"Aw, geez, you make it seem like I walk around with my head in the clouds." I could see that mischievous glint in his eye as he leaned forward, "You forget, I've been doing this for years now. I've gots some streets smarts by now."

I closed my book, deciding then and there nothing else was going to get done. "Don't take this the wrong way Ed but...you sorta come off as naive..."

"Yeah? So? What's wrong with that? Coming off as naive and being naive are two different things you know." I had expected him to be angry or at least annoyed, yet he seemed like he was enjoying himself, that smile still on his face, "There's nothing wrong with seeing the good in people."

"Yeah, but, aren't you worried that someone's going to come along and take advantage of your good nature?"

"If they do, it'll be a lesson learnt won't it? Even if it was the hard way, I'd've learnt something." That easy smile still across his face. It seemed nothing I threw at him was phasing him. Suddenly he straightened up from his relaxed pose, "I almost forgot, I came in for a reason!" His words tumbling out in an excited rush.

"Oh, so it wasn't just to talk philosophical views?" I tease as I cram books into my bag, "What's up?"

"I've got a gig." He was positively beaming now

"And you lead with questions about my study techniques?!" I squealed, as I knocked my bag to the floor, "That's great! When?! Where?!"

"An open mic night at...shit what was the name again..." He began rummaging through his bag, pulling out a wrinkled flyer, "The City?"

He passed the flyer over to me with a shrug. My eyes skimmed over it, nodding as I read it. I passed it back to him, watching as he crammed it back into his pack. "I've heard of a lot about City. Never been, but it pretty popular on campus."

"You know what type of vibe it has? So I know what I'm getting into?" I could see a bit of worry starting to settle behind those eyes.

"How 'bout this. We'll go drop in and get a feel of the crowd. That way when the night comes, you won't be worried about what songs you should choose."

"Okay...yeah...that's not a bad idea." He perked up at this, his smile quickly returning, "Okay, yeah. We'll think of it as recon." His transparent eyebrows wiggling. "God, you make it seem so sinister." I couldn't help but laugh as his lopsided grin as he waved me off, "All we're doing is checking it out. It's not like we're doing anything bad."

"The music industry is tough." His voice had lost all of the playfulness it had, replaced with a more sober tone, "Honestly, a tiny little thing like reading a crowd wrong could make or break me. This could be what gets my name out there and it could either be, 'Oh yeah, that Ed Sheeran, he's a real wanker playing that coffee house music at night club or Hey, That Ed kid, he's pretty good. Got a couple songs that really grab ya."

I could tell he was getting up in his head, planting seeds of doubt already. He had found one of my pens, twirling it between his fingers as he thought. I knew had to feel like he was balancing on the edge of a sword, one mistake would be all it would take to send him tumbling down. I needed to get him out of that mindset and fast. Nothing good would come from it.

"Hey, we've got a week. One week to get you prepared." My attempt at cheering him up seemed to fall a bit flat, earning me a half nod, "Look, we'll meet here tomorrow and go check it out."

"I would feel better about it if I knew what I was getting into." He may not have been smiling but he seemed in better spirits. "Tomorrow it is."

He had hung around a bit longer, turning down my offer to  come back to my place for a shower and proper dinner. I did however, convince him to take a couple sandwiches, which he thanked me for and added that I really did spoil him. If this was spoiled I shudder to think of how bad off he was before I stepped in. He gave me an awkward sort of wave before turning away, adjusting his pack and heading in the opposite direction. It wasn't until I got home that I realised the busses had stopped running and he most likely walked all the way back to wherever it was he was sleeping. It couldn't have been too far since he was always at his spot by 7:45. All I could hope was that wherever he was staying was at least sheltered and he wasn't too terribly hungry. *********************************************** After a long and frustrating day I gladly flicked the open sign off, turning back towards Ed, who had settled in the corner, scribbling furiously in a small brown leather bound notebook. I remember spotting it when he was pulling his clothes out, it tumbled out, flopping out on my floor open for the world to read. He didn't snatch it up quickly, which lead me to believe that it didn't hold anything particularly personal. Once I asked him if he was ready, it snapped closed and returned to the depths of his belongings. We stopped by the apartment to drop of his guitar and bag, deciding that it would just be too much of a hassle to carry around. There was a definite reluctance, even when I assured him that if Lucca did swing by, she wouldn't touch it. I couldn't say I blamed him for his wariness. That was literally everything he owned. I would probably be just as worried as he seemed to be, leaving it a fairly unfamiliar place. He seemed satisfied with them tucked away in my closet.

