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celestialmark · 4 years

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Lacuna - Part Five (Finale)

- Characters: Johnny Suh x reader, members of nct - Category: single parent au, fluff, slight angst - Word count: 8.2k - Warnings: minimal cursing - Navigation: prologue | part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | epilogue - Author’s notes: how is this the last part already ;~; I hope you like it!! I was so emotional writing this ;; it might be a mess sorry slkdjsfhsdjf we have the epilogue left so I'll write a longer thank you message then ;;

The days seem to blur together in a haze as you barely notice the slight drop in temperatures to indicate winter’s arrival. Even though you’ve been at home the past few days with the autumn break rolling into the change in season, you hardly recognise the way the leaves have changed their colours, from luscious greens to bright hues of yellows and oranges. You’re so caught up in your thoughts that when Johnny resumes his frequent visits for Youngho, you just stare blankly at him, his words from that night still too loud in your head.

Today is no different, you’re gawking at him with empty eyes when he slips himself in the doorway, ready to collect Youngho to fulfil his promise of taking him out to a kid’s café that was recommended to him by his colleagues at work. He meets your eyes momentarily and you’re too unfocused to even realise he’s gazing at your pale features with worry. Youngho comes running down the stairs then and that’s when he only looks away from you.

Youngho is tugging at your sleeve and that’s the only time you finally come back to your senses. “Mommy, I’ll see you later,” he mumbles from below you.

You nod quickly, bending down to kiss his cheek, “Have fun okay?” your voice is hoarse and the unfamiliar sensation of pain in your throat is only being picked up by you now. You clear your throat, scrunching your face slightly when you do, swallowing carefully after it. “Love you.”

Right when you finish helping Youngho zip up his jacket, you rise to stand straight away and you instantly regret it when you feel your head spin. You’re grabbing at the wall beside you for support and that’s when you’re convinced there was something definitely wrong, not to mention the way your body feels warm too.

Johnny is watching you with knitted brows, great worry bubbling inside him more than he’ll ever admit. Distancing himself from you the past couple of weeks was proving to be so much harder than he had initially expected and looking at you now, there was nothing more he wanted than to look after you because anyone could tell, your body was starting to give way.

“Ready?” He asks Youngho as he offers his hand for him to take.

“Ready!” Youngho cheers, holding Johnny’s hand.

Johnny turns to you before leaving and you’re trying so hard to keep your eyes open, the dizziness too much for you. Maybe it’s because you’d forgotten to eat breakfast this morning despite sitting with Youngho to make sure he ate his.

“My parents.. They want to meet Youngho this weekend,” Johnny starts, briefly glancing at Youngho with a smile at the mention of his grandparents. “Is that okay with you?”

You nod weakly, “That’s okay.”

“They want you there too.”

You blink hard, Johnny becoming blurry by the minute, and repeating his words in your head to make sure you heard right. “M-me?”

You barely see Johnny nod, “Yeah. They want to see you.”

You nod too quickly, not even sparing it anymore thought, wanting nothing else but for the two to leave so you could finally lie down. “Yeah, okay.”

When Johnny finally leaves with Youngho, his gaze on you lingering a little longer, you’re quick to slide the glass doors shut with a lot more difficulty, your limbs suddenly feeling too weak, your legs almost giving way as you trudge upstairs to your bedroom. You don’t remember much after you fall in slumber as soon as you close your eyes under the comfort of your covers.

All you knew was that you weren’t feeling great and missing Johnny too much wasn’t helping either.

Some hours in the evening, you’re woken up by the ringing of your phone. You’re groaning in pain when you’re shuffling under the covers to locate it, your eyes squinting immediately when you come face to face with the screen. You see Taeyong’s name on the screen and it disappears just when your finger is about to press the green button to accept his call. On your home screen, you see a bunch of missed calls and texts, with Taeyong’s name at the very top recording seven missed calls and ten messages. You’re about to open one of his messages when his name reappears on your screen again, this time with you catching it just in time.

“Hello?”

“Y/n! Where have you been!” Taeyong sounds worried over the other end of the line.

“Sorry, I’ve been sleeping all day.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah I’m- actually no, my head hurts and I can’t move.”

“What? Oh god, okay I’m coming.”

You’re not alarmed when you subtly hear the door being unlocked downstairs a short twenty minutes later, remembering Taeyong owned spare keys to your place. You’re trembling under your skin when he opens the door to your bedroom, peeking his head in first.

“Y/n?”

“In here Yong.”

Taeyong drops the plastic bag in his hand on the floor with a soft thud as he scurries to pull the covers from your face to reveal you as pale as ever and sweat running down your forehead. Taeyong lands the back of his hand on your forehead, and sure enough you were absolutely burning.

“You’re running a fever,” he says calmly, though inside his slightly panicking. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

You smile weakly, “I thought it’d go away if I had some sleep.”

You just about see Taeyong roll his eyes before you’re closing yours again, the pounding of your head too unbearable. “Yeah and see where that brought you.”

“Stop nagging already,” you tease, pulling the covers closer to your body.

“Where’s Youngho?” Taeyong asks as he shuffles around your room to look for a small towel.

“He’s out with Johnny.”

Taeyong disappears from your room and reappears a minute later with a damp towel in his hands. He places it on top of your forehead but not before dabbing your whole face with it to cool you down. He leaves that on for five minutes until he’s tugging at your arm to help you sit up on the bed. You protest at first, one hundred percent certain you didn’t have the energy to do so, but you try your best with Taeyong’s help, unprepared to hear another round of his nagging that will surely make your head ache even more.

“You need to take medicine, but you can’t have it on an empty stomach,” he points out, fluffing the pillows behind your back to make sure you’re comfortable. “I take it that you haven’t eaten anything all day?”

You smile sheepishly through hooded eyes and you don’t even miss the incredulous look on his face before his stretching down to retrieve something from the bag he’s brought with him.

You watch as he takes the lid off the bowl in his hands, your head falling back on the headboard, already feeling nauseous at the sight of food. “It’s just soup, even just try a few spoonfuls,” Taeyong explains, seeing you grimace even more when you get a whiff of it.

Taeyong succeeds in feeding you at least five spoonfuls before you nearly gag at the last one, the contents of your already empty stomach threatening to come back up after trying so hard to hold them down. Taeyong puts it away, knowing he’s pushed your limits and grabs a bottle of water followed by a small tablet in his palm.

“Here,” Taeyong says, handing the two over to you. “This should bring the fever down and ease the body aches too.”

You smile gratefully, swallowing the tablet and downing nearly half of the water bottle, eager to get better already because you were tired of having no energy left even though it’s only been a mere day. Taeyong helps you settle back in bed, breathing a sigh of relief when you find yourself in a comfortable position.

“What happened anyway? How did you get sick?” Taeyong asks lowly, switching the lights off in your room and turning on the dim lamp by your bedside table.

“Not sure. Maybe it’s the change in weather,” you suggest, clearly not telling him the part where you’d been unable to sleep properly the past few nights.

Taeyong is tidying up around your room and you hope your lie goes unnoticed by him, though a big part of you knew you could never hide from him. He doesn’t say anything though, and you mentally thank him just as your exhaustion lulls you back to sleep.

You’re so deep in sleep that you don’t wake up to the doorbell ringing downstairs a few hours after Taeyong arrived. When he opens the door, Johnny is immediately raising his brow at the sight of his friend, confused as to why he’s greeting him instead of you, a sick feeling already pitting at the bottom of his stomach as he releases Youngho from his arms.

“Hey John,” Taeyong smiles. “Hey little one!”

Youngho is grinning at Taeyong when he ruffles his hair.

“Hey Tae, where’s y/n?” Johnny asks, ducking his head to see if you were anywhere in sight behind Taeyong.

“She’s sleeping upstairs,” Taeyong replies. “She’s not well.”

“Mommy’s not well?” Youngho pipes up from below big eyes ogling at Taeyong. “What happened?”

“Mommy just has a fever, that’s all,” Taeyong answers with a smile to ease the child’s concerns. “She just needs to rest.”

Youngho is racing up the stairs in a lightning speed after he kicks his shoes off, not even bothering to take his coat off of him. Johnny enters the house and locks the door behind him, almost too eager to see you just as much as Youngho was, but holding himself back with every fibre of his being so as to not crumble, though he was so close to doing just that.

Johnny watches Taeyong who’s showing Youngho how to gently dab at your face with the towel in his small hand by the doorway and when Youngho gets the hang of it, Taeyong rises to join Johnny who’s leaning on the doorframe, studying your sleeping figure. Maybe if he had let go of his pride earlier, it wouldn’t have come to this, already having a strong hunch something was off with you in the morning.

“She alright?” Johnny asks lowly, still gazing over you.

“Yeah. Just pretty tired and body aches everywhere. But her fever’s coming down and she took some medicine earlier,” Taeyong replies before turning to Johnny. “Is everything okay between you two?”

“What?”

“Y/n says she got sick because of the weather. But we all know that’s a lie. The woman looks like she hasn’t slept in years. By the looks of it, she seems to have lost some weight too. I think that’s why her body gave in,” Taeyong points out truthfully, not buying your lie from a few hours back. “Did.. something happen between you two?”

Johnny’s heart drops, feeling responsible for your current state and mentally blaming himself for the deterioration of your health. He lets his eyes wander over you again and then at his son who looks more worried than ever as he tends to you. If he was being honest, he wasn’t sure what has happened either, the memory of seeing Doyoung with you still so fresh in his head, it blocks all his other thoughts out and his ability to come up with sound reasoning. All he knows is that he was a mess from all of this.

Taeyong takes Johnny’s silence as his answer, along with the worried glint in his eyes that glaze over your tired body.

“Whatever this whole thing between you is, you need to fix it. And you need to fix it fast.”

You awake a little past two in the morning, the sound of the television downstairs traveling all the way to reach your room, your open bedroom door allowing for it to reach your ears. You reach for the towel on your forehead and take it off, setting it aside and shuffle yourself to the edge of the bed until you can swing your legs to the side. The pounding of your head is gone and you were no longer in a sweating mess, nor did you feel anymore shivers. When you look down, you recognise you’re in a hoodie compared to this morning, only clad in a thin shirt, this one seeming to be one you’ve never seen before and it most definitely did not smell like you. Nonetheless, it’s comfortable and it’s keeping you warm despite the hugeness of it swallowing almost more than half of your body.

When you reach the bottom of the stairs, you notice the pair of shoes by the doorway, one you know definitely did not belong to you or Youngho, the size too big for either of you. Is Taeyong still here? Your eyes widen then when you remember Youngho, only dawning onto you now about your lack of knowledge of his whereabouts after not having seen him all day. You hurry your steps when your first instinct is to check the living room, your soul almost leaving your body thinking about your son. But you breathe a sigh of relief when you find him in the living room, fast asleep under what appears to be some sort of makeshift fort. What surprises you though, is the person next to him, cradling him as he sleeps.

Johnny is there, fast asleep like Youngho was, draped loosely in a blanket that was barely big enough to shelter him from the cold, the majority of it covering Youngho instead. You lean on the doorframe for a few minutes, the sight warming your insides, Johnny’s devotion to Youngho as a dad so endearing you wish things would just work themselves out so that in any other situation, this could become a sight you would love coming home to every day.

You move stealthily across the living room and retrieve the remote control to turn of the television and exercise extra caution when you tiptoe around the fort, carefully kneeling down on the floor. As quietly as you could and as gentle as your body allowed you, you gently take Youngho in your arms, the child moving slightly in your arms, automatically wrapping his arms around your neck and leaning his head against your shoulder. You pause when you retreat, watching Johnny move in his sleep, turning to face the other way. Thankful you didn’t wake him, you exit the living room quietly and head for Youngho’s room where you can put him to bed.

Right after kissing Youngho good night on the forehead, you leave his room and head for the extra room in the house where you’ve kept extra blankets and extra pillows. You grab two pillows and a relatively large blanket for Johnny so that he’s warm for the rest of the night. You set your things down on the couch when you re-enter the living room, reaching for the light switch so that the room dims with either lamps on two corners of the room illuminating the place. Johnny’s still in the same spot you left him in just five minutes ago and you grab the blanket first to place it on top of the blanket Youngho was previously in. You’re careful not to wake him, tugging at the corners so that it covers his entire body, keeping a close eye on him just in case your gestures woke him up in any way.

You tilt your head to the side, grimacing at how flat his head laid on the carpeted floor, the position of it sure to leave his neck sore in the morning. So you grab one of the pillows from the couch and set it beside you. You feel nervous for what you’re about to do next but you push through with it anyway, wanting to look after this man in front of you. You move closer to him, scooping your arm under his neck gently before drawing strength to lift him up slightly. You take the pillow with your free hand and skillfully slide it under his head, setting him back down without waking him.

You’re about to retract your arm from under him when you suddenly feel his arms circle around your waist, tightening them and pulling you towards him, causing you to fall forward until your body is lying on top of his. Needless to say, the pace of your heart skyrockets even more, your face abruptly really close to his. You watch his face in silence and he opens his eyes momentarily, as if peeking at you before he closes them again, his head moving against the pillow until he’s comfortable.

“Johnny-“

“Stay here with me like this.”

“But-“

You’re not sure why you’re protesting because Johnny’s arms are literally the most comfortable place to be in right now.

“Just for tonight,” he murmurs, his features unmoving. “Please.”

“Okay.”

Johnny trails one of hands upwards so he can gently lay your head against his chest. He keeps it rested there though, softly stroking your hair in hopes of lulling you to sleep. You’re careful when you remove your hand from under his neck and you don’t know what takes over you next, maybe it’s the years of longing for this man or maybe it’s all the pent up affection and the mere desire of wanting to be with him, but you let your arm drape across his body, pulling yourself closer to him.

You’re anticipating Johnny’s reaction, but when he sighs out of what you make out to be relief, you close your eyes finally, comfort settling in your chest knowing you’re going to get the best sleep in what feels like forever. You can hear Johnny’s steady heartbeat, the echo of it in your ears tugging at your heartstrings, knowing all too well that this may be the first and last time you may ever be this close to him. You try to push the thought aside and worry about it for another day, because right now, Johnny was here, holding you in all the right ways that makes all the broken parts of you come together again.

You feel Johnny’s grip around your waist tighten, consequently making warming you in his arms.

“You look great in my hoodie by the way.”

When the weekend arrives, you feel your nerves take over your entire body, looking at yourself in the mirror for the hundredth time, poking at your hair, still very unsatisfied no matter which way it settled. You pull at the ends of the knot that you’ve made on the scarf that keeps your hair out of your face, studying your features in the mirror, suddenly growing all too conscious with how you looked. You shouldn’t be nervous, you tell yourself, you’re meeting people you’ve known from before and better yet, two of the kindest people you know.

“Mommy! Daddy’s here!”

Your eyes are about to pop of its sockets when you come face to face with Johnny at the front door. It was like looking at yourself in the mirror, kind of. Johnny wore almost the exact same clothes as you; a loose white dress shirt tucked into a pair of black slacks that stop right at his ankles, matching his look with white shoes that look almost the exact same as yours. The only difference was that you were sporting a pair of light brown trousers. Johnny takes a doubletake at you and a smile appears on his face at the unexpected coincidence.

Youngho switches his attention between the both of you, happy that the three of you seemed to colour coordinate, with his white shirt and black jeans. For the first time since meeting Johnny, he actually feels like a family with the two of you like this.

“Johnny, hi,” you breathe after you finish scrutinising him from head to toe, something you hoped he hadn’t noticed. You’re suddenly nervous in front of him too, the mere memory of that night you’d spend together in the living room, coming to mind. Were things going to look up from here?

“Hey,” Johnny greets with a small smile. “Ready?”

You nod and turn to the side, “Let me just grab my coat.” You’re about to reach for your black trench coat when you realise that if you do go ahead and wear this one, coincidentally looking the exact same as the one Johnny’s wearing, it would definitely seem that you two planned this. So you reach out further on the other end of the rack, opting for another colour instead, settling with a darker shade of brown.

“Ready,” you announce when you manage to slip yourself into the coat.

Johnny wished you picked the black coat instead.