If it wasn't for the group of people that had gathered outside planning that night's bar crawl, I would have thought we were at the wrong place. The outside of the building gave off an abandoned factory vibe. Really, this is the place that people keep raving about? Ed must have sensed my hesitation since he grabbed onto my sleeve, pulling me toward him and away from the door.

"I know this is the address he gave me but...are you positive this is the right place?" He sounded a bit worried, that little crease forming on his forehead.

I glanced at the building, completely understanding his doubt. It definitely didn't give off the new hip bar on the scene vibe, more of a hey this is where cows come to be turned into burgers and steak. I know you should never judge a book by its cover but come on, they could have spruced up the place a bit. I caught my bottom lip between my teeth.

"Yeah, this is the address that both you gave and google gave me..." I turned my eyes away from the building and back to him, his expression mirroring my own, "Okay, what exactly did he tell you?"

"That Thursday was like a trial run and if he likes me, most likely if the crowd likes me, he'll pay me to come in regularly a perform." He let a breath out through his nose, "Sorry I can't be more help, I couldn't wait around any longer to see if he replied again with anything extra..."

"Hold up, wait around any longer?" I could feel my face scrunch up in confusion, "Why didn't you just call him?"

"I don't really have that kinda change lying about y'know..." His eyes dropping to the ground as he shuffled a bit. Then it clicked.

"You don't have a phone do you?"

"Nope."

Of course he doesn't have a phone. How would he pay for it. I felt like an idiot, I was so used to phones being almost a necessity nowadays that it didn't even cross my mind that some people don't have them. Still, one thing about that bothered me.

"How do you talk to your family then?"

"Oh, emails. I use email for practically everything. The library lets you use their computers as long as you have a card. Which was a handy thing I learnt at the shelter." He cleared his throat, ready to change the subject off of him, "Alright, well, you ready to see if we we're being pranked or not?"

"Lead the way."

We weaved our wave through the crowd, finally spotting the sign above the door that read The City. He pushed the door open and I followed him inside, almost running into when he stopped suddenly in his tracks. With good reason. It was quick to see why it was called The City, the walls were comprised of graffiti covered brick, bright and in your face. There was actual stop lights hanging from the ceiling, the floor made to look like a road. The furniture was chic and the bar was lit with bright rope lights of reds and blues. There was so much going on, it was chaotic, it was alive, it was insane. There was only one problem.

"Cassidy...there is no way I'll be able to perform in these clothes...I want to stick out but not in this way..." People weren't exactly dressed to the nines but they were definitely not a hoodie and frayed jeans type. He turned to me, a worried look back on his face, "What are we going to do?"

"Well, first, we're gonna go find ourselves a table. Oh, they have food..." My eyes zeroing in on a girl chowing down on a huge slice of pizza, "Alright we're gonna get a table and we're gonna get us some food and we'll go on from there."

To be honest, I really didn't have much of a plan. I figured once we got here, it would all fall into place but all I was feeling right now was uncomfortable, like I didn't exactly belong here. They had the hustle and bustle down. I couldn't help but wonder if it was because it was new or because they had something special that others didn't. I spotted a table close to the stage, which was quite a bit bigger than I had initially anticipated. It must have been bigger than Ed thought to since I heard him whistle.

"That's a stage, I wasn't expecting ...jesus..." he said, full of awe. His eyes held a wistful look. "A proper stage...wow..."

After a good bit of people watching and some surprisingly fantastic food we had finally settled on a game plan. There was a bit of doubt, no, a lot of doubt on his end, especially the longer we stayed. When he discovered that they had had some pretty well known bands grace the stage all his confidence had went out the window.

"How am I supposed to compete with acts like that? Christ, I'm fucked before I've even had a chance." He moaned, stabbing a  couple fries in the mountain of ketchup dismalily

"Are you kidding? Ed, you've hit gold here." I glance around to make sure nobody was within ear shot, just to be safe I leaned in, "You've got a bunch of pretentious people who thrive on up and coming musicians. They're going to eat you up."

"Yeah and probably spit me out. Come on Cassidy, I'm not ready for something like this."

"Stop with the negatives and what could go wrong and focus on what could go right. You're worried about your clothes? We'll get you new clothes. That's no issue."

"How? I've got-" He dug in his pockets, before realising they were empty. His eyes screwed shut as he thought,  "A fiver and whatever change is in my rucksack."

"Well then, it's time to introduce you one of my favorite places. Thrift shops. They're insanely cheap and you can store them in my closet." I could see the hesitation in his eyes and I already knew that he view that more as a luxury. Perhaps he was right. "Look, I can get them for you. I'm positive I can get you a good looking outfit for under 15 bucks."

"I couldn't, that's too much, you've already done too much."

"If you're that worried about it, pay me back when you're rich and famous."

We wrapped things up and headed out once it hit one in the morning. I was shocked I had actually stayed up that late and Ed looked like he could go on for hours more. I wondered if he was used to getting little sleep, always sleeping on the edge, prepared for the worst. After a lot of persistence, I had finally persuaded him to stay on my couch again, planning to hit the thrift shops in the morning. I had half expected him to complain about not performing but he surprised me with his ready acceptance. It wasn't until I was in half asleep did I think that his quick agreement could have been a farce and that, like last time, he'd sneak out before I woke up. Yet, when I woke up, there he was, curled in a tight ball, the blanket pulled tight across his body, his mouth slightly open as a light snore filled the silence. ********************************************* "Oh mah GAWD, look at this!"

I heard Ed's voice calling out from a couple racks down, his head popping up, grinning from ear to ear. He was holding up the most atrocious looking bright blue paisley plaid button up that would surely haunt my dreams for weeks to come. I could only stare at him in silence, my mouth trying to form the words why and what, most likely leaving me looking like a gaping fish. He chuckled as he placed it back on the rack, satisfied with my reaction. For a split second I wasn't sure if he was seriously contemplating it or not. We had been browsing for about an hour now and in that hour I had gathered that this boy had absolutely no fashion sense at all. I decided to take up the role of personal shopper, which he said made him feel like a toff and a bit of a wanker. He had made it his mission to find every ridiculous article of clothing he could get his hands on and proudly show them off. The bigger the reaction, the bigger the smile was.

"Hey, Cass, do you mind if I call you Cass?" I shrugged, "Wicked. Look at these trainers. They're nicer than what I've got and they're cheap."

He was clutching a new looking pair of shoes, orange with three white stripes. I glanced down as his ragged, brown but not originally brown shoes. The soles had started to peel away from the material and I could remember seeing every pair of his socks having brown stains where water had leaked in. I nod my head to the cart.

"Alright, put em in. You can't keep walking around with those dead fishing smelling things you call shoes. I'm shocked your feet haven't fell off your body, to be honest with you."

His lip pulled pout in a pout as he placed them in the cart. "That's mean, my feet don't smell that bad." "I said your shoes smelled bad." I clarified as I held out a plain black sweater to his chest, eyeballing the fit before throwing it in the cart.

"I'll get hot in that on stage. Those lights put out a lot of heat."

"Who said it was for just stage? It's cold. A sweater or two wouldn't kill you. Neither would a coat."

He stopped in the middle of the racks and I didn't notice until I had turned around to ask him his opinion on a shirt. He just stared down at the floor, the most pathetic look across his face. Even his hair seemed  to lose a bit of its spunk, wilting a bit.

"This was just supposed to be for performances. One or two outfits so I wouldn't look like a tramp on stage...You've got almost a cartful...Cass...I can't take-"

"Yes, yes you can." I said simply, cutting off the rest of his sentence, "Stop thinking you don't deserve things because you live on the street." I threw a pair of jeans into the cart with a bit more force than I anticipated, "I'm sick of you thinking you're less than a person.  I don't know who made you think that, but I'm sorry. You're a human being. You deserve to have things like coats and warm clothes. Those aren't luxuries Ed. They're things that most people take for granted. So stop thinking you don't deserve the basic necessities."

"Why me though? They're are plenty of people on the streets."  He sounded less broken, but still dejected. I breath heavily out my nose. "Every person out there with their battered sign all tell the same story. It may be worded different, but its still the same story. Hungry, homeless, give me money. Some sob story to tug on the heart strings of others. It could be true and that money could go towards a hot meal. Or it could go straight into their veins or up their nose. You though...you don't ask for money. You stand out there, with your signs that say such positive things, playing your music, making that corner of the city a brighter place. You could sing about your troubles and really hit people with a well crafted sob story in the form of a song. But you don't."

He sat in silence for a moment, mulling over everything I said. "Thanks for that...I needed to hear it. Sorry for being a downer..."