You’re quiet the whole car ride, unconsciously picking at your fingers as you stare out the window with the landscape whizzing past you. Johnny and Youngho’s conversations are drowned out by your ears with the screaming of your thoughts, a million scenarios of how today might turn out playing in your mind and sending your nerves further on the edge. It reminds of you of the day you first set out to let Johnny meet Youngho for the first time, your anxieties skyrocketing when your overthinking self clouded all the potential good outcomes of the meeting. But it was somewhat different this time, because this was Johnny’s parents you were talking about, the very people whom Johnny has dedicated half of his life working hard for.

You involuntarily release a sigh when you lower your head, your eyes now trained on your palms resting on your lap. The thought of Johnny’s parents finding about Youngho completely flew out of your mind, the recent events more than enough to occupy your thoughts. And now that it was finally happening, you were suddenly worried of what they might think. Would they think horribly of you? For keeping Johnny’s son from him? Are they going to like Youngho? How was Youngho going to react? Would they comment about your parenting—

Your train of worries get interrupted when you feel a hand land on your arm. When you look to your side, you find Johnny’s eyes trained on the road for a second before briefly turning his head to look at you. His smile that follows is comforting and he gives your arm a light squeeze, almost as if hearing your thoughts.

At that moment, despite feeling nervous, you knew you were going to be alright.

You feel your knees grow weak as you wait outside the front door of a house you’ve never been to before, the Suh residences having changed over the past few years, the building in front of you way bigger than the last, but emitting the same homey feeling with the various plants and flowers placed generously by the front porch and the driveway. You’re squeezing Youngho’s hand tight with your eyes plastered permanently on the white door, the child seemingly a lot more excited to be meeting his grandparents, a complete contrast to how you were taking all of this in.

You don’t realise Johnny ducking his head to take a peek at you and sees how tense you’ve gotten. He’s about to say something when the front door swings open then, revealing Mrs Suh who’s already smiling up to her eyes. Your eyes widen when you see her and you don’t get a chance to greet her first when you’re launched straight into her arms as she pulls you with both of her hands, squeezing you tight.

“Y/n!” she exclaims, patting your back and letting go of you briefly, holding you by the shoulders to take one good look at you. “You haven’t changed at all! You look even more beautiful than I remember you last!” and then she hugs you again, her motherly instincts immediately making you relax. From her shoulder, you see Mr Suh who’s smiling at you fondly and you return it, happy to see they were still the people you remember them to be; welcoming and warm.

“How are things Mrs Suh,” you chuckle, loosening up when she lets go of you.

“Good good!” Mrs Suh exclaims and glares at Johnny momentarily, “I keep telling this guy over here to bring you sooner, I’m glad he finally granted my wishes.” Her eyes then travel to Youngho looking up at her from in between you and Johnny. Her eyes widen but the smile returns on her face just as fast. “Oh my goodness and who do we have here! Youngho, isn’t it?”

Mr Suh steps forward and gives your shoulder a squeeze, a fatherly smile adorning his features, “It’s good to see you, y/n.”

Your smile widens, remembering how these two made you feel so at home from the past and as you look down at Youngho, you see him smiling at Mrs Suh, knowing all too well it’s her motherly demeanour that’s gotten him very comfortable with the stranger he’s meeting for the first time ever.

“I’m Youngho,” your son confirms and you see Mrs Suh coo at him immediately.

Mrs Suh shares a glance with Mr Suh, already smitten with her grandson, “He looks exactly like Johnny,” he murmurs to his husband before returning her attention to Youngho, crouching down in the process. “Hi Youngho, it’s so lovely to meet you. I’m your dad’s mum,” he gestures to Mr Suh who’s waving at him, “And this is his dad.”

“Grandma,” Youngho utters, shifting his gaze between the two, remembering the conversation he’s had with Johnny to prepare him for today, “And grandad.”

Mrs Suh nods eagerly, “Yes! Yes! That’s right!”

And you swear you almost see Mrs Suh tear up when Youngho lets go of both yours and Johnny’s hands so he can step forward and give her a hug. Mr Suh watches in silence with a smile, sharing a glance with Johnny who’s smiling just as wide.

Youngho takes it all in well, conversing with Johnny’s parents over lunch and even making them laugh over the table as they look at him with admiration in their eyes. Johnny was right, you really had nothing to worry about. These were Johnny’s parents after all, the very extension of him, the kindest and purest soul you know. You get the opportunity to catch up with them too, filling them up on the five years, on how your life’s progressed and what you do for a living now and you feel so loved, because Mr and Mrs Suh have always been so genuine and today was definitely no different. And as you watch and listen to the four of them converse, you can’t help but feel a little empty inside, imagining this sight to be a part of your daily life if only things hadn’t become so complicated with you and Johhny. In an alternate universe, everything would go in your favour, things would be much simpler and time would be on your side.

When lunch is over, you’re helping Mrs Suh with the dishes by the kitchen while the boys are out in the garden touring curious Youngho around, having squealed earlier at the sight of a mini playground provided and set up just for him by his grandparents. Mrs Suh is washing the dishes while you stand right beside her, drying everything she hands to you with the towel in your hands.

“I’m so happy you came to visit us today y/n, it’s so good to see you,” she says, smiling to herself.

You smile unknowingly, “It’s been so nice to see you too, it really has been a while.”

“All this while we didn’t know you were raising your son on your own,” her tone suddenly drops, a hint of regret in her voice though she did nothing wrong. “I’m so sorry you had to go through all of that by yourself.”

You shake your head, taking a plate from her, “No no, please don’t be. It was my decision not to let Johnny know, I had to take responsibility for it. And sorry too, for not letting you know sooner.”

You see Mrs Suh nod from the corner of your eye. “Johnny told me the whole thing. His dad and I, were so shocked to hear it at first but more than anything, we were delighted he had a son, and even more so, that he had a son with you.”

Your smile disappears as you lower your head, a tightness forming in your chest. You don’t speak, not really sure what to say to that as you continue to dry the utensils that’s being handed to you. You don’t realise you’ve worked through all the dishes until you see Mrs Suh turning the tap off, patting her hands dry on the apron that’s wrapped around her waist. She turns around then with you following suit, leaning on the counter to stare out the window that revealed the back garden, Johnny and his dad talking amongst themselves while keeping an eye on Youngho who’s entertaining himself by the swings.

“Johnny.. you know he’s always wanted to have family of his own,” Mrs Suh starts, looking right ahead. “You don’t know how happy he was when he told us he was a father.”

You fiddle with your fingers, knowing this all too well, the talks of the future from your younger years spent with Johnny suddenly popping up in your head.

“We always felt so guilty because we felt like he couldn’t make decisions for himself, you know, with his early involvement in the family company. We felt like he was more obligated to take over it rather than actually want to inherit it,” Mrs Suh sighs. “We feel like he lost so much because he chose it over what he actually wanted, and that was to stay with you, y/n.”

Mrs Suh takes one of your hands in hers and envelops it between both of her palms. The gesture eases the pain inside, the hole in your heart getting bigger by the minute for everything that could have been.

“The only wish I have for him now is for him to do whatever he wants. To actually go for what he wants this time. Unapologetically.”

Meanwhile, outside, where the sun is shining and the trees are swaying to the wind, Johnny and his dad fall into conversation about you and your life with Youngho without your knowledge as they watch over the child, still too engrossed with what his grandparents had prepared for him. Johnny’s kicking at the ground, palms stuffed in his pockets, happy that his son was having a great time, even when he’s playing by himself.

“So how’s the situation between you and y/n?” Mr Suh casually asks, affection in his eyes as he lets his gaze follow Youngho’s every move.

“Good. I take Youngho every now and again when I have some free time,” Johnny replies, though knowing his dad is going to press on the matter further.

“And how is she taking that?”

Johnny nods his head, lowering his gaze to the ground, “Alright. She’s happy for me to do it. I just really want to make it up to Youngho, so I try my best.”

“And what are you doing to make it up to her?”

Johnny halts the motions of his feet, rooting them both to the ground as he lifts his head to look at his dad who hasn’t moved an inch. It gets Johnny thinking. What was he doing to make it up to you? Another wave of guilt settles in when nothing comes to mind, when he realises that he was probably making your situation worse by being so indifferent towards you.

Mr Suh inhales a deep breath, finally tearing his eyes off Youngho and letting his eyes glaze over his back garden, to which Mrs Suh has carefully and consistently tended to over the years. Knowing his son too well, his silence says it all.

“You need to do better,” Mr Suh suggests. “Y/n has obviously done such a great job raising Youngho by herself for four years. Don’t you think she deserves a little more credit than what you’re giving her?”

Mr Suh was right.

“You’re not getting back together?”

“No, Dad.”

“May I ask why?” This time, Mr Suh turns his head to meet Johnny’s eyes, a gentle expression on his aged features.

“It’s complicated.”

“It’s only complicated if you make it to be complicated,” he says, knowing the despair in Johnny’s eyes all too well for having witnessed them every single day for the past five years. “You don’t give up on the people you want to keep in your life, John.”

“I know that. It’s just—” Johnny sighs and directs his gaze to Youngho in the distance. Johnny doesn’t finish his sentence when he realises he really doesn’t know what to say, no words seeming to match what he feels.

Mr Suh follows Johnny’s gaze as another smile grazes his lips. “You’ve waited five years, son. She’s right here in front of you. You have a child together. That’s your whole world in your hands.”

Mr Suh pauses and lands a palm on Johnny’s shoulder, patting it.

“You don’t let go of that, ever.”

Johnny’s mulling over his dad’s words over and over again in his head, occasionally glancing at you in the passenger seat on the drive to your house. He knew his dad was right, he really did have the world right in the palm of his hands, two of the people whom he would literally do anything for, so close to him. There were so many questions he wanted to ask you, so many things he’s been wanting to say. But the fear of knowing and finding out all the answers to whatever would come out of his mouth always made him cower away, the pain of leaving you too almost too unbearable for him in the past, naturally inching him closer to refusal of acknowledging what he felt for fear of experiencing the exact same thing all over again should you not feel the same.

He lacked courage. He knew that. You have always been the one with more guts between the two of you.

He feels your eyes on him when he kisses Youngho good night after tucking him in bed, suddenly wanting this to be a part of his daily routine, with you being the first and last thing he sees the moment he wakes and the moment he sleeps. He gazes at you and you’re the first to look away and walk out of Youngho’s room. He follows not too long after and he meets you at the bottom of the staircase, a paper bag in your hands.

“Your hoodie,” you say lowly, handing him the bag. “Thanks for lending it to me.”

Johnny nods, “How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

“Yeah?”

“Hm.”

There’s silence in the air but Johnny holds his gaze and you don’t have the heart to look away. In any other given situation, this would be the perfect time to tell him everything but the only thing was that you had no clue where to start, still not having a clue why Johnny had been behaving in such a way that he has been.

“Johnny can we please talk?” You finally ask and for the first time ever, it seems like Johnny will say yes, that he’ll finally be able to hear you out even though you weren’t in any obligation to explain yourself. But at this point, you just wanted to do anything to get him to talk.

Johnny braces himself because he feels like he’s going to crack soon, the plan he had so badly wanted to execute, to save himself and prevent a repeat of the past, becoming nothing more than a small thought at the back of his head because he knew, his feelings for you were always going to overpower everything else.

“Okay,” Johnny says.

And you smile because finally. Maybe tonight things will change.

But they don’t. Because your phone begins to ring and the name that appears on your screen, one that Johnny happens to read, leaves a bitter taste on his mouth, a slap of reality hitting him like a truck. He’s reminded of the very reason why he had to stay away from you in the first place.

And it’s enough to convince Johnny that there was nothing that needed to be talked about tonight after all.

“Doie— I’ll call you back.”

But Johnny is already out the door.

On a Friday afternoon, after school, Johnny picks Youngho up from school and brings him to his favourite ice cream parlour despite the chilly autumn weather, with Youngho vowing never to tell you for having such dessert at such weather after having convinced Johnny to take him there. Johnny’s dabbing at the corner of Youngho’s lip with a tissue when a smudge of his chocolate ice cream stains it, smiling at him fondly before returning to his own honeycomb ice cream.

Youngho scoots closer to Johnny on the booth, licking his bottom lip before speaking. “Daddy, is everything okay with you and mommy?”

Johnny’s brows shoot up at the uncalled-for question and turns to his son, setting his ice cream cup on the table, “Hm? Of course. What made you ask?”

Youngho blinks and Johnny takes his cone from him when the ice cream begins to drip down his hand, proceeding to wipe his hand next and settling his cone on the stand on the table. “You don’t talk to each other as much as you used to,” Youngho points out innocently. “And mommy looks sad these days.”

Johnny freezes, letting his son’s words sink in, baffled at how much he’s overlooked in relation to how much Youngho would pick up. The thought of you sad makes his heart ache, remembering just how miserable you looked when you had gotten sick just weeks prior. “She does?”

Youngho nods and just his lips outward in a pout. “Yeah, she spaces out a lot too. Sometimes, I have to repeat myself to her.” His big eyes peer at Johnny’s, “Everything is okay right daddy? You didn’t fight with mommy or anything?”

Johnny tries to reassure Youngho with a smile, “No, of course not. Mommy and I didn’t fight.”

Youngho nods slowly, a small smile creeping on his face upon hearing Johnny’s words. “Well that’s good. Because mommy said she really misses you.”

“She said that?”

Youngho nods again, “For five years, she said.”

“She said that?”

“She also said she’s happy you’re my dad.”

Johnny doesn’t blink nor does he move from his spot, his son’s confessions suddenly too much for him to take in, a rush of images of you in his head piling in one by one during all the times he’s struggled to distance himself away from you. His heart drops at the memory of his conversation with his dad, that no matter how many times he’s mulled over his words, they didn’t seem to settle with him fully until this very moment.

“Youngho, what else did mommy say about me?”

Youngho taps at his chin in deep thought, “Nothing much else daddy. She just told me about how you both met when you were in university and how she didn’t really like you at first but that you won her heart over in the end.”

Johnny smiles, the memory of you finally agreeing to date him coming to mind, “Yeah. That’s true.” Johnny loses himself in his thoughts for a while, until finally asking Youngho things he should really be asking you. “Is mommy.. seeing someone else?”

Youngho blinks, “She’s seeing you.”

“No no baby, I mean like.. Doyoung?”

“Mister Doie?” Youngho repeats, confusion visible on his face. “I haven’t seen him in weeks daddy. He used to visit a lot more often, but not anymore. Uncle Yong says he likes mommy but I don’t think mommy likes him back.”

“You think so?”

“Hm! I think mommy likes you more.”

“I really like your mommy too.”

“Really?” Youngho beams and almost springs up to his seat but then grimaces just as fast. “It doesn’t seem like it though..”

“What do you mean?” Johnny asks, raising a brow.

Youngho sighs and pouts after. “I used to think you do. And then these days, I don’t think you do anymore. You don’t ask her if she’s eaten anymore.. And you don’t ask her to come out with us anymore too.”

Johnny closes his eyes, disappointed and remorseful. Anyone could tell from a mile away just how horrible he’s been treating you, heck, even his four-year-old son picked it up straight away. Maybe if he had just heard you out that night, things wouldn’t have gotten this far, to the point where even his own son is questioning the stability of your relationship.

“Youngho I want you to know that I love her more than anything else.”

With Youngho spending a lot more time with Johnny, you’ve gotten a lot more time for yourself to think. The following days following that night are still a blur to you. The only difference now was that you got a text message from Johnny’s mum every now and again to check up on you, asking you if you needed anything of all sorts with the occasional invitation to come and visit them with Youngho again. Seeing Johnny take out Youngho on agreed days of the week got harder and harder because with every short visit and with every encounter with you that seemed to only last a few mere seconds, Johnny felt more distant than ever. Gazes become glances and greetings were shortened to one word replies from the both of you. It was wrecking your head to say the least because you didn’t even get the chance to confront what happened that night in the living room. You knew it was going to be a short lived happiness, but with Johnny’s uninterested demeanour and refusal to even look at you for longer than a minute was beginning to suffocate you.

But then your earlier conversations with Johnny resurface in your head and you feel stupid then. Because you remember that Johnny is only here to be Youngho’s dad. Nothing more and nothing less. And not only has Johnny’s cold and unusual behaviour thrown you off, the reminder of the fact that he’s only here to adhere to his responsibilities as a dad make it all the more harder in a sense that you were sure you wanted something more than that.

Admitting to yourself you wanted him was already difficult enough, but forcing yourself to accept it wasn’t possible made everything hurt again like it was just yesterday.

If he’s made up his mind. Then you’ve definitely made up yours.

You’ve lost your first love before. And that was enough pain for this lifetime.

No more.

You’re jolted awake from your thoughts when the doorbell echoes through the house. You find the mailman outside and in his hands are a bunch of envelopes you presume are for you. After a short greeting and a thank you for all his hard work, you retreat back into the comfort of your home, scanning through the various envelopes now in your hands. They’re all addressed to you but what catches your eye is the small brown envelope with your name and address inked on it, the envelope looking like it has aged years. You set the other letters down on the kitchen counter as you analyse the one in your hand, making wild guesses to whom the handwriting on the envelope might belong to. It seems oddly familiar, but when no great assumptions come to mind, you go ahead and open it.

Your heart drops as soon as you begin reading.

22nd December 2014 Dear y/n,

I don’t even know if this letter is going reach you. The post box instruction says they post the letters on a specific date you choose and I’m not sure why I chose a date in five years time either. Maybe because I want to know how you’re doing, which doesn’t make sense either because I know you’re never going write back.

I miss you. Hell, I was missing you even when we were together all the time. It’s winter here but today feels a little warmer than all the other days. And it made me think of you, you always preferred the warm than the cold. But that’s a lie though, I haven’t stopped thinking about you since. It’s been three months since I left and I still can’t get you out of my head. I hate that I had to leave because you know, if I didn’t need to, I wouldn’t have. I hope that when I’ve made a name for myself, that when I’m able to finally give you the life you deserve, that you’d still be there, that I wouldn’t be too late because I know you’re the only one I want to spend the rest of my life with.

If you’re married and settled down by the time this comes to you and if this post box really does work, you can just toss this in the bin and forget I ever wrote this. I hope he treats you good because you deserve nothing but good.

I wish you well, y/n. I miss you every day.

Love, Suh Youngho.

When Johnny comes through your front door after having spent the whole day with Youngho who’s fallen asleep in his arms, you try not to cry because this was Johnny. The very man you wanted to spend your whole life with, carrying your most prized possession in your whole life. When he comes back down after setting Youngho in bed, the tears you’ve been trying to keep in the whole day ever since reading his letter, are already falling. He’s about to say goodbye to you for the night but the sight of your tears make him stop in his tracks along with the sight of his letter in your hands.

Now was definitely the right time to address everything unspoken between the two of you, regardless of the decisions you’ve both made not to pursue everything you both didn’t get to continue back then.

“That letter..” Johnny almost whispers, his chest beginning to heave, too stunned to move closer to you.

“Why?” You ask helplessly, your voice cracking. “Is.. this letter.. Everything in it.. Is it true?”

Johnny holds his gaze on you, biting down on his teeth and forcing himself to be tough but how could he be when you were crying, and the reason was because of him.

“Yes.”

Your crystal tears continue to fall at his confirmation. “Then why.. Why do you keep pushing me away like that? And you pull me back and then act like nothing happened?”

“Y/n, it’s not like that, you don’t understand—”

“Then make me understand,” you sob, your fingers trembling. You’ve never missed Johnny this much in your whole life and he was just right here, standing in the same room as you. Months of frustration, years of longing, weeks of pining all boiled down to this.

Johnny runs a hand through his hair in a frustrated manner, all the pent up difficulties of having to avoid you these past few weeks finally catching up to him, knowing that you never really understood how hard it was for him to do so.

“You have no idea y/n. You have no fucking idea of what I went through because of you,” Johnny says lowly, suddenly deflecting the blame on you, which wasn’t his intention.

You release an exasperated sigh, your tears barely allowing you to see Johnny. “Oh wow! So it’s my fault now? Johnny Suh let me remind you, you’re the one who’s been ignoring me these past few weeks! I didn’t even do anything!”

“Didn’t do anything?” Johnny retorts, hating the person he’s becoming right now in front of you because his frustrations were too high, and his anger was taking over. “You’ve already made up your mind y/n! I get it! You chose Doyoung! You chose him over and over again right in front me!”

“Johnny do you even hear yourself right now? You didn’t even give me a chance to explain! You walked out on me—”

“Explain what?!”

“That I choose you!” You almost yell, your voice raising, your tears still unending. Your whole body’s shaking and you’re trying to catch your breath but there’s too much to say and you feel like you’re running out of time. “That it’s always been you! That it doesn’t fucking matter who’s after my heart because I only want yours!”

You hold up the letter in your hand, “So tell me what I need to do now because I can’t read you Johnny Suh. You say one thing and do another and I’m tired. I’m so tired of trying to guess you all the time and—”

You barely see Johnny storming over to you and you have to grab at his arms to keep yourself standing because the next thing you know he’s cupping your face and kissing your lips.

Your world is spinning and you’re still crying but Johnny keeps you close and steady, his lips firms on yours.

And in this kiss, you feel Johnny promise everything was going to be okay.

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unholyhelbig · 3 years

Text

Title: The Victorian

Ship: Jemma Simmons/ Daisy Johnson

Summary: Jemma Simmons is offered a position as a local biologist in Georgetown South Carolina, effectively moving her family across the country to a southern-style victorian house. Strange things start to happen and they’re suddenly pulled into a supernatural nightmare. With the help of a coworker, the next-door neighbors, and a renowned Ghost Hunting team, the Simmons/ Johnson household fight against forces unseen.

The house loomed over the inlet. Its white exterior had been mossed over in some areas, sharp and green compared to the off-white paneling. Soft orange hummingbird vines hid any blemishes, their green tendons twisting through the delicate lattice that moved over the left side of the home.

There was a worn stone birdbath and a deep green hedge that lined the back of the property. Past that was a deck that moved into the watery swamps that smelled thickly of fish and saltwater. Even through the car, Daisy could smell it, and her chest swelled with the familiarity of the ocean.

Jemma had a smile across her face. It was warm and welcoming and a little prideful. This was their house, even if they hadn’t seen it until now. There were pictures but it didn’t’ give the southern style home any justice, with its wrap-around porch and large bay windows.

The driveway was gravel and she winced as she pulled the front wheels of their SUV over the dip, welcoming the back wheels with another bump. She stared up at the canopy of trees, willows with seeping Spanish moss, and struggled to keep her focus on her movements. Jemma didn’t’ say a thing, if she noticed, too entranced herself.

“I didn’t’ think it would be this,” Daisy trailed off, bringing the car to a stop.

“Magnificent? Archaic? Stepford wife?”

“Yes,”

She settled for all of the descriptions. She had always wanted a big home and this was a far cry from their two-bedroom in Los Angeles. It was half the price too. There was enough room for her own office and a library because even Ayla enjoyed curling up and flipping through her mothers' books.

Daisy could imagine a tire swing and a nice coat of paint, and the sweet southern breeze seeping through the back screened-in sunroom. She glanced back at the girl, her head leaning against the window and soft rhythmic breaths filling the silence. The jostling of the car hadn’t deterred her from sleep, and neither did the sudden attention trained on her.

“Beautiful too. Kind of… haunted-looking?”

“Oh, don’t start with that. Ghosts aren’t real, and if they are, it’s just”

“Science we don’t’ understand yet, yes sweetheart, I know” Daisy finished her wife’s sentence with a loving smile.

Jemma smiled back and the gesture was warmer than the South Carolina air. She could smell the floral trumpets that lined the wall and gravel crunched under her feet as she emerged from the driver’s side of the car. There was a thick sheen of sweat already forming against her brow.

She rounded to the backseat and opened it with enough gentleness that Ayla didn’t’ stir. She had also become victim to the heat; small whisps of blonde hair clung to her forehead and she breathed in with a little bit more force than before, but still, she didn’t wake from her sleep as Daisy pulled the five-year-old from her car seat and hugged her close.

One shoe had been toed off during the drive here and Ayla’s feet dangled at Daisy’s side as she shifted her to her hip and Jemma shouldered the overnight bag that they had packed for all three of them. They knew it would be a long trip, and it had been, but the moving truck hadn’t beat them here and they figured they would make do with a duffel bag of clothes most worn.

“Darn, I must have the keys here somewhere” Jemma mumbled after they braved the aching steps and stood under the slightly shaded porch. It would be nice for rocking chairs, or string lights.

Daisy’s mind was racing with possibility, even when the door did creak open to reveal a dark and cooling interior from the late ’50s. It had vast cherrywood flooring and a stained-glass side window that caught the sun and drowned the grained wood in color.

There was a long oak staircase and a dining room that had an old table in its center, but no chairs. At least Daisy considered it to be a table. It was covered in a white sheet that was equally covered in dust. Jemma closed the door behind them and looked up at the vaulted ceiling that seemed to stretch until the second-floor landing.

Ayla shifted in her arms and gripped her little hand around the excess fabric of the blue cotton button-down that Daisy wore. She whimpered; nose pressed close to the inside of her mother's neck. The cold had gotten to her and Daisy didn’t want to admit that it instantly dried any damp part of her skin.

“It’s charming,” Jemma sounded out “Needs some love, but certainly not something we didn’t’ account for.”

“Needs some light too,” Daisy said as she stepped further into the house.

The living area was a lot better; it swam with that very light that she was hoping for. She figured that they would set up the air mattress in the trunk right in this room. There were already floral print curtains that could be drawn to keep the nightly creatures from peering in, and the warmth flowing through the two bay windows had begun to thaw her skin.

There was another white sheet, covering a blocky object like a tacky ghost. “A bookcase?”

“A piano,” Jemma corrected “You can see the pedal under the right edge. It’s an old one too. I can’t imagine why anyone would leave it behind.”

Daisy didn't want to entertain the idea of anything causing abandonment other than pure laziness. She wouldn't want to lug a piano onto a moving truck in this kind of Southern heat either. Her arms were starting to ache- Ayla wasn’t as small as she used to be, and she got the nagging urge to wake the girl.

Jemma seemed to read her mind as she always did. She carefully pulled the girl into her arms resulting in a tiny nose scrunch and a little groan, but still not fully awake. Traveling must have taken it completely out of the kid, and truthfully, it took everything out of the mothers too.

They had eaten at the hotel this morning, Daisy demolishing three pancakes while Jemma limited herself to a banana and a few bites of Ayla’s slowly softening cereal. She didn’t’ do well with the winding mountains of Tennessee and had clenched her eyes the entire time, gripping what she called the panic handle.

Other than that, they had shared a bag of trail mix and Daisy squeezed the untouched applesauce pouch into her mouth to quell the rumbling in her stomach, but that had been at the border of North and South and she was getting agitated with hunger now. She considered Jemma and her daughter were more than halfway there themselves.

“I think I saw a Chinese restaurant on the way into town,” She offered, rolling her sore shoulder around “What do you say to an old tradition?”

Jemma smiled again, and it brightened the room even more. The first place they rented together didn’t have power yet and it was above a take-out place that had the best Chicken Lo Mein. They lit a bunch of candles and ate on the floor, a fell asleep in each other’s arms despite the less-than-ideal circumstances.

Daisy took this as confirmation and placed a chaste kiss on her wife’s cheek before fishing her car keys from her back pocket again and stepping into the stifling heat. The door fell shut behind her and her stare instantly fell on a woven basket filled with fresh apples and baked muffins. The scent made her stomach plunge even further.

And there was a man, quite a large one, stalking away from the gift. His shoulders had a wide span and his dark skin glistened in whatever sun the trees allowed through. Daisy stifled a smile of her own.

“Thank you!” She called out

The man turned quickly around. His face was kind despite his large stature and he let out a groan. “See, you weren’t supposed to catch me leaving this. It was going to be an anonymous welcome from the community.”

Daisy walked down the front porch and the man met her halfway, that warm expression still on his face. He wore a flannel over a sweat-dampened tank top despite the heat. He was even taller in person, his hands stained in what Daisy could guess is grease.

“It was my wife’s idea, she saw you guys pull in and threw something together last minute. She’s not used to having neighbors.” He let out a soft chuckle “I told her that ya’ll have L.A plates and that’s not how it works there, but she refused to listen.”

“No, it’s really nice, actually. I’m Daisy… like the flower.” She stuck out her hand.

The man’s own engulfed hers entirely, it was calloused but firm “Mack like the- oh hell, the food?��

“Nice to meet you, Mack. We really do appreciate it, I guess Southern Hospitality is a real thing?”

“Oh absolutely. Look- I’ve gotta get back home, we live right across the way, but on that little note wedged between whatever fruit she could scrounge up, is an invitation to dinner tomorrow night. It’s up to you if you want to accept it or not”

“We’ll be there,” Daisy said. And they would.

#daisy johnson #jemma simmons #Skimmons #Skimmons fanfiction #agents of shield #aos #aos fanfiction #yo yo rodriguez #alphonso mackenzie #leopold fitz #phil coulson #melinda may

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tenshiscientia · 3 years

Text

The Dream

A long week of work had drained me and I was looking forward to playing Final Fantasy XV as well as watching all of my Final Fantasy animes and movies once I walked through my front door. Running up the front steps to my house, I opened the door gently, not wanting to scare my little chihuahua. She was terrified of loud noises and I did just about everything in my power not to make them myself. Dropping my bag at the front door, I leaned down and unzipped the sides of my knee-high platform boots and lined them up under a ebony coat rack which I then hung up my light over coat on. Taking the steps upstairs, I slid into my room and ducked my head under my bed looking for my little one.

"Ten-two babe, you under here?" I cooed softly.

Glancing back and forth under the dark space, I didn't see a small black and white form so I stood up and wandered over to a small chair that had a small open space under it that was covered with fabric. Pulling the fabric up, I leaned down peered through that shaded space. A small little black and white face blinked back at me, and I gave a smile.

"There's my baby." I giggle, reaching under the chair and pulling her to me.

As soon as I had pulled my little chihuahua out from under the chair, she snuggled her little body against my chest and buried her little face into my throat.

"Yes, baby Ten, I know. I missed you too. Sissy was thinking about watching my movies and animes and playing one of my games." I cooed at her, nuzzling the side of her head softly, "I was going to watch my Final Fantasy XV series. I have the whole weekend off and we can snuggle the whole time. Just like you love to do."

My chihuahua was a big cuddler, and I loved it. There was nothing the two of us liked more than me setting up some water for her next to my gaming beanbag along with some food, turning the air-conditioner on high so that my house was a fair bit nippy so none of my electronics would overheat due to extended play, and cuddling down underneath the fluffy Ignis/Ravus themed blanket I had decided to buy online. It was a time that the two of us absolutely thrived together. I was content playing my games and watching anything that was playing on the T.V. screen, and Tenshi was beyond happy snuggled down across half my lap with her face buried in my stomach until she wanted to go outside or to eat and drink. Eating and drinking was a necessity for me as well, but it was something I rarely did due to the fact that I only ate just once a day and snacked for the rest.

I would keep chips and some vegetable pieces on a nearby table, but other than that, the two of us could sit for hours on end together like that. A soft whine next to my ear was my only answer to whether or not Tenshi was okay with the plans I had made. Pulling my gaming chair over in front of my T.V., I gently sat her down in it and draped my blanket over her. Walking out of my room, I first went to the thermostat and turned the temperature down to a cool 68 degrees so the two of us would be comfortable. Then I made my way down the stairs into my kitchen to start gathering everything Tenshi and I would need for the rest of the night.

Pulling a tray out of one of my cabinet, I placed it on the island in the middle of the kitchen. Turning to the fridge, I pulled out some celery, carrots, a cucumber, an apple, some blueberries, some mushrooms, and some green peppers. I had eaten my normal meal earlier in the day, so I intended to snack the rest of the day. I smiled to myself, thinking about Noctis and how much he hated vegetables and how much Ignis always harped on him to eat them. I learned early in my life to enjoy them considering that I had trouble eating a lot of food and often had to limit myself.

I learned to eat healthy snacks, and for my main meals I would sometimes splurge and eat unhealthy things. Washing everything, I cut them into manageable pieces and laid them out on the tray so I could carry them up into my room. I then pulled two bowls down out of one of the cabinets as well, and pulled a jug of water out of the fridge. Grabbing the small bag of dog food that was inside the pantry, I dropped those into a small bag next to the island. Pulling out a few Mountain Dews from the fridge as well, I dropped those in the bag.

I then dropped a bag of Snickers, a bag of sour cream and cheddar chips in the bag. Looking around the kitchen once more to make sure I was happy with what I had gathered, then nodded my head satisfied. Picking up the bag and slinging it over my shoulder and picking up the tray I made my way back up to my room and set everything down on my desk. Slowly setting everything up, I took the two bowls and set them down on a mat that was a few feet away from my gaming chair. I filled one up with water and the other with a little bit of dog food.