He seemed to perk up a bit, finding this flannel looking hoodie, tossing it into the cart. After another half an hour we had made not one but two complete laps around the store. There was a few more ridiculous finds, we had decided to wrap it up and head home. As I was pulling out my card to pay and Ed placed the bags in the cart, I heard the lady behind us make a snide comment to her shopping partner about how he should feel like less of a man for a woman buying his clothes. I had seen them throwing looks our way as we browsed, muttering under their breath and I had had enough.

I slapped my card down on the counter, whirling around to see, yet again, a hurt looking Ed, his hand hovering over one of the bags. "Excuse me," I smiled the biggest, falsest smile I could muster, "but I think I found your nose in our business. So how this. Why don't you collect it and your bad attitude, shove it in your designer bag and move right on along." I spun on my heel, thanking the cashier for my card, bidding them a good day, snatching the bags out of the cart, brushing past the ladies, "May Karma bless you three fold."

I walked out, Ed almost having to jog to keep up with me as I made my way across the lot. "The nerve of them." I tug my trunk lid up and start throwing bags in, "Just who do they think they are? Seriously."

"Cass, it's okay, really."  I could tell he was just trying to calm me down, although it was having the opposite effect.

"No, it's not okay. Nothing gives a person the right to say such ridiculous things for the sole purpose of hurting someone."

"But it is pathetic Cass.” He shrugged, seemly undefeated, “I should be able to pay for my own clothes. It is what it is. I'm grateful and I really don't care what a couple of strange old women, who we'll never see again, think. It shows their character, not ours." His eyebrow cocked upwards, "Though I will say, you handled that quite well."

"I have to deal with a lot of angry parents. And kids. It's a skill i've developed over the years of working at the summer camp." I slam my trunk closed, "Pushing that aside, we can get these back to my place, throw them in the wash, Yes, I'm washing them," I saw his mouth fly open, in protest, "After that, all you'll need to focus on is what you'll play."

"Oh, all I'll need to do. That's only the hardest part." A smirk creeping across his face, "We've got a little less than a week to prepare. Plenty of time to come up with some sort of set list." His hands rubbing together, "Now the real work begins."

Title: I crash, U crash

By: GreasyGyeom

Summary: “I don’t even know myself / Got my back up against the wall / I let the time pass too fast / I crash, you crash.” Mark x Reader. Mental Health/Anger/Mild Violence

Notes:  I’ve always been intrigued by the concept of a violent Mark, so I just played around with it. There will be a follow up on this. The gif is made by yours truly.

It had been a particularly rough morning for him.

To be honest, it had been a rough twelve days. He’d hardly been able to sleep. He’d barely eaten. His mind never shut down once for the duration of the week. It seemed like someone else was living in his body, rent free at that. He’d lost all motivation to stay… alive.

But something had seemed to have aggravated the situation overnight. He’d woken up with a jolt, like an electric shock had been passed through his body. His mind was being particularly un-cooperative.

He’d never experienced anything like this before and he didn’t quite grasp it.

So he just sat there, staring at the wall facing his bed.His eyes emptily gazing at the spot where the clock he smashed last night had been; just because it was ticking too loud. He then looked at the massacre on his floor. Pieces of plastic and glass carelessly peeking out from every shadowy corner of the room.

How did this even happen? He frantically tried to fill in the gaps from his memory of last night. Had he gotten drunk? Was there another person he got into a fight with? Did he do all this damage alone? He couldn’t remember the important parts. He could just remember that feeling of not having anything under control; that feeling that drove him insane.

8 am.

The sun finally crept up on him, shinning across his wooden floorboard through some gaps in his heavy black curtains, making him flinch.

Too much light.

He laid back down on his bed and pulled his bedcover all the way up to his head.

Too claustrophobic.

He felt his heart thumping in his ears like an ominous drum beat, marching him to his funeral; pins and needles stabbing him under his skin. The heart beat picked up its pace, getting louder in his ears. It didn’t feel like his own. 

Nothing felt like his own.

His thoughts, body, mind, emotions everything felt like it was infested by an unknown being determined to purge him out of his own skeleton. All the what ifs he’d ignored up until now - dismissing them as unnecessary negative walkways; all the self doubt he had never paid heed to; the insecurities he had repressed for so many years, they all hissed at him in tongues, simultaneously.