Then pulling my Japanese style table that I always used to hold my food whenever I was gaming, I set it up next to my chair. Slowly spreading out my food on the table as if I was setting up a banquet for a queen, I stood back up and looked at the layout. A sleek black and white head poked itself up from underneath the midnight blanket that had covered it.

"Nope! Sorry silly, none of this for you! You might get some apples, but not right now." I chirped to her.

She tilted her head cutely.

"Don't you give me those cute angel eyes, missy! You know better!" I hissed softly, no anger in my voice.

The cuteness only intensified.

"Oh damn it..." I muttered, reaching down and picking up a slice of apple and breaking off a small piece and holding it out to her.

She darted forward and snatched it out of my hand crunching on it happily.

"You're lucky your cute." I cooed gently.

I turned away and pulled off my shirt, tossing it into the hamper over near my bed and pulling on my sleep shirt that was on my bed. My jeans met the same fate as my shirt and I slipped on my night shorts. Walking over to my PlayStation, I picked up my controller and turned on my console as I was walking back to my chair. Lifting my blanket, I set my controller on the table before lifting Tenshi and settling myself into the chair. Lowering Tenshi into my lap, I let her get comfortable before tucking the blanket in around the both of us and reaching over and picking back up my controller.

By now my PlayStation had booted itself up and was displaying my Devil May Cry 5 background. I was a die hard Final Fantasy fan. But I loved Devil May Cry too, so every so often my background would fluctuate between a Devil May Cry background or a Final Fantasy background. I clicked through the Icons that were displayed on the screen and settled on the Episode Ardyn Prologue. Ardyn wasn't my favorite person, but if I was going to go all the way through this series, I was going to do it right.

Starting at the very beginning and going to the very end. Setting the controller on the table beside me, I dipped my arms beneath my blanket and wrapped them around Tenshi a little, settling in to watch the movie. The beginning of the epic tale of Final Fantasy XV.

#final fantasy xv #30th anniversary #ffxv lives forever #imma have to go find what everyone said #and all the pics #ignis scientia #gladio amiticia #prompto argentum #noctis lucis caelum #ravus nox fleuret #nyx ulric #regis lucis caelum #lunafreya nox fleuret

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xbellaxcarolinax · 4 years

Text

Forging A Heart (Ivar the Boneless) 19- Ragnarok

Pairings: Ivar x Artemis (OFC)

Word Count: 9090

Warnings: Violence in this one. Bad description of battle.

AN: This is a super long chapter. I’m so sorry. If you guys prefer shorter ones then I have no problem splitting them, just let me know. I also think this chapter is both boring and intense at the same time. You guys can judge. Hope you enjoy!

18- Protection

...

Ivar had always been a light sleeper, so it was no surprise to him that the smallest of noises made his eyes crack open in the dimly lit chambers. Recently, sleep came to him easily, despite the aches. After a long day of constant strategizing and training for the battle to come, slipping underneath the furs on a cool night was just enough to lull him into a dreamless slumber.

He never had a problem sleeping alone. It had allowed him to be alert if need be, but now, laying next to a much welcomed heat, Ivar had no problems drifting away, so long as Artemis was beside him.

Ivar made no movements, but his eyes scanned the perimeter of the chamber out of habit. There was a table with parchments littering its surface, a large changing screen, a fireplace not in use, and some candles scattered about to illuminate the area. Nothing seemed out of place, and nothing seemed to hide in the shadows. He looked over at Artemis who had her back towards him, and he decided nothing was out of the ordinary.

He shifted under the sheets, drawing closer to the woman beside him, his eyes slowly drooping until he heard it again. It was more distinguishable as a whimper, so low, yet loud enough for his trained ears to detect.

Ah. He should've known.

Artemis was having another nightmare.

He'd seen first hand how often they came to her at night. While his sleep had always been limited due to the constant pain in his legs, her sleep was always interrupted by terrors of some kind.

He runs a finger down the center of her back before gently placing his hand on her hip. He didn’t consider himself to be the first choice of comfort, but it was a start.

It seemed to soothe her for a moment as she stopped her whimpers. Satisfied, Ivar curves around her, careful with shifting his legs. He then moves his hand into the mass of her dark hair, fingers gently caressing her scalp in gentle motions.

This was oddly domestic.

But it was nice. He finds himself devoted to her, like a husband would to a wife.

Ivar bites his lips, suddenly aware of his heightened sensitivity. He felt he was a bigger mess of emotions when it came to Artemis, more so after their first night together. He knew who he was, embittered and rage filled. Such angry feelings within and yet, he melted at the sight of her.

No matter, there needn't be justification for things such as love or feelings or anything that relates to matters of the heart. Only the gods knew, and Ivar was fine with that.

He continues to gaze at her, his lazy eyes mapping out her small form.

Suddenly she turns over in her fitful sleep, facing him now with arched brows and eyes screwed shut. Her lips were tightly sealed, set in a frown.

Ivar sighs, carefully sitting up against the soft pillows. He places the back of his hand against her cheek, gently rubbing a knuckle across her smooth skin soothingly. Then he runs a finger over her brow in an attempt to smooth them down and ease her tension.

He frowns.

He had caused her such strife. He didn't need to be told what plagued her mind. Behind her lids he knew she replayed the images of blood, death and destruction. Subjects that he couldn't be bothered with ate away at her soul. Artemis was no fighter. She was a Christian, what he saw as an everyday occurrence was utterly disturbing for her.

Artemis exhales roughly through her nose before her eyes flutter open, blinking to clear her vision.

"Another nightmare?" He asks softly, smiling when she nuzzles her face against his hand almost instantly.

"They're like a plague," She groans, "I'm sorry for waking you."

"It's fine." Ivar tugs her towards him, having her cupped under his arm, her head laying on his chest. He could feel her lashes skimming over his skin when she blinked.

Oh yes, this was incredibly domestic, and extremely different then what he was used to, but he wouldn't change it for the world, not now, not ever.

"We've done this to you, all of us," Ivar mutters quietly, absentmindedly playing with her hair that draped over the two of them. She was silent, so silent in fact, that Ivar thought she might have dozed off again, as her breathing was steady.

"Some nights are better than others." She says, lazily dragging her finger across his bare chest, following the thick lines of his most recent tattoo. The swirls formed an image she was only just beginning to understand. She takes a breath as if she wanted to say more, but decides to settle into the calm silence instead. Ivar squeezes her closer, enjoying her warmth. She would talk to him when she was ready.

His eyes scan the light that filtered through the cracks between the fur drapes. It was daybreak, and in about an hour, preparations would begin for training.

"We have to leave soon." She mutters, looking up at him with a pout.

They were both still getting used to this, such intimacy and closeness. Her heart sang for Ivar, no matter how much her mind had been against it, but she willingly ignored it.

Ivar was shy at times, a side that was nothing compared to his war like demeanor. He skimmed his rough fingers over the soft skin of her exposed arm, humming in agreement.

"We don't have to leave just yet." He proposes, turning his body to fully face her, eyes glimmering with silent requests. His timidness certainly had its limits.

Artemis smiles up at him as he wraps strong arms around her. He captures her lips in a kiss that erases all rational thoughts and bad dreams.

Perhaps they could stay in bed a little while longer.

...

Vestfold was unpleasant.

King Harald's kingdom specialized in fishing, mostly whaling. In fact, upon setting eyes on its docks, one could not miss the skeletal form of a giant whale that was made to loom above them menacingly. The smells that lingered about were horrific, and the blood of the massive sea creatures dampened the soil in large puddles.

Harald was a contradiction of what Vestfold was like. He was a delight, throwing feasts without reason and talking of his brother often. He was the brightness that illuminated his kingdom, and if they were to be stationed there for some time, then it was only fair to make the best of it.

It was the forests where Artemis loved to reside as it was lush and green, so much green that it had her drifting off into other magical worlds. It was a place of shade in the summer heat, a tranquil, peaceful area with nothing but the birds singing and the cicadas chirping in the treetops.

Archery was practiced everyday for a couple of hours in the early morning before the sun was at its highest point in the sky. The skill came easily to her, and she learned a fair amount, but she was nowhere near as skilled as Hvitserk, and not even close to Ivar, but it became a routine for her to take her lessons with either one of the brothers, and both were merciless in their training.

There would be no private lesson that morning. Ivar decided to train with their most skilled archer's as they would have the duty to protect both himself and Harald on the battlefield. Artemis personally knew some of the warriors in Ivar's company, large and fierce with even larger bows in their hands. Those from Vestfold were equally as fearsome, their women tall with kohl streaked eyes. They emulated their beautiful queen who stood with them, though she lacked a bow in her hands or any form of weapon. She had sad eyes ever since the announcement of her pregnancy.

Harald and Hvitserk were out training with the other men and women in physical combat, along with Bishop Heahmund. Although Ivar is skilled with his axe, his specialty was as a bowman.

Ivar slowly walks in front of the crowd of archers, his slight limp and his crutch in perfect view for all to see. His eyes held the haughtiness of being in command, of having total control over the warriors.

"Archers!" He yells, and all the men and women of the first row immediately raised their bows, strings pulled back tightly and hands grazing their chests in practiced movements. Artemis obediently follows suit, raising her arms with the heavy bow in her hands, her muscles protesting the movement.

"Hold your positions!" Ivar booms, eyes already meeting with his lover. He smirked as he always did when she was particularly annoyed with him, and he knew she was.

In their lessons, when they weren't off giving each other gentle kisses under the shade of the trees, Ivar would always repeatedly say that warriors are made to hold their positions for longer periods of time during times of war.

She absolutely hated it.

"Straighten your posture, it'll send the arrow flying faster at a farther distance." Astrid suddenly appears at her side. The queen places her hands on Artemis's tense shoulders, forcibly smoothing them down. Artemis knew that Harald's queen had recognized her. Lagertha had always made Astrid keep an eye on her.

Artemis takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders off and pulling the bow string as far back as she could, despite the ache in her shoulders and the tightness in her chest.

"Hold your position." Astrid urges, sensing the discomfort she felt being surrounded by capable beings. Artemis's arm trembled from the pressure of the string as it did these past weeks of training. She turned her eyes to Ivar, who flashed her a grin as he walked off to the side of their flanks.

"Loose!" Ivar yells, and immediately arrows whizzed in the air, straight to their destinations. Artemis didn’t hesitate. She took a deep breath, letting her fingertips release the string, watching her arrow fly. It hits its mark and she beamed, a grin growing large on her face.

"Seems like the blacksmith will make for a shieldmaiden. Will you be fighting?" Astrid smiles at her, but before she could answer, Ivar grunts over to them with every step, brows arched in displeasure. His hawk ears didn’t miss a thing and he didn't trust the new queen.

"Absolutely not," He interjects, placing an arm about her shoulders, bringing her closer before instructing the next row of archers to shoot at the distant targets. Astrid crosses her arms, unamused.

"I've seen her with a hammer Ivar."

"And?"

"Would she not make a good warrior? I think she would." Ivar sucks his teeth, dismissing the comment.

"Perhaps in the future," He says, looking down at his new love from his great height, "But not in this battle."

"Have I no say?" Artemis feigns annoyance, crossing her arms as he quickly bends to plant a kiss to her brow.

Astrid was taken back. She'd been around Ivar long enough to know his dark nature, but next to the foreign girl he was a stranger.

"You think I would dare lose you when I just got a hold of you?" Ivar answers with a scoff, nodding at Astrid before turning them away from her. He orders the large crowd of archers to depart. They were ready, but Artemis was not.

"I will not lose you." He tells her, letting her go in order to summon his chariot, but she grabs his arm, stopping him in his tracks.

"Am I to lose you?" She questions.

"No," He replies with a grin, "The gods would not allow it."

...

The blacksmith's forge in Vestfold was nothing compared to York's. It was quaint, and ran by a family that reminded her too much of her own. A father, his wife, and their little boy and girl.

It made a knot form in her throat that made it difficult to swallow. The nostalgia ate away at her very core and she constantly had to blink back the tears of fond memories that she kept nestled in the back of her mind. Perhaps all the gods of the world did not intend for her to have a family.

She was set on the task of making arrowheads, and her nimble fingers were immediately at work, forcibly shaping the iron into deadly pointed edges. Working in silence beside her was the little boy of the family, making the shafts of wood to attach the arrowheads to.

His father and the other men worked to keep the fire going as they repaired whatever weapons needed attention.

The little boy hums to himself, not paying her any mind as his small hands attempt to shave down thin branches with his tiny blade. He struggled, his hand unable to pass it over the jagged surface of the branch. He grunts in frustration, tossing the branch and blade aside before crossing his arms stubbornly.

Artemis stops her sharpening, turning to look at the little boy with a smile.

"Here," She places down her own tools in favor of picking up his, "Like this." She flicks her wrist at an angle, showing him how to carve down the branch in a steadier motion, "It's like peeling a carrot." She tells him.

"I don't peel carrots," He pouts, "My mother and sister do when they cook."

"Well, if they can manage, so can you," She jokes, handing him back the small blade and branch, "Go on, try again." The boy hesitates before grasping the items, and after a few minutes of him trying and her watching, he gets the hang of it.

"See? You got it."

"Mhm!" The boy hums in glee with a tiny smile, turning his large eyes to hers, "Thank you." Artemis smiles, ruffling the boy's hair.

"Are you from England?" He then asks her, his tongue poking out as he worked, "You don't sound like us."

"No," She tells him, "I come from an island in the south." He turns to her again, his eyes twinkling in curiosity.

"Really?" That peaked his interest, "Farther than England?"

"Much farther," She voices with exaggeration in her tone, "Much hotter, and full of life." The little boy blinks up at her in awe.

"And how did you come to Vestfold?"

"Him." Artemis points out towards the bustling activity of the village, her finger following Ivar's hobbling form as he practiced swinging Heahmund's large sword.

"Ivar the Boneless!" The boy exclaims.

"Mhm."

They both watch on as Ivar approaches a whale suspended in the air by its tail, ready to be used for its supply of oil. In one swift movement he swings the sword, slicing the whale cleanly in half with a maddening grin on his face. He was obsessed with the blade, turning it round in his calloused grip. Artemis watches the blood and entrails spill out from the whale in disgust before looking down at the nameless boy.

He didn't shy away from the sight, though his little brows curved slightly at the scene.

"Caldur!" A woman's voice calls out, "Caldur, let the men finish the work, come help with the animals." The little boy groans, releasing his tools with a small grunt. Hopping off the chair he quickly turns to wave at her before running off.

Heahmund passes the boy, watching him run towards his mother before taking the seat beside Artemis. She doesn't say anything, not noticing him much as she was lost in thought, her eyes still watching Ivar handle the sword as he began a conversation with King Harald.

"Have you figured it out yet?" The sudden sounds of her native tongue startled her, and she pricked her finger with one of her arrowheads. She hisses in pain. She knew she should have worn gloves.

"Figured what out?"

"My sword. The steel." The bishop chuckles. They both glance at Ivar before turning to look at each other. Heahmund did not brood quite as much as he used to, but he was still just as irritating now that Ivar gave him leeway.

"No." She says irritably.

"It is Damascus steel."

"Damascus steel is a myth."

"So you've heard of it?"

"Yes," She drawls out, "And it is a myth." She repeats with finality. Damascus steel was said to be a strange metal that was resistant to rusting and shattering. No one knew how it was produced, and the secret was so well guarded in the east that it became legend.

"Then how would you explain the superiority of my blade?"

"Dwarfs." Was all she says, as if she believed it herself.

The older man sucks his teeth, clearly unamused. He grabs at an arrowhead for closer inspection. They were well made, even by his standards, and he knew they would be deadly once attached to wood.

"I've gone on pilgrimage to the Holy Land," He says after a moment, "The Arabs forge the steel. They say it comes from a land called India."

"India," She repeats the name, blinking in surprise, "I've never heard of such a place. If it is true, I shall like to go there one day."

"Perhaps you will."

"Do you wish to have your sword returned to you?" She asks, her eyes now focusing back on Ivar. He noticed them and immediately made his way over to them.

"He will tire of it soon enough. He prefers his bow."

"And will you truly fight for him?"

"It is our Lord's will that I do," Heahmund says, placing the arrowhead back upon the table Artemis worked over, his rough tone oddly drowning out her worries, "What is it you fear?"

Artemis shrugs before bringing her eyes to his. He held such unrelenting faith, such will and courage, strengths she did not possess. She didn't know who she was anymore.

"I am afraid of losing myself."

"We all have destinies. It just so happens that yours lies beside the crippled heathen."

She's never really believed in destiny.

"So you're friends with the bishop now?" Ivar barges in with a grunt, his eyes falling over the pair. He goes to stand by the work table, eyeing the tools and arrows with keen interest. He only knew how to sharpen his weapons but he couldn't actually make anything, really. It was impressive work, as always.

"We're civil," She answers with a smile, tilting her head towards the older man, "Isn't that right, bishop?" Heahmund grunts in annoyance, crossing his arms over his chest.

Ivar lowers himself closer to Artemis, quickly bringing a hand to shove at Heahmund's head so that his prying eyes would not see him kiss her plush lips. It was not the bishop's business.

"It's time for training." He then announces, turning to the bishop, shoving his head playfully one more time, "I thought you might want this back," He removes the sword from his belt, tossing it to him. Heahmund easily caught it very easily in his grip.

"I will see you tonight." Ivar mutters to her, placing another quick kiss to her brow before following Heahmund out.

They leave Artemis alone with her thoughts, and she almost wished the little boy didn't have to leave, so that she may have some form of company.

...

It was a beautiful day when their army departed.

The sun was blinding and the heat blistering. Back on their boats they went and into the sea, the calming waves carrying them to their destination.

Both armies were hundreds of feet away, biding their time for their leaders to ready themselves to declare war.

Ivar against Lagertha.

Brother against brother.

The intensity and ferocity could be felt in the air, from the birds soaring in the skies, to the creatures dwelling in the seas, it could be felt by everyone. Opposing camps were set before the battle and a last negotiation attempt was discussed before blood would be spilt.

Ivar's anger got the best of him when seeing Ubbe on Lagertha's side, as well as her son Bjorn, who had come from the Mediterranean just in time to defend his mother.

King Harald faces his own complications, extremely displeased with his brother. He tried to convince him to switch sides, but it seemed Halfdan's loyalty to Bjorn was stronger than his loyalty to his own brother. It was sad to see such battles within their own families. They would soon kill each other no doubt.

The camp was set up similarly to the one upon arriving in England, tents peppering all the way towards the horizon. The forging tent was miniscule, as there wouldn't be much need for it. The expectation was that the battle would end very quickly, and Artemis hoped that it did, with positive results.

Ivar had made arrangements for her to remain out of sight until he could come back for her, assuming he would come back. 2 guards were set to remain behind and watch over the camp, and in some ways, to look after her.

She sits on the ground at the far end of her tent to shield herself from the sun, fiddling with the loose threads that held her leather vest together, an anxious antic of the circumstances. To pass the time, she watches the warriors gather in preparation for the inevitable. Ivar was busy meeting with Harald, most likely more talk of strategy and such. She couldn't be bothered with the details, but it ultimately left her lonelier than she cared to admit.

The day continues, as well as the heat. Hvitserk appears suddenly in the campsite with Bjorn following behind, and the warriors instantly begin to murmur of his sudden return from the Mediterranean. They stopped in front of the tent, bickering quietly between themselves.

Her eyes catch a glimpse of Bjorns form, immediately noting his change in appearance. His skin was tanned, kissed by the sun, and his face glowed like she's never seen it before. His hair was paler, extremely flaxen and bright. He seemed to be a completely different person somehow; a changed person.

"Ivar will not back down," Hvitserk tells him with a sigh, crossing his arms and standing firm. They took shade in her tent, and she suddenly felt awkward as they began to bicker again.

"And neither will my mother," Bjorn answers back, "We are brothers, all sons of Ragnar. I do not wish to fight my blood." Hvitserk runs a hand down his face in frustration.

"And you think that I do? Lagertha killed my mother!"

"And your mother ripped apart my family!" They bickered so quickly that they were almost incomprehensible, tongues lashing at one another. They were in such a heated debate that they had both failed to notice her.

"All Ivar has done was separate us," Bjorn mutters, "You and Ubbe cannot even look at each other. Do not think I haven't noticed." Hvitserk proceeds to frown, knowing his relationship with Ubbe had deteriorated. It made him feel terrible.

Hvitserk remains quiet and Bjorn scoffs in response, blonde hair whipping about as he turns to show his younger brother his back. Bjorn's blue eyes landed on Artemis's small form, crouched in the corner, her head turned away from them as she worked to rip apart blades of grass between her fingers.

"Artemis?" He calls out to her, shifting his head to get a closer look at her from behind the small table. She says nothing, but offers him a nod of acknowledgement.

"I thought the tent was empty," Hvitserk says, "We sound like a couple of old fools, hm?"

"Hvitserk tells me you are now a free woman." Bjorn's curiosity had gotten the better of him.

"Yes." She nods again.

"Ivar is full of surprises, isn't he?" Bjorn chuckles darkly, crossing his arms in amusement.

"Without a doubt."

"I want you to know that I've seen the rest of your island," He continues, the small hints of a sad smile on his burned lips. Her heart suddenly drops, "And I must admit I've met the strangest people."

"I'm sure they thought the same of you." Was her snarky response, watching his shoulders shake in genuine amusement. "Was it to your liking?"

"The Mediterranean is a beauty. I've seen things I could have never dreamed of. I will remember it fondly."

"Yet you hide something." She tells him, rubbing her hands down the sides of her trousers, reaching out to rip more grass from the dirt. Bjorn sighs, turning to glance at a frowning Hvitserk before replying.

"Crete has been invaded. Andalusian's conquer the island. I left just as war had broken out." She could feel her heart pulsing in her ears as soon as he uttered those words. An uncomfortable heat rushed through her, as if her body were trying to fight off something within her.

"Andalusian's?" She finds herself asking in the softest tone, suddenly feeling faint. She blinks rapidly to gain her senses back, watching Bjorn tilt his head at her before nodding.

"They are Muslim's from Spain." Finally, she releases a breath, her hands gripping at the roots of her hair to make sense of the words.

"They say that the Arabs attempted to conquer Crete well over a hundred years ago," She speaks so low that both Hvitserk and Bjorn had to step a bit closer to hear her, "Everyone knows the story."

"And what happened then?" Hvitserk asks her, crouching down to sit beside her.

"The Emperor had prevailed in its defense," She continues, bringing her glossy eyes to Bjorn, "Why...?" She couldn't even formulate the words to ask him, but he understood.

"They were exiled from Spain. The island was an easy target for them to control."

"Artemis, you're crying." Hvitserk states dumbly, watching little tears roll down the apples of her cheeks. Somehow Hvitserk was always there to see her cry.

"If what Bjorn says is true, and war has broken out," She struggles to say, fighting the feeling of her throat constricting, "Then people were killed. My father could have been killed."

"You don't know that," Bjorn interjected, "You cannot say for sure."

"How can you say that?" She challenges, "You are a warrior. You should know well the fickle outcomes of war." Bjorn remains silent, releasing a large sigh at her comment.

"War spares no one, not even the innocent." She sniffles.

They all knew it to be true.

...

Negotiations failed miserably, and war was officially declared.

Horns blasted and the warriors assembled into their places in an orderly fashion on both sides. Chanting echoed across the green pastures and weapons were held high in the air.

Harald cheered alongside his men, giving them some kind of speech to arouse them with the need to slaughter. It wasn't very hard to get them to react in the way he wanted.

Ivar smiles, his feet hanging off the edge of the small cliff. His eyes scanned the field eagerly, gaze trained on Hvitserk and Heahmund as they took their positions. He'd need to join them soon.

"Men will speak of this day." He says quietly to himself, but Artemis hears him well enough, slowly approaching to kneel beside him. Just below were his archers waiting to defend him, his chariot prepared to ride off.

He turns to her, offering a grin despite the frown tugging at her lips.

"Are you worried?" He asks, reaching out a hand to smooth the lines on her brow. It was wrinkled in concern.

"A bit." She quietly admits, wringing her hands as proof that she was much more worried than she let on.

He notices the quiver strapped to her back, the unstrung bow nestled neatly within the arrows.

"What do you think you're doing with that?" Ivar jerks his chin towards her weapon with brows raised, "Do you intend to fight? I cannot allow you to be here. You are to go back to camp."

He watches her scan the battlefield just as he had. The men roared at each other as they pounded their fists against their chest. They were desperate to fight, and the energy that once made her uneasy seemed to fill her with something she couldn't really identify, but it made her want to run into danger.

"And what if I do not wish to go to camp?" She finally retorts, shifting her gaze to his.

"Do not be foolish," He grunts, playfully tugging at the ends of her braided hair, "It is not a matter of debate. The battlefield is too dangerous for a baby bird such as yourself." Somehow, he still had a sense of humor, even at the very brink of a war.

"I do not care," Her tone was stubborn like a child, "I do not care for my fate." Not anymore, anyway.

A noise resembling a growl brewed in Ivar's throat as a sign of his displeasure. He grips her chin tightly with his fingers, turning her face up to look at him. His eyes were hard and calculating, but impossibly blue, and filled with so much more emotion than he could ever express.

"Do not say such words so carelessly," He grits his teeth, the pressure of his fingers enough to make her wince, "What is the matter with you, hm? Do you not think when all this is over that I wouldn't want to rejoice with you in my arms?" Artemis shakes off his grip, bringing her eyes down towards the open plains at the very bottom of the cliff, worrying her lip between her teeth.

He sighs, throwing his arm around her shoulders to bring her close to him again.

"It is dangerous," He repeats, "And I do not wish to see you hurt." She listens intently as he murmurs the words into her hair, struggling to make his affections clear.

"You are not afraid?" Her voice sounded so small, drowning in the sea of war cries.

"No," He answers without hesitation, "I've waited for this long enough." Artemis shifts under his arm to get a good look at him. She searches his eyes again as if it were the last time she would see them, reaching up to place her hand over his prickly sideburns. Ivar sensed a farewell in her actions.

"Do not look at me like that," He demands, his lips curving into a gentle smile, "Your eyes say too much. You wound me before I can even go into battle."

She begins to feel the familiar pricking sensation in her eyes again, and they quickly gloss over, fixing her a blurry image of Ivar. Overwhelmed with emotion, she suddenly moves forward to smash her lips against his, the force causing Ivar to lean back unsteadily before pushing forward with the same fervent intensity that she had. After a few urgent kisses she pulls away, throwing her arms around him as she buries her face in the crook of his neck.

"Ivar?" She sniffles.

"Yes, baby bird?" He holds her tight, knowing in just a few moments a battle would be separating them. He runs a hand down her braided hair, feeling her tears against his skin, her voice wavering as she speaks.

"Pray that your gods protect you." ...

She was forced to stay back at the camp, utterly alone, save for those two guards, but she noticed they had silently disappeared a while ago. Probably bored of playing caretaker. She had robbed them of the excitement.

She could hear the battle, the warriors crying out in the distance. It drifted over the camp like a wave crashing against a shoreline. It was unlike anything she's ever heard before, and just the sound alone made the battle of York seem trivial.

It was enough to peak her curiosity, wondering what it must feel like to stab and kill another living being. The thought never crossed her mind before, and as a Christian, why would it?

If Heahmund, a bishop, could fight so vigorously, then why couldn't she...right?

She had a strong desire to just walk off into the middle of their war, to witness death first hand, perhaps even walk into a blade.

Who did she think she was? A fighter? No. A coward? Maybe. Yes.

She sighs, feeling the need to escape the tent after a few minutes of playing the scenarios over and over in her mind. The outcome of such a battle was uncertain. Ivar was undoubtedly a master strategist, he'd been planning the attack for 2 months, and although she knew he'd been trained in the skills of a warrior, she still wondered...would he escape out of this alive?

She could already imagine his rage if she voiced such a thought to him.

What, you think me weak like you, baby bird?

She allows herself a small smile, releasing a little puff of laughter. Her fondness for him had grown exponentially, which made all of this much harder.

She roams about the empty campsite until she finally decides to plop down on the grass, continuing to listen to the faint yells in the distance. A few minutes passed and she was growing weary.

Pulling an arrow from her quiver, she brings it down with a force, stabbing the sharp point deep into the dry earth to distract her mind.

Stab, stab, stab. Sigh.

As she littered the ground in slashes, old scuffed shoes appeared in front of her, and she quickly jerked away to get a good look at the intruder.

"What are you doing?" Freydis looms over her with a quizzical look upon her pretty little face. Artemis watches the blonde sit in front of her, the old dress she wore pooling around her.

"You have been traveling with the army?" Artemis questions her, hand tightly gripping the arrow as if ready to stab her. She was already in a foul mood.

"Of course I have. Wherever Ivar goes, I go." Artemis doesn't bother gracing her with an answer, only looks on at her with a curious expression. They've never had a formal conversation before, and the last time she'd seen the blonde was that day in York.

"I was so sure I had him. I thought perhaps I could please him," Freydis continues, smiling bitterly as she leans back on her hands, comfortably stretching out her legs, "But I see you have caught his eye instead."

"What a pity," Artemis feigns sympathy, twirling the arrow in her fingers, "You sound bothered."

"I had a plan," Freydis hisses, suddenly lurching forward on her knees to point an accusing finger at her, "I had a plan and you stole him away from me." Artemis jerks away from her, using the wood of the arrow to push Freydis's finger away from her.

"You had a plan." She repeats Freydis's words flatly, unamused.

"Of course I did! I convinced Ivar to free me. He takes kindly to words of praise, loves to be told of what a great king he would be." Freydis releases a hysterical giggle, and something about that makes Artemis uneasy. The blonde seemed to be at wit's end.

"And so you offered your body to him, in return for what? Power?" Artemis concludes.

"It is what all men want," Freydis says, the little angry arch in her brow becoming more apparent, her voice rising a few octaves as her frustration bubbled to the surface, "I was supposed to be taken care of, he was supposed to take care of me. I do not have the means to survive as a freewoman." She brings her blue eyes to glare at Artemis. "And I do not like competition." She finishes her rant.

"There is no competition," Artemis sucks her teeth, shifting to stand before returning the glare.

"I do not understand why he chose a foreigner," Freydis shouts in frustration, "You are nothing compared to a true northern woman." Artemis bites her lip, her eyes racking over the blondes features. Freydis was quite beautiful, even in hysterics, and she felt the tugs of jealousy on her heartstrings at the memory of her looming over Ivar.

She huffs, heat rising to her cheeks in anger, but she refused to feel the hands of envy. There were other things to worry about, and a conniving woman should be the least of them.

"Perhaps he realized how much of a poison you are," Artemis sneers, "Trying to latch on to him like a leech to blood. If all you have to offer is your body, then I'm sure you will have no trouble finding work." Freydis glares, her pretty face scrunched up in displeasure at the insult.

"You're ambitious." Artemis continues to say.

"And you lack it!" Freydis throws her hands up, "Ivar could make you his queen if he wished it so!"

"I've no interest. I am a foreigner as you say." The thought had never crossed her mind before. She saw herself as nothing more than, what, a companion? She shakes her head, focusing her attention towards the edge of the camp to avoid punching the blonde.

"Then step aside," Was the last thing she heard Freydis say, but she ignored it, her eyes catching bright colors lapping at the tents at the edge of the campsite. She blinks, squinting her eyes until the smoke begins to reach high as if to touch the heavens.

Fire.

It was spreading rapidly.

Artemis felt she couldn't move, her body rigid as all she could do was stare stupidly at the scene.

"What is wrong with you?" Freydis snarls, "Have you suddenly gone stupid?"

Artemis ignores the blonde's babbling again, her eyes making out silhouettes that now turned into the shape of men, warriors, all carrying torches, and all charging towards them with immense speed.

"Freydis, get up."

"What?"

"Get up and run!" Artemis lurches forward, grabbing the blonde by the arm and using all her strength to pull her to her feet. Freydis stands and looks over her shoulder, immediately letting out a terrible shriek. They grew closer, setting fire to all the tents and to whatever else they could burn. They were about five, all Lagertha's men by the blue colors they wore on their arms.

"Run!" Artemis pushes Freydis forward and they both take off in a sprint.

"Who are they?!" Freydis heaves, turning back again to glance at the men, easily setting the entire encampment aflame. The summer heat increased the fires tenfold.