He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to stop the static in his bones. He didn’t know how to stop the white noise ringing in his ears. He didn’t know how to stop the voices in his head. He didn’t even know how to feel sane.

He needed someone to understand him because he couldn’t understand himself.

He raked his brain for a face he could rely on, scrolling through his contact list.

“No. Not her. Are you kidding, this guy? No fuckin’ way you’re telling anyone. You can’t tell this to anyone they’re going to call you crazy”. A voice from the back of his mind snarled at him. “Besides, are you that weak, that you can’t even handle this on your own?” The voice felt very real. 

He threw his phone aside.

It’s like a tape then got stuck in his mind that seemed to only amplify his shortcomings in life.

“No, I’m not weak.” He repeated out loud, as if in retaliation to the devil himself. “Im not fucking weak. Get out of my head. Get out. GET OUT,” he yelled, picking up the nearest object he could lay his hands on and threw it at the wall where the clock had been.

He just wanted the nagging inside his brain to stop. 

He hunched over his side table, attempting to regain his composure. His room felt smaller and contained, like a prison cell. It was making him uncomfortable, A certain eeriness had sneaked inside at ungodly hours and spread its poison that seemed to be suffocating him.

He tried to recall what he’d done in the past twelve days, all alone.

But he didn’t fucking remember.

His phone made a muffled sound from somewhere under the pillows. He reluctantly picked it up without checking the number. His eyes widened when he heard your voice on the other side.

“You’re back?” He asked, trying to sound like his regular self.

“Yes and heading home.”

His level of panic escalated in multiples of a thousand as that information registered itself in the functional parts of his brain. His room - and possibly the house - was was literally in shambles.

“See you in an hour Morkie.” You chimed, completely unaware of his situation.

 "Yeah, can’t wait.“

He stood up in a frenzy, abruptly ending the call and began thinking of ways to hide his awful, paranoid, panicked, anxious, sharp, sloppy and extremely violent state of mind from you.

He went outside his room, hoping to find the rest of the house in one piece - hoping that he hadn’t broken everything there was to break with without even knowing about it.

"This looks okay.” He thought to himself, scanning the common area and moving into the kitchen. Apart from the few utensils that were unwashed from a few nights ago and all the bottles of alcohol, things seemed to be in order

 He didn’t particularly have to care, but he also didn’t want you to catch onto the fact that something was off. He knew you were good with that stuff - the catching onto vibes stuff.

He went back into his room with a broom and a duster, fully intending to clean up the mess; but for the life in him he couldn’t get his hands to steady or his heart to slow down.

He was sure he was going to have a heart attack. A certain numbness paralysed his mind, travelling all the way down from his forearm to the tips of his fingers.

“I’m going to die,” he thought, clutching his t-shirt, completely unable to move. He lay down on the floor and closed his eyes but opened them again in an instant, fearing the darkness that filled his vision.

“I’m going to die.”

“I’m going to die.”

The world blurred out momentarily. He didn’t realise how many minutes had gone by until the loud, shrill ring of the bell echoed in his ears, frantically.

His eyes shot open.

“Fuck, she’s home.”