"Lagertha's men, they're destroying the campsite!" Artemis coughs, the fumes of the fire already reaching her throat as they ran past the many tents that began to burn. Rations, supplies, everything was burning to cinders.

Her boots stomped over the dry grass, crushing twigs and everything else in her hurried pace, yet she felt they'd never reach the forests quick enough.

Freydis screams as an arrow whizzes by her, grazing her blonde tresses. She lets out a wail of fear, tears pouring down her pale face that blurred her vision. She stumbles, skirt tangling in her legs enough to cause her to fall, grabbing onto Artemis's quiver on the way.

Artemis let out a yelp on impact, her face colliding into the hot dirt. Tears ran freely down her cheeks, and she hisses as the pouch of arrows and her bow dig painfully into her side.

The flames grew taller, brighter than the sun. It was as if they had descended into hell itself.

Still, the men grew closer, smiles on their faces as one readied his bow again, pulling the string back.

"Freydis, get up! Get up!" Artemis cried hysterically, stumbling to her feet and pulling her up, but the blonde refused, becoming a sobbing mess as she choked on poisoned air. "If you don't get up, we will die!"

"It is fated! The gods, they-" Freydis stops, her eyes bulging out and blood immediately dripping from her mouth. An arrow pierced her throat completely, lodged all the way through. The tip of the arrow was visible through the skin, blood pouring out the deadly wound. A shriek lodged itself in Artemis's throat at the sight of a choking Freydis.

There was so much blood spilling out, and finally she did scream, sweat mixing in with her tears as she fought to rise to her feet. She glanced down at Freydis, watching her choke to death, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her voice weak gurgles against her blood.

That was not a fate she wanted for herself.

She couldn't spare Freydis a second glance, turning on stumbling legs and pushing forward.

"She's the one! Shoot her down already!" She barely heard one shout, and immediately another arrow soars, the tip tearing at the flesh of her left ear. She ignores the blooming pain as she runs, already feeling the blood leaking down her jaw and onto her neck.

She wanted so much to collapse, the bad air and her tired legs slowing her down.

Another arrow whizzed by, barely missing her cheek as it fell flat to the ground.

Run run run run!

She repeated the mantra, frantically searching for those guards that Ivar had assigned, until coming to the realization that they were most likely dead at the hands of those men. This was obviously planned.

The bow and quiver felt heavy on her back, completely useless as she was not yet skilled to render a man dead, and she was much too fearful to do so. But she needed something, anything.

The forging tent comes into view, and she thinks she had surely left something lying about, anything that would help her if she came face to face with one of the warriors. She could nearly see it, the tarp slowly catching onto the flames that spread.

More arrows were shot, along with more shouts of frustration, enough to make her wonder how they haven't pierced her already in the way they so easily did to Freydis.

She turns round quickly to see the men at her heels before finally entering the tent. Her large hammer sat untouched on the wooden table top, seemingly ready to be used. She grabbed it tightly in her hand and sprinted out the tent just as it began to collapse in fire.

She runs into the surrounding trees, hoping that they'd lose her, but they probably knew the forests far better than she.

One of them was successful in reaching her, his long legs stomping behind her. He was big in stature and a nasty smile played on his lips. Large dirty hands reached for her, grabbing onto the front of her vest and jerking her forward. She screams, knowing his intentions were beyond just killing once he rips her vest open.

The hammer hanging lifeless in her grip suddenly felt hot in her hand, enough for her to muster all her strength to swing the it against him as if beating a mighty sword. Though uncoordinated, she struck him well enough across the head with all her might, a cry passing through her dried lips. Blood splattered over her face but she barely noticed, blinking the red from her burning eyes as he released her with a shove.

He stumbled back from the impact; stunned, eyes rolling to the back of his skull before falling onto his back. His blood spilled onto the grass, pieces of skin and grime hanging from the deep gash. Her hands trembled, but again, she raised her arms high above her head, bringing it down with a sickening crack, smashing his face into mush until he was completely unrecognizable.

She sways, falling hard on her knees, vomiting the contents of her stomach right beside her first kill.

She just killed a man.

Adrenaline pumped through her veins, her ears perking up at the sound of heavy feet crushing leaves and fallen branches. The others were close, and she had to escape, but the farther into the forest she ventured, the closer she was to the clearing where the battlefield was. She was running away from an opponent, only to fall into another trap.

Her breathing was erratic and her muscles tensed, but she pushed on, bloody hammer in hand. The faster she went the farther away she was from the attackers, slithering her way behind ancient trees and large shrubs, but it was as if they had just vanished. She could not hear them tracking her down anymore, but it wasn't enough to stop her from pushing further.

Move. Keep going. Faster.

Turning to look over her shoulder she trips over a large jagged stone, her legs finally giving out. With a yelp her body slams to the ground, twisting and rolling down the harsh forest floor. Twigs and leaves stuck into her hair as her world spun.

After what felt like an eternity, she finally comes to a stop with a pained grunt. She lands on her face, grass and dirt entering her mouth. She spat, turning her head to the side, groaning at the feel of her aching body. So much noise surrounded her, the clash of metal and the war cries of men. She closes her eyes, wheezing as she fights to breathe. Her throat burned still from breathing in the toxic fumes.

She was tired.

If the attackers wouldn't reach her, then something else would finish her off.

She began to drift off, eyes fluttering when an annoying pain bloomed on her cheek over and over. It was a pecking, like a needle trying to pierce through her skin. She cracked her eyes open, blinking to clear her vision.

It was a raven.

It's beady eyes were as dark as its feathers, cocking its head as if questioning her. It pecked her again, this time on her hand before flapping its wings erratically as if to take flight, but it never did. It just looked at her.

Artemis squints against the glare of the weak sun, now hiding behind the darkest of clouds. A storm was approaching. She glances back at the bird that remained very still by her side before rolling her tired body over at the scene before her.

She had landed on the small hill where she bid Ivar goodbye, and she was surrounded by some of the dead bodies of Ivar's archers.

With a startled kick to the body beside her, she shifts, moving to crawl away to be at a distance from the bodies. All were littered with arrows.

The bile rose again as her eyes scanned the field. It was nothing she could have imagined. Hundreds of bloody bodies strewn across the clearing, and hundreds more fighting with all their might in the name of their leader.

Her eyes memorized the images of the deformed bodies, some disemboweled, others dismembered. Limbs were hanging off the bodies of the wounded who screamed from the shocking pain.

The bile came out, and she gags, sweat clinging her hair to her brow like a second skin. She spat, wiping the back of her hand over her mouth, feeling the sting of cuts littering her cheeks from the sharp branches. The pain of her torn ear finally hit her full force, and she squeezed her eyes shut at the unusual pain. She brings her fingers to touch the wound, and what should have been the shell of her ear was gone. Horrified, she looks at the fresh blood coating her fingertips, swallowing thickly.

With a shuddering breath she struggles to ignore the pain, scanning her eyes once more over the field, searching for his chariot.

Could he be...dead?

Before she could fall back into the dirt against the prospect, she spots him, riding across the field like the king he knew he would be.

He was yelling orders at his men, stopping occasionally to lodge his axe into someone’s skull. Even from a distance she could see the blood that coated his face and the look of determination he had.

He wasn't afraid.

She was in absolute awe. Ivar looked incredible.

She would smile if she could, but all chances were taken away when Queen Lagertha, clear as day, makes her way towards Ivar's chariot, sword held high in hand.

The wheel of his chariot was stuck, and he couldn't get the mare to pull him out.

That was just enough time to make her kill.

"No, no, no," Artemis begins to cry, gripping her loose hair as she watches the scene unfold.

The raven, already forgotten, begins to flap its wings rapidly, cawing quite loudly. As soon as she stood on her shaky legs, the raven flew, perching itself on her shoulder. Its claws sunk into her flesh, though she hardly noticed. What she did notice was the raven was still cawing, like it was urging her to do something.

But what? All she had was her bow.

Oh.

She reaches for the bow strapped to her back, taking the splintered wood in her bloody hand. It should have snapped from the impact of her fall, but it strangely remained in one piece, along with some of her arrows. Quickly, she digs in the pocket of her trousers for the bowstring, her shaking hands attaching the stretchy fibers to the bow as she was taught.

Taking a deep breath, she removed an arrow from her quiver, locking into place. The raven pecked at her cheek gently and she knew what she had to do.

But could she do it?

Ivar ceased his desperation to move his chariot. For a moment he was smiling, realizing he had the upper hand in the battle anyway, but all would be for nothing if Lagertha got to him first.

The queen stabbed at the warriors in her way, going straight towards him ever so slowly, and it was like everything around them had disappeared. All Artemis could see was Ivar and Lagertha, nothing else.

And she only had one shot.

She raises the bow, pulling the string as far back as she could.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Steady your stance. Pull the string. Release the arrow.

She recites the lesson in her head.

Lagertha raises her sword above her head, ready to bring it down in one swift movement. She yells as she builds up momentum, and Ivar quickly turns in surprise, his instinct quick to react, raising his axe to clash against her sword. She falls back, and again, raises her sword, so close to penetrating his armor.

Shoot!

A voice boomed, whether it was around her or in her head, Artemis didn't know, but there was no hesitation. Her fingertips released the sting and the arrow went flying at a fierce velocity to its target, impaling itself all the way through the flesh of the queen's wrist.

She cries out both in anger and pain, staggering back again as she gritted her teeth harshly against the excruciating pain. Her fingers spread open to drop her sword, falling onto her knees as she weakly cradled her wrist.

Ivar wasted no time. He grabbed a hold of his axe, slithering down to the ground and pushing Lagertha on her back, twisting the arrow lodge in her flesh to keep her from attacking. She screams and flails, Ivar's weight taking a toll on her already weak body.

He places his large hand over her eyes tightly, using the force to smash her head onto the ground. He lowers himself closer before bringing down his axe against her throat, slicing her head cleanly off.

That was it. The war was his. Kattegat was his.

He collapses onto his back beside the dead woman, he chest heaving as warriors continue to fight around him.

Slowly he sits up, the head of Lagertha in a death grip as he dragged his tired body over to his chariot, mounting the seat. He raised her head in the air by the hair, the blood leaking over his arm and onto his armored chest.

"Surrender!" He booms, "Lagertha is dead! All hail your new king!"

The opposing warriors began to retreat, fleeing back into their camps. Ivar's warriors cheered, yelling their praises to the gods, until some noticed the smoke filling the atmosphere from the tree tops.

The camp! The camp! Yelled the warriors.

Ivar's smile fades. He drops his arm, turning to look over his shoulder at what the other men gazed at.

The trees on the hill top were indeed surrounded by smoke, but that was not what held his attention.

Artemis stood there, blood, dirt and soot covering her face, chest heaving and bow held in a death grip in her trembling hand. A raven sat comfortably on her shoulder, flapping its wings wildly.

She was a sight to behold. Ivar couldn't tear his eyes from her. She looked every bit a warrior, even now as she fell to her knees, staring at him just as intently.

And then he realizes.

She was the one. She shot the arrow.

Ivar had so many questions, his mouth opening like a fish out of water as if to shout them to her from where he was.

He barks at a passing warrior to move his chariot, and once it was loosened, he turns it to bring it closer to the cliff. They stare at each other for a while until Ivar slowly raises Lagertha's head in the air towards her, as if offering it to her as a prize.

She stares at the decapitated head before dragging her eyes over Ivar's armoured body, covered in the sticky blood of his enemies. She would have been fearful of such a sight once, but now, all she wanted to do was fall into his arms.

The raven cawed loudly, flapping its wings again to gain her attention, but when she turned her head to look at the creature, it flew off, disappearing into the smokey sky.

Suddenly in the midst of the smoke stood a figure, an old man in all black. He held a long wooden staff in his spindly fingers. His beard was gray, long and matted, and when Artemis finally settled her eyes to look into his, she was startled. One eye was beautiful, different shades of blue in its depths, but the other a gaping black hole with dried blood around the edges.

He smiles at her.

"Well done." His voice seemed to vibrate through her before disappearing into a cluster of cawing ravens that colored the skies black.

...

@heavenly1927 @didiintheblog @rastakami23 @inforapound @a-mess-of-fandoms @leilabeaux @ostra814 @zumzum96

#ivar #ivar imagine #ivarfanfiction #ivarxofc #ivar the boneless #vikings #vikings ivar #vikings fanfiction #alex hogh andersen

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surveys-at-your-service · 3 years

Text

Survey #331

my head hurts way too badly to think up some intro lyrics, so just g’night.

Have you ever become good friends with someone you never met in person? Oh yeah, I've had best friends over the Internet. Hell, I'm closer to many online friends than I am most irl ones. They know "the real me" more. What do you consider your default mood to be? Stressed, probably. Discontent. What’s the longest amount of time you’ve ever kept a goldfish alive for? Not long. Proper goldfish husbandry is a very neglected topic, and I sure as hell never knew how to set up its tank adequately. Have you ever been paintballing? No, don't plan to. It looks like it hurts like a bitch. Do you want a large wedding? No. Did you ever collect any sort of cards? I had a very small collection of Pokemon cards. I didn't collect them avidly. What’re the best and worst books you ever had to read for a class? The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton was the best. The worst was some book we had to read in the 6th grade about a kid during some war that moved around a lot... I don't remember the name or who wrote it, but it sucked. What’s the best meal you had at an amusement park, or If you haven’t been to one, how about a good meal at another place like a zoo, aquarium or museum? I don't know. I haven't been to many. Who, whether a person or company, emails you the most? My PHP therapist emails me a check-in sheet and Zoom link every day there's a therapy session. What kind of sound or noise freaks you out the most and why do you think it scares you? Let's seeeee... I don't know if there's a sound that actually freaks me out. There are some I don't like, but none that like, frighten me. At least that I can think of. What’s the strangest art piece you’ve come across? Biiiitch there's a painting in Amnesia: A Machine for Pigs I'm not gonna go into, but shit fuckin wild. What’s the most clever or unique name you’ve come across for a business? I've definitely heard some cool ones, but I don't know about one that really stands out to answer this. If you had to name one of your hypothetical future children after a song, which song would you pick? Maybe like... okay, I'm blanking. Good thing I'm not having kids to name then, right? What’s the last song you heard? "Down in the Park" by Marilyn Manson is on atm. What is your favorite line from a TV show? *shrug* Any current family issues? No. How many hours do you spend online a day? How do you feel about that? I'm doing something on the computer pretty much... always. I hate it, and I hate it a lot. I don't want my life to be tied solely to the digital plane. I want to do more than bounce back and forth from website to website. Do you think that people have the power to make their own lives better? Absolutely, but there are some things they simply cannot change. It's about perspective and how you play the deck you're dealt. What is the biggest problem in your life right now? Right now, the most limiting thing is my physical health, probably. Just walking being torture affects my ability to exercise, and my body is a major reason - if not the biggest, at this current time - for my depression. This also plays a massive role in jobs I can handle. Not to sound like my emo self writing middle school poetry, but my body feels like a prison. Do you feel that you are loved? I know I am by some people, though I have a hard time understanding why a lot. What is the one thing you want most from life? Life satisfaction. Pride in what I've accomplished. A regular state of being content. Birthplace? I'm just gonna say in eastern NC. Do you believe in love at first sight? No, merely infatuation. Love is much too deep for that. Do you think dreams eventually come true? Some can, but usually only if you put effort into making that so. Favorite fictional character? like ummmmmmmm have you heard of this sassy bastard called Darkiplier- Go to the movies or rent? Before Covid, I loved going to the theater. It was something to do, plus a giant screen is nice. McDonalds or Burger King? McD's. I'm not a big BK fan. I only really went there during my vegetarian phase for the veggie burger. Current annoyance? This motherfucking headache. Last thing you ate? I have a meal replacement shake with me right now, if you consider that "eating." I didn't have a proper dinner. The last solid food I had though was some cookies and cream Greek yogurt. Last thing you bought? With my own money, I think I bought Mom and I some cheap McDonald's order semi-recently? Or maybe paying my $100 deposit for my tattoo was most recent, idk. Soonest thing you are looking forward to? For Mom to get her CT scan and find out what's going on in there. What did you do today? It was a pretty average day. I woke up way too early, though. The only thing even semi-unique about today was I played World of Warcraft for a few hours again; I've been quite unattached to it lately, but I went through an episode today of actually having fun playing. Oh, and I've been battling a migraine. It's more of a severe headache now, at least, but it still sucks big time. Do you like to see it snowing outside? Oh yes, absolutely! When you were in high school did you ever have bomb threats? I believe once we did from a very volatile student that honestly caused quite a lot of trouble. He's dead now. Who knows ALL of your secrets? Nobody. Did you have a job before you were in college? No. Have you ever thought about what it would be like to have a baby right now? That's a terrifying thought, no. Are you on birth control? Yeah, but just because it tames my menstrual cramps. Without it, they could be debilitating some days. Who is your last sent text to? My best fren. Have you ever eaten at Chipotle before? Possibly? Idr. Do you swear often? Excessively. I had a dirty mouth prior, but my swearing got really bad when I started staying at Jason's house a lot. He and especially his mother swear like mad. Do you own any shirts with a peace symbol on it? No. Do you have your national flag hanging up anywhere outside your house? Not at this house, no. Would you ever go to Japan? Oh, yes. I would love to. It's... very morbid, but I would really like to walk the (public) paths of Aokigahara Forest, nicknamed "Suicide Forest" for the horrible amount of, well, suicides that happen there via hanging. Like, you might just casually run into a dead body. I want to just... feel it there, walk in silence and empathize with people who didn't know what else to do and hope so deeply that those departed know they were never alone in their pain. I know with absolute certainty I'd probably be teary-eyed the whole time and cry a whoooole lot, but it's just an experience I want to have. What was the last thing you went to Walmart for? Some basic groceries. What should you be doing right now? Sleeping, given this headache... I just don't want to yet. Are you afraid of getting your heart broken? I'm fucking terrified of that ever happening again, far more than words can properly express. Have you ever been in a choir? Yes, actually; when I was a Catholic kid, my sisters and I were in the church choir for a year or so, idr. Do you have a Twitter? Yes, but only to like Mark's tweets, haha. Oh, and very rarely enter giveaways I'm interested in. Describe your retainers to me, if you have them, that is. I have a permanent metal one behind my front row of bottom teeth to keep those straight. My upper teeth had one of those normal retainers you take in and out, but I didn't wear it enough, so now it doesn't even fit. Would you like for someone to call you right now? No. I'm tired, my head hurts, and I'm enjoying the song I'm bingeing. It's so weird, I rarely ever go on music hunting trips (no real reason, I just... don't), but I've found great shit lately. Do you like to brush your teeth? No; it's a chore. I only do it because I don't want my teeth decaying, falling out, or getting too yellow, and the taste in your mouth and gritty texture on your teeth isn't exactly great when you don't brush. Have you ever had a surgery? Two. Give out your phone number over the internet? I have over private messages. Do you look older or younger than you actually are? Given my wardrobe (like graphic tees and band shirts), I probably look younger in the eyes of especially older people. I personally say I look my age, though. When is the next time you’ll be up on stage? I never plan to be again. What is the last show that you watched a full episode of? Some cooking show with Mom. Nailed It!, I think? Do you know anyone who lives in Utah? No. I love Utah, though; it's actually a place I'd be willing to live in with just how pretty it is and not super populated. Do you get your feelings hurt easily? VERY. I'm probably one of the most sensitive people you can meet. Do you still talk to the person you last made out with? Yeah. Have you ever seen your best friend cry? Ugh, yes. What kind of vitamins did you take as a kid? First we took those nasty, chalky Flintstones kinds, but as time passed, Mom moved onto giving us gummy bear vitamins that were perfectly fine. Did you get any compliments today? No. Are you friends with your neighbors? Not "friends," no. What towns have you lived in? Three different ones. That's all you're getting. Have you ever thrown up from drinking? No. Done any illegal drugs? No. I mean I've had some alcohol underage, but I've never done anything remotely hardcore. What’s the longest amount of time you’ve been on an airplane without changing flights? Idk. Who have you texted today? My mom and best friend. What time did you wake up this morning? Ugh, like five in the fucking morning. I couldn't go back to sleep. What is your favorite condiment to go with french fries? Ketchup. What do you have a habit of doing when engaging in a conversation with someone? Making shitty eye contact, and I'm one of those people who "talks with [their] hands." I also lose my train of thought a whoooole lot. Have you ever layed in a hammock? Yeah; we had one growing up. Have you ever lost a pet in a tragic way? How did you cope? Well yeah, I've had lots of pets, so thus lost some in particularly painful ways. The most scarring loss of a pet though is as follows: Teddy, my dog, picked up one of our cat's very young, wandering kittens in his jaws in a manner that looked as if he was trying to carry it like Aphrodite (the mother cat) does when she would bring them back behind the couch, where she gave birth/had her little "nest." I absolutely freaked and had to pry the kitten from his mouth, and it slowly died in my hands. I think Teddy accidentally crushed its ribs. I. Was. A. Mess. Then, there was Aphrodite herself. I've told the story before of our former neighbors calling animal control because our cats would wander through their yard, and all of our cats were taken away while I was unaware at school. Came home, and they were all gone. Aphrodite was my baby, so I was devastated. Screaming, sobbing, cursing on the porch for like 20 minutes... It was awful. What type of curtains do you like? I don't... know? I don't know the actual names of any types... What type of quality is a must-have in a friend? I absolutely cannot be friends with someone who thinks they're above everyone else. Are you any good at reading someone's body language? I think I am. What goes good with a nice cold glass of milk? Cookies! Especially Oreos. Dip it in there for around five seconds, and it's perfection. What fruit is too sweet to you? Grapefruit came to mind first. How did you feel after your first kiss? I had butterflies galore and was so giddy and smiley. After the first, I just wanted to kiss him a billion more times. What’s your favorite constellation and why? I don't have one. Shower curtain or door? Curtain. The glass doors are too revealing. Have you ever thought to yourself that you’re the luckiest person in the world? Most deeeeefinitely not. What time of day do you most enjoy looking at the sky? Sunset if there are clouds present, but sunrise if the sky is pretty clear.

#survey #surveys #questions

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tefanfics · 4 years

Photo

Changes

Chapter 7 (not my gif)

I was woken up by light shining through the curtains and brightening up the entire room. I rolled onto my back and opened my eyes. I laid there for a few minutes before I finally forced myself to get up. I looked around the bedroom, noticing my suitcases near the door. I moved the blankets and let my legs hang over the edge of the bed. I reached for my phone on the nightstand and felt something soft under it. I moved my phone and read the note laying on top of a white towel.

Help yourself to whichever bathroom. I had to run an errand but I’ll be back in a little while. -T

I hopped out of bed and opened one of my suitcases. I pulled out my shampoo and conditioner, clean undergarments and a dress before heading to the master bathroom with the towel tucked under my arm.

I set my clean clothes out before starting the shower. The bathroom was similar to the kitchen- granite vanity and gray walls, clean white cabinets. Once the water was warm enough for me, I undressed and climbed in.

I tried to limit myself on how long I stayed in the shower. I certainly didn’t want to use up all of the hot water in Taron’s apartment. I washed my hair and conditioned it before cleaning my body. I rinsed off and shut off the water, soon feeling the coolness of the bathroom against my skin. The worst part of taking a shower. I stepped out of the shower and dried off, holding the towel close as I began to get dressed.

I used the towel to get my hair as dry as I could manage as I looked at myself in the mirror. I needed a hairdryer but I wasn’t sure that Taron had one anywhere. I retrieved my makeup bag from my suitcase and returned to the bathroom. I applied a soft, natural look before checking myself over in the mirror. My hair was still damp but it didn’t look a total mess for once in my life. My dress was black and covered with pink, blue and yellow flowers and fell just below my knees. I gave myself a nod of approval then gathered my belongings back in the suitcase.

I left Taron’s bedroom and walked through the hallway back toward the main living space of the apartment. I smelled food which immediately triggered my stomach to growl. I looked into the kitchen, spotting Taron at the stove.

“Good morning,” I said with a smile.

Taron looked to me and grinned. “Well this is certainly a different look than yesterday,” he chuckled.

I shrugged, trying to peek at the stove. “I’m a woman of many levels.”

“I believe it,” Taron answered as he stepped in front of the stove and blocked my view. “You look lovely. However, I am going to ask that you leave the kitchen because otherwise the surprise might be ruined.”

“Thank you.” I raised my eyebrows but couldn’t fight the small giggle that came out. “Is that so?” I asked as I stepped backwards and out of the kitchen. “Well whatever the surprise is, it smells fantastic.” With that, I walked away.

Once in the living room, I looked at the record player sitting on a small table between two bookshelves. The shelves were filled with vinyl. “You collect vinyl?” I asked loud enough for Taron to hear.

“I do. Find anything you fancy?”

I looked over the shelves, pulling out records and looking them over. Eventually I selected a Beatles record and put it on the record player, lowering the needle so the song began.

I shut my eyes as I listened to the music. I’m Happy Just To Dance With You playing as Taron entered the room. I walked over and helped him set the table near the wall closest to the kitchen. I smiled as And I Love Her began. It was one of my favorites. I hummed along with it.

Taron came around from the other side of the table and held a hand out to me. He smiled as I reached out and took it. He pulled me closer and put his other hand on my waist. My free hand rested on his shoulder as he led us to sway back and forth to the song. I could hear him quietly singing along near my ear.

I could feel the heat on my face. There was no way this was really my life. It had certainly been surreal just to be in London and hired to work on a movie, but this… This was just crazy. I was in Taron Egerton’s apartment. I had stayed here and slept in his bed nonetheless. And now here we were, slow dancing in his living room.

When the song ended, Taron let go of me and offered a warm smile as he walked away to the kitchen. My stomach was doing flips as I stood there. I tried to collect myself, though I was unable to wipe the grin off of my face.

I cleared my throat but I heard myself giggling again. I shook my head to try and pull myself together. “Uh… Do you need any help?” I called.

“Absolute not,” he answered. “Go ahead and sit down.”

I did as I was told and took a seat at the dining table. Taron emerged from the kitchen again with a plate of food in each hand and sat them down. He left again and came back with orange juice and champagne. I looked at the plate in front of me, my mouth watering as I took it in. Taron poured us each a drink then handed me one.

“I know I got you a replacement yesterday but I figured another couldn’t hurt,” he said with a shrug before taking a sip of his.

“Thank you for all of this,” I said as I picked up a piece of bacon. “You didn’t need to make me breakfast though. If anything, I’m the one who should’ve cooked for you.” I ate, devouring most than I thought I would.

“Nonsense. You’re a guest. This is the least I could do.”

“You’ve been incredibly nice to me, Taron. I do really appreciate it.” I wiped my hands off on my napkin and set it back on my lap. “Really I can’t thank you enough.” Taron gave me another shrug as I looked at him. “Do you often dance with your house guests?” I asked, a playfulness in my voice.

“Only the pretty ones,” he answered smoothly as he stood up and took the plates off the table.

I laughed and stood up. I went and flipped the record over to the B side then returned to the table, gathering the rest of the things on the table. I followed Taron into the kitchen and helped him clean up. We both stayed quiet as we listened to the record play. I sang along every now and then but I stopped each time it became evident that Taron was listening.

When we were done, I returned to his bedroom and grabbed my phone. I answered a few texts from my family and my best friend from the evening before as I walked back to the living room. Taron was already on the sofa, checking his own phone.

“Any plans for today?” He asked, looking up.

“I’m supposed to move into the apartment today,” I answered as I sat down on the couch near the corner again, putting my phone down beside me. “And somehow I lucked out and got an apartment to myself.”

“Very nice. Need any help?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so,” I said as I leaned into the couch, looking at Taron. “I only have my suitcases and my backpack. Thank you though.” I grew quiet as my phone buzzed. I looked down and read the name on the screen. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered. I flipped my phone over so I couldn’t see the screen before trying to focus on Taron again. “And truthfully, you’ve been more than generous already.”

Taron’s expression grew serious as he looked at me. “What’s wrong?”

I shook my head. “Nothing, really. Just wasn’t expecting a message from someone.” I tried to play it off, looking away and toward the record player. The record had stopped spinning and the needle had lifted up. “Want to pick something this time?”

“Who was it? If you don’t mind my asking.” Taron glanced toward the player and shook his head. “No, that’s alright. You go ahead.”

I stood up and walked back to the record player. I carefully took the record off and put it back in its case. I put it back in its spot on the shelf before searching over the shelves again. Elton John was calling my name. I found Honky Chateau and put it on the player, lowering the needle again. “My ex,” I finally answered. “He wants to see me again.” I scoffed and shook my head.

“Too late for that,” Taron muttered. I barely heard him over the music. I smiled to myself as I waited to see if he’d say anything else. “You could tell him you’ve moved on,” he suggested. There was a tone to his voice I couldn’t quite place. He mostly sounded like he was joking but something else was hiding in there. He patted the spot on the sofa next to him. “Let’s just take care of this.”

I let out a little laugh and walked over, sitting down beside Taron. He pointed to my phone and I handed it to him after I unlocked it. He took my phone and opened the camera, flipping it to the selfie view.

“We’ve got to sell this,” he said as he put his arm over my shoulders and pulled me close. I could smell a small hint of cologne. He set my phone on his lap for a second for reaching for my hand furthest from him. He guided my hand to his chest, gently letting go of it. He took my phone again and angled it toward us. “Okay, you’re going to have to act like you like me,” he said with a laugh.

“Shouldn’t be hard. You let me stay at your place, didn’t try anything funny, you cooked me breakfast and you danced with me.”

“Easy enough then,” Taron answered with a grin. At this, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to my cheek. I forgot about the camera. I felt like a teenager- giddy and excited because her crush noticed her for the first time.

Taron lingered longer than a normal peck on the cheek should have taken. He slowly pulled away and our eyes met. I thought something else was going to happen for a moment until he finally looked away. I watched as he sent the photo off to my ex and locked my phone, only to look at me again.

“Right then… That should keep him at bay.”

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izzy-b-hands · 3 years

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Cold As The Grave

Written for my DL Server bingo card prompt: Cool Cat.

I cannot recall the interview this was in for the life of me, but I do recall at least one mentioning John not finding horror movies scary at all.

Going off of that, we have here scary movie night, aka scary movie night for Roger, Freddie, and Brian, and comedy movie night for John (while the other three look on both in horror at the movies and at John laughing his ass off at the creepiest and most gory scenes, utterly cool and unbothered by all of it.) Set in a modern AU because then I can reference as many of the movies I’ve seen myself as possible lol.

My love to all who read/like/reblog!

“This is great,” John chuckled, and tossed more popcorn into his mouth. “You know, I learned how they make the fake blood look that thick. I should show you guys sometime.”

He continued eating and watching, apparently not feeling the three pairs of eyes no longer glued to the screen, but staring in horror at him instead.

Roger and Brian jabbed him at once, and Freddie jumped. “Ah. Right. You could show us that, sometime. Or not, I mean, we’re often busy-”

“Very busy,” Roger added.

“Horribly,” Brian nodded.

“Look!” John cheered. “Look at what the rats are doing! The effects are fantastic in this!”

“This is disgusting,” Roger hissed, gesturing to the scene from Sinister 2 playing out on the TV. “How is he still eating?!”

“I could really go for pizza,” John continued. “Meat lovers and a vegetarian for Bri?”

Brian swallowed hard as he watched the scene continue. “Sure. Yeah. Because I can eat while we watch things like this.”

“Of course, yeah,” Freddie agreed, letting out a heavy held breath as John got up to go order the pizza. “How long has he been like this? How did we not notice?”

“Should we call his mum,” Roger proposed. “To find out if she knows about this, and if so, how has she dealt with it?”

“We don’t have enough time for that,” Brian replied. “I can’t eat while we watch this. My stomach isn’t the weakest, but this is...god, and he wants to start the Saw movies after this. Guys, I can’t.”

“No, he actually has the Human Caterpillar movies on the list next, the Saw films are after that,” Freddie said with a wince. “Maybe he won’t notice if we aren’t eating?”

“It’s on the way!” John announced happily as he bounced back in and onto the couch. “You lot okay? Awfully pale, all of you. Don’t tell me you’re scared!”

“It is a horror movie,” Roger said defensively. “Most people do get scared of those. Most people. Lots of people, even. Sort of the idea behind them.”

“You’re all silly,” John laughed. “This isn’t that bad.”

“I’m sorry, what movies do you consider ‘bad’ then?” Brian asked. “I’m curious and terrified to know.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” John teased, and started back in on the popcorn.