Day #14

Waking up from another wonderful fantasy can really suck. I remember this one particular Walt Disney saying, or song rather, that a dream is a wish your heart makes. Cheesy as hell I know, but you can't really be surprised by now. Now I'm not sure how that would necessarily apply to the nightmares I've had unless I'm just that much of a twisted being (wouldn't be that surprising to be fair with a mind like this), but when putting that idea aside, and focusing on last night - there's obviously a lot of truth to the saying when your dreams convey nothing but the sole love between the two of you. We briefly chatted last night about her conquering the snowy mountain, and more so than was required about my thrillingly boring weekend, and then some mild chit chat about how modern music has turned to shit. She showed me some stunning photos of the snowy covered mountain, as well as her local snowy mountain which we visited two weekends ago. It was nice to end the weekend on this high note for myself, as my eyelids shut and mouth widened a little bit. And there's the sudden realisation now that it's been two weeks since sick-day monday, and having to say goodbye as we did. Me thinking back to that final moment as I walked her back to her car, exchanging as many last kisses as I could in that moment, and then was forced to face the rest of the passengers when boarding the plane back home, upon being allocated the one emergency assistance seat that was facing backwards, with every single bit of me having to fight the urge to draw a single tear in public. That battle raged on inside me throughout that whole flight, especially as the last thing I viewed was a snap from her on my phone, informing me she reached home safely (as I'd always request her to tell me), and that she loves me. My heart skips a beat each moment I think back to this moment, and constantly wishes to relive that weekend over and over with her - it was the perfect example of what we should've, and more so, could've still become. It didn't have to be discovered too late, regardless of that very label being the definition of what had happened between us. A fresh beginning such as it was.. is just something to carry on in my own fantasy sadly. So, as you would have it, my reality of waking up after such a lovely dream, packaged with the linking memory through time, resulted in sorrow, considering that travelling the world and partnering up on all these new, exciting and unfamiliar adventures around the world with her by your side became nothing more than fiction. She's smiling there, holding onto you, and you're wrapping your arms around her and lifting her up, spinning her around a bit before meeting her lips with yours. She looks as beautiful as she always does, when you look into her blue eyes and brush back her blonde hair softly. Sounds like a work of fiction based on a dream girl right? Because it is. Right now anyway. The thing is, it use to be my reality - I've experienced all these amazing and magical moments with her that truly can't be justified through words. That moment of true love, in which you feel as though you're finally complete, because you've peaked in a level of happiness that you've never experienced before.. until she brought it out. What a dream come true she's been to me.. which is why I despised opening my eyes this morning, to find the emptiness next to me in my bed, and to remember my new truth. It's part of the reason why I started going to bed much earlier, or generally sleeping a lot on the weekend too.. not because I'm tired physically so to speak, but rather because I'm tired of life. I want this valuable time to just speed on by, and I can meanwhile just enjoy and live in my alternate reality that are my dreams. They're much nicer after all. It's why I wish I didn't wake up sometimes. Sleeping permanently just feels more appealing than being in the endless pit of reality which contains despair, pain, agony, regret, and self loathing - to say the least. As my most played song of all time goes (which she once again would cringe at, which makes me smile that I'd know her instant reaction) - It's hard to say I'd rather stay awake when I'm asleep, because everything is never as it seems. Day 14 - return of an old friend and foe Unsure whether it was due to the coffee or just generally me (probably the combination of both to some extent, but considering I have a coffee every working day anyway, it's likely the latter), a familiar friend named anxiety came to visit me at work. The bitch was certainly not welcome, I'll tell you that, but nevertheless it barged it's way in through the weakly constructed walls of my head (no wonder she strengths them otherwise, she's a clever architect). Primarily because it's Monday, and I have a lot of significant work to actually do, especially prior to going up North for the whole day tomorrow for various work related interviews (look at me guys, I'm trying to make it sound like I'm important and what I do makes a difference, but I'm just another cog in the machine that can easily be replaced). But also, I'm not enjoying the fact that I'm beginning another working week and getting use to this shitty idea of not having her in my life in that way, through this anxious time. It was always so simple and nice to just speak to her about any stressful or pressure filled days, and to just feel so much better as a result of her listening and providing her presence. It would calm everything down, and I'd actually be able to feel as though I was breathing like a normal person. Even more so when I would see her in person or speak to her on the phone, as all that unnecessary load on my shoulders would just disappear or turn as minimal as it could be. She was my guardian angel, and just simply an angel, to even bother listening to me blabber on about my nonsense and put up with me in that regard, let alone display a level of care for me. I miss that. Being able to just message her anything at any point in the day without the fear of judgement or the fear and insecurity that once again I'm annoying / bothering her. Though I suppose it's more than nice to know yet again that she doesn't have to put up with these ongoing problems that were never really her concern anyway. It just reemphasises that growing sense of loneliness in me further however. I loved listening to everything about her days too, even if I didn't understand architecture jargon at times. I'd try google stuff at times just to attempt to make more sense of it and catch up to the same page as her, even though she was a full 5 years, inclusive of a thesis ahead, and also assure and show her that I do in fact care. And I still do - I genuinely enjoy hearing about what she's working on, what's being developed and what she's achieving (in addition to her indoor football stardom, and office antics inclusive of some co-worker personalities) - and in accordance with all that, if she's happy. Once in a while now, I'm still lucky to be involved enough in her life for her to continue to share these stories, and her days in general with me, though on a less regular basis. Though at the same time it sucks that it can't be as often as it use to, or go back to how it once was, as she's made it quite clear that it's not my concern, my duty, or my place to care like that anymore. Hurtful as those words can be, I can understand and try my best to listen to her. I'll just continue to persevere through it and still enjoy whatever she does decide to share with me, and it'll still make me happy to have that shared knowledge regarding how things are going for her. I just miss being the daily ears on the other end, as someone in my position would, because I do miss her every single day. But it is what it is, and I need to continue to start adjusting towards being this lone wolf, who needs to learn to deal with his added problems and stress on a daily basis like a real adult, on top of the problem of a human being that he already is. Evening time spent with the family after a hellish, yet productive day at work. Nothing exciting planned or required to be done this evening, aside from some light exercise and an early sleep for a pre-5am wake up call in the morning. Not that anything in my recent couple weeks can remotely fit the criteria of exciting or be defined as anything nearly as close to that - with the exception of the mission, last weekend.. and well, most thoughts about her in my head. Well there's other stuff too, but she's just set the bar high, and excitement is not currently an active mood whatsoever. But that's where my real exhilaration lies - imagination. Even though it is pretty limited, similar to my vocabulary and ability to describe all these scattered thoughts and emotions from different segments of my mind - which is why none of this is to literally have any likely proper form. It's just a failed punctuative of a continuous rambling about the same old stuff over and over, much like in this very inceptive moment. Anyway, back to my short evening of despair regarding everything that's broken - it sucks, even more so with acceptance. Sometimes the worst and most damagingly scarring feeling is knowing that some variables are now fixed - that no matter what, there is absolutely no possibility of changing this decided fate. No matter how utterly badly you might want it, and how ever much you wish you could go back in time and amend all your wrongs, Chris Martin will not try to fix you. Not anymore. Fuck you Coldplay. It was not all yellow, you overpriced English bastards. Though I'll admit you've now inspired me to pick up the guitar and play whatever crappy, limited chord and strumming capability stuff that I can. More on the depressing side of choice however, as it's obviously poetic and engages me with my overbearingly lame and emotional self, whilst making me sound like an absolute douchebag (self-high five for empathic emphasis). Anyhow, back to embracing the thudding of my heart against my chest oh so hurtfully - because it's what my ecstatic audience of nil really wishes to hear about, and you gotta give the people what they want after all. In this case, it's just me, myself and I - who switches persons and persona quite often it seems. Damn, you're really going to end up in an asylum, aren't you? Probably. Anyway - What gets me even more nervous and anxious now is not knowing when I'll next ever see her, because I certainly don't think I'll be able to stand for the first time since the last(whenever it may be), to be in a group setting, that's for sure. Not that I wish to assume how it'd turn out either way, but I know that it would be unorthodox for me to just pretend like everything's okay, or to just be a somewhat polite and passive existence, for the sake of being mature and politically fair in a circle of people. There's obviously a reason that I'm failing to face a group of people properly right now, even without her presence. I'm not saying I would be a dick on purpose (though it may come naturally), but I just can't fake it enough in that circumstance, considering my last memory of us together in each other's presence is.. something completely different. Group politics aside, it's still unknown and unfamiliar what the dynamics would be like between us since that moment if we were alone. What I can be certain of, is that it'll be some sort of variation of my months on end friend-zone of admiration, though toned down, based on the history since and our hardships equally suffered. Although - the most serious and significant fact of this matter right now is, that I'm going to shut the hell up. Because I'm doing it again. It's the problem with blabbering on too much, and thinking out loud even more as a result - stop complicating things that aren't complicated. She may as well sing Avril to me because it's the most appropriate thing to do at this moment - I mean It's not a fucking scientific study in which you test out which potential hypothesis ends up being the victorious result. Just calm down, and relax - no more assumptions and expectations of any sort. It's the key learning that I'm trying very much to implement in myself, to make myself a better me, who doesn't screw things up - which is still an impossible feature. Even more that I'm the asshole of a hypocrite whom always requested that she kindly didn't think too much ahead about anything, and that she just relax and live in the moment with me.. when I'm the idiot who once again can't follow his own advice. My goodness she must've gotten sick of me constantly telling her to relax and calm down, repeatedly on many a occasion, when even that blame should be upon me for aggravating any of that behaviour unnecessarily. I brought each and every justified reaction of hers upon myself through my own accord - Newton's third law. I'm the selfish bastard who would keep pushing, and pushing and then complain about what he can't have, even though she's right there. I may as well play the role of the phantom, but a demented version of even him. No wonder I constantly drove her up a wall, and past all the red lights on the road (I kid, she's a great driver - but may as well finish off this tragic evening consisting of a two week mark on a somewhat positive and comedic note, right?).