Freddie laughed nervously. “Actually, darling, we would! Care to share with us, or...”

But John was back into the movie, laughing at the next horrific act on the screen. “You ever think about what you’d do, if you were in that situation? I like to think I’d handle it better.”

“Do I ever think,” Brian said slowly. “About what I would do if a version of the Boogeyman was real. And had a curse. And was going to try and convince any children I might have to kill me, and film the results. No. No I have not.”

“Okay,” John said, and gestured to the DVD case holding the first Human Caterpillar movie. “What about that? If we got kidnapped, all of us, on tour-”

Roger covered his eyes, and groaned.

Freddie’s eyes were wide. “Have...have you thought about that?”

“It’s all in good fun,” John giggled, then jumped at the sound of the doorbell. “Oh! Scared me, they got here fast!”

Freddie leaned forward, head in his hands as John got up to go retrieve the pizza. “I’m. This was supposed to be a fun movie night. I’m learning too much about him. About all of us. And I love you all, you’re brothers to me, but there’s a limit in what I can learn in one night, and I think I just found it.”

“I need a hug,” Roger said miserably, hanging onto Freddie’s arm as he gave him an awkward half-hug. “Thank you.”

“Maybe he’ll just watch them now,” Brian said. “He’ll be busy eating, then full, then comfy and warm. Might even fall asleep.”

“And if he keeps laughing at this shit like some demon from foulest hell?!” Roger hissed.

“Then we accept he’s lightly possessed and move on with our lives, Roger!” Brian said sharply. “I don’t know what else we do if he keeps that up; I’m busy trying to figure out how he finds any of it funny!”

“There’s got to be one of these that scares him,” Freddie said, shuffling through the DVD cases and pondering the list of streamed movies they’d made up. “We’ll spend all night watching if we must. We’re going to find one that scares him, one that doesn’t make him act like-”

“Pizza for the scaredy cats!” John smiled as he set the pizza boxes down on the coffee table. “If you lot can manage to eat any.”

“We can,” Roger scoffed, but he actively looked away from the TV as he picked up a slice. “See? Perfectly fine, and not feeling sick at all.”

“Okay,” John giggled. “If you say so.”

“Let me know when I can look back,” Roger whispered to Freddie as he ate as quickly as possible.

“You mean when the movie is over?” Freddie whispered back.

“Essentially, yeah,” Roger replied.

---

Four hours later, they had yet to succeed in their task.

He’d giggled his way through the Human Caterpillar movies.

Cackled through the Saw pictures, and started in on how he’d make his own horrible pain maze, if he was forced to create one.

Hereditary and Midsommar? He was enraptured.

“Okay,” Freddie sighed. “This one says it’s also a comedy. Can we try that?”

John slipped the disc for The Cabin in the Woods into the player. “Don’t think I ever actually got around to watching this one. Why not?”

It was silly. Schlocky, at bits even. But it was a dream for the three of them; a break from overwhelming scares and gore in exchange for a more acceptable level of those things, in addition to a chance to laugh.

John, however, was tense.

“You alright?” Freddie asked about midway through the movie.

John nodded, but didn’t speak. He’d stopped nibbling at the leftover pizza, his remaining popcorn left in the bowl and set on the floor.

“The effects are good in this,” Roger tried a bit later. “Right? I mean, it’s gory, but even we can handle it. Pretty silly of us, huh, Deaky?”

John didn’t look away from the screen.

“Um. So, who do you think we’d all be, if it was us, in that?” Brian asked with a gentle smile. “And who would be the fifth person to join us?”

“Well, none of us can be the virgin,” Freddie giggled. “Right, Deaky?”

“Rather not think about it,” John replied tersely.

They looked at each other and frowned.

“Okay,” Freddie said. “You’re sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” John said. “Just don’t like thinking about something like this happening to us, I guess.”

“But you were okay with the plot of the Human Caterpillar happening to us?!” Roger squawked.

“Not okay with it, just thought it was an interesting thing to consider,” John said. “We’d escape and be fine, obviously.”

“And we wouldn’t escape this, you don’t think?” Freddie asked gently.

“Look at it!” John scoffed as the final scene rolled. “They didn’t! And they potentially could have had at least one of them escape, maybe! I couldn’t...”

He hesitated. “I couldn’t hurt any of you to save my own hide.”

“We wouldn’t be able to hurt you either,” Brian said. “You know that!”

“Yeah!” Roger added. “We’d all go down together instead, in a blaze of fire!”

“Really?” John asked softly.

“Or in a blaze of us terrified, shitting ourselves,” Roger shrugged. “One of those two for sure though.”

“No other spots on the spectrum we could occupy, just violence or absolute terror?” Freddie asked.

“Maybe, but I’m tired, this is the best analysis I can do for now,” Roger yawned.

“We should sleep,” Brian agreed. “I’m exhausted, somehow. Thought I’d be too scared to sleep, all things considered.”

Freddie nodded and tilted his head towards John. “You coming in with us?”

“I...I’m good. Might stay up yet. Just because,” John shifted uncomfortably on the couch.

“Are...you’re scared,” Roger said gently. “Aww, Deaky.”

“Shut up!”

“I knew there had to be one that would get you,” Freddie said. “Didn’t expect it to be this one, if I’m honest. We’ll stay out here with you, how about that?”

“You don’t need to do that,” John muttered. “I’m not a child.”

“Who said you were?” Brian asked. “I’m staying out here because frankly, that stupid Boogeyman thing pops up in my vision every time I close my eyes, and I hate that.”

Roger nodded. “I’m now horrified of Germany, thanks to that Caterpillar movie. Going to have nightmares of...well. You know. Better to stay out here, with you lot.”

“And that fucking demon thing from Insidious?” Freddie added. “I hate it. And now I do have the odd feeling it’s somehow going to watch me while I sleep. So it would be nice to not be alone tonight, if possible.”

“I don’t believe you,” John said, but he smiled as he spoke. “Fine. We’ll push the couch back and set up on the floor?”

“Exactly,” Freddie said. “That way when we do have nightmares, we can promptly kick each other awake during them.”

John seemed happier as he helped clean the living room up, and walked off to retrieve extra blankets and pillows.

Freddie waited a beat before whispering. “Were you lot really going to go into your own rooms? There was no way I could have; I don’t know how I’ll sleep as it is!”

“I was trying to look tough in front of him,” Brian muttered. “That was stupid. I didn’t need to do that. I really do hate that fucking Bagul or whatever the fuck it is-”

“Jump scare at the end of that one was the best, wasn’t it?” Roger grinned.

“How dare you make me remember that,” Brian sighed. “But better that then...well. Your nightmares are going to be a lot worse than mine, I think.”

“Let’s not make it a competition,” Freddie murmured. “It’s nearly five in the morning, and...fuck.”

“You just remembered we rented the studio space out starting at eight, didn’t you?” John said as he walked back in and dropped the blankets onto the floor. “I thought it was weird you guys agreed to this on the night before a day in the studio! But you just all forgot, didn’t you?”

Three shameful nods were all they could manage in response as they finished settling in, all of the lights off, snuggled together.

John, for his part, seemed far less scared than he had been before, now that they were all piled in the same makeshift bed. He snored gently; it might be a decent three or so hours of sleep for him.

If the rest of them had their eyes glued to checking the time on their phones as said three hours passed, jumping at each noise in the shared flat...

John didn’t need to know about that. No one, frankly, needed to know about that. Not him, nor the studio techs that would likely be raising brows at the bags under their eyes.

That was their secret, and a reminder to better plan the next horror movie night, well in advance of any studio time.

#text post #LeeH writes #queen band fic

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dyscrasia-eucrasia · 4 years

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Part 24

Demie gripped the door handle with one hand and the door frame with another as he heaved. He'd cleared out most of his stomach contents already, at this point he was just trying to clear the bile from his throat. He pulled his hair to one side of his neck and coughed, hacking and then spitting into the dirt. Then he just sat there, half of his body outside of the car, trying to get his breathing and heart rate back under control.

"Hey, um…" Angel said from the driver's seat, "you okay?"

Angel placed a hand on Demie's back, gently rubbing it. Demie had it together enough to think that that was kind of gay, but not to actually tell Angel to knock it off.

Besides, it actually felt kinda nice.

After waiting a minute to make sure that he wasn't going to puke again, Demie heaved his body back into the passenger's seat and shut the car door. Angel moved his hand so that it was resting on the center console. He let Demie sit there in silence, gathering his thoughts.

"I can't do this, man," Demie finally said. His words came out sounding like sandpaper. "Sorry. I just can't do this right now."

"Hey," Angel said softly, turning in his seat to get a look at Demie, "it's okay."

"Sorry, I knew you wanted to go to this thing, but I just can't do that right now."

"It's alright," Angel said, his voice still low and gentle, "really. It's okay."

No, it wasn't okay. Not to Demie. The thing was, he wanted to go. He really did. He'd never actually been to a music festival before and it sounded cool. He wanted to actually experience being in an audience at a show, instead of just playing them. He wanted to do normal things like normal people.

But as soon as they'd left the town limits of Billy Brook, it was as if there were a million eels swirling around inside his stomach. His heart was racing, his head was pounding, and he felt dizzy even though he was just sitting in a car. And hanging over all of that was the inescapable feeling that something bad was going to happen.

It was like the anxiety he got at shows, but ten times worse. At least with shows, he could step out on stage and know that he was protected by the plausible deniability of wearing a costume. And that he had the power to control everyone in the audience.

Being an audience member, though, he wouldn't have either of those things. Worse, what if human musicians had a power like he did? He didn't have any proof that they did, other than videos he saw of performances where people in the audience were going crazy. What if someone was able to control him like he controlled his crowds? What if they made him do something stupid or violent?

What if they made him do something to Angel?

He wasn't sure which thought scared him more - that he could be influenced into hurting Angel, or that he could be influenced into something like that guy that he'd punched at that one show.

For some reason, it never occurred to him to think that maybe Angel could be influenced into assaulting him. The gay panic only went one way.

"Do you wanna go home?" Angel asked. His tone was so patient, so understanding. He made Demie feel so safe.

"Nngh," Demie moaned, thinking. No, he didn't want to go home. He didn't want to go home only twenty minutes after leaving. He didn't want to walk into the trailer and have Elaine say that she'd told him so.

"Do you still want to go to Charleston? We don't have to go to the festival, we could go hang out at my place or something private like that."

"NNNNNNGGGHH," Demie moaned again. No. No way. He absolutely did not want to go to Angel's home. That felt dangerous. Like something would happen there that he couldn't take back. He wasn't sure what exactly could happen, but he just knew he didn't want it to happen.

"Okay, so… do you maybe want to get something to eat?" Angel asked. "There's a gas station a little ways down the road, they have a diner attached."

"I can't exactly go in there," Demie mumbled.

"You don't have to. I can get something to go and we can eat in the car."

Demie reached up and gripped his horns, pulling them up. It didn't really do anything, but when he got headaches he swore it helped relieve the pressure in his skull. It had become a nervous habit when he needed space to think.

"Nnnghh… okay," he said, slumping back against the seat. He was shaking; maybe something to eat would do him good.

"Okay," Angel said, starting up the car again.

It took them about ten more minutes to arrive at the gas station. It was a run-down little place, the pumps about a decade old and the diner straight out of the fifties. Demie and Elaine had driven past it before numerous times on the way to shows, but they'd never stopped there. There was another station in Billy Brook that was cheaper.

"You want anything specific?" Angel asked. He parked in the spot furthest from the entrance. Probably, Demie realized, to keep him out of sight.

"Mm… water. And just something vegetarian."

"Got it," Angel said, unbuckling his seatbelt and getting out of the car. "Be back in a few."

Demie grunted in response, watching as Angel headed towards the diner. Angel had worn a tank top, and for the first time, Demie noticed that he had angel wings tattooed on his back. That was fitting, he supposed.

Angel disappeared inside, and Demie was left to sit there alone. Angel had left the radio on, and the band they'd been listening to switched to The Cure. Demie wrinkled his nose. This was a band he knew - his brother liked them - but that he didn't really care for. He wasn't sure how to change it, though. Angel's car had a fancy touch screen, not the simple tape deck that Elaine's van had. Besides, Demie had seen Angel control the music from his phone when they first left, and he was pretty sure Angel had taken his phone inside with him.

There was nothing to look at except the diner, so he stared at it. It was one of the silver train car-looking diners. Demie had never been inside of one, but he liked how they looked. There was something very iconic about them.

He reached down to grab his backpack from where it sat between his feet. He unzipped it and pulled out his Polaroid camera, aiming it carefully so that the hood of the car wasn't in the picture, and took a snapshot. The camera spit out the picture and he waved it briefly before letting it settle to develop.

He had been sitting there staring at the picture for who knew how long when the driver's side door opened and he jumped.

"Settle down, it's just me," Angel said, slipping into the car. He carried a styrofoam to-go box and a cardboard drink tray with one styrofoam cup with a straw, and one paper coffee cup.

"Sorry, all I got you was a salad," he went on. "They didn't really have anything explicitly vegetarian, and I wanted to get out there as quickly as I could. I get the feeling gay folks and people of color aren't really wanted in there."

Demie took the box, glancing at Angel's arm, and then at his own. "What do you mean, 'people of color?'" He asked. "I'm darker than you are."

"Yeah, no, it just means anyone who isn't white."

"Your skin is white, though."

"It's just an expression," Angel said with a sigh.

"Hm," Demie hummed, opening the box and digging out a plastic fork. He didn't really get it, but then again, there was a lot of human stuff he didn't really get. At least, he blamed it on humans being weird about things, and not on his very sheltered upbringing.

"I didn't know you had a Polaroid," Angel said, nodding to the camera in Demie's lap.

"Hm? Oh, yeah," Demie said around a mouthful of salad, "I've had it since I was a kid."

"I like it," Angel said. "I know people who have the digital kinds now, but they aren't as cool as the old ones. Can I see it?"

"Yeah, sure," Demie said, handing the camera off to him.

Angel turned the camera over in his hands as Demie ate. Then, without warning, Angel lifted the camera to his face, and pointed it at Demie.

"Smile," he said with a grin, snapping a picture.

"Dude, hey!" Demie threw up his hands as the flash went off. He reached for the photo to snatch it out of Angel's hands before it developed, but Angel threw up an elbow to ward him off and held it far away at the other end of the car.

"Ha!" Angel laughed, shaking the photo off as the image came into relief. "Omigod, you look hilarious."

Demie could only sort of see the photo, but he could see that he was shoveling lettuce into his open mouth in it. He shoved Angel's shoulder and sat back in his seat. "Dick," he said. He never took pictures of himself.

Angel handed the camera back to him, but held onto the photo.

"Do not keep that thing," Demie said.

"Oh, no, I am absolutely keeping this. I'm gonna pin it up on my photo wall."

"You like taking photos too?"

"What? Oh, no, they're all of myself. You're getting the distinction of being the first non-Angel photo on the Angel Photo Wall."

"Fuckin' narcissist," Demie snorted.

"Nothing wrong with a little self-love," Angel shot back.

Demie poked at his salad some more. "Do you have any other tattoos?" He asked after a little while.

"Huh?"

"The wings," Demie jerked a thumb towards his own back. "Saw 'em when you got out of the car. You got any others?"

"Oh. No, not right now," Angel replied. "I can't decide on anything that I'd like enough to put on my body permanently. Besides the wings, of course. Why? Do you have any?"

"Nah," Demie said. "One of my cousins knows how to do stick-and-poke, he always offers to do some at the Bacchanalia, but… same, I can't think of anything I want permanently on my body."

"What's the Bacchanalia?" Angel asked. "Something to do with your band?"

"Mm, kinda," Demie said around another bite of salad. "Everyone in the area who worships Bacchus - Dionysus - gets together once a year and we throw this massive party. Basically everyone just goes into the woods and gets real drunk and has a lot of sex. We named the band after our God."

"That sounds…" Angel tapped his mouth with his fingertips, "that sounds so pagan, but also so, so hillbilly."

"Yeah, whatever. It's a religious thing."

"No, that sounds fun. I wish my religion was getting drunk and having sex in the woods."

Demie opened his mouth, but closed it very quickly. He had considered inviting Angel to the Bacchanalia, but decided better of it. Again, he didn't really trust himself when it came to losing all control if Angel was around, though he wasn't sure why. He told himself that he just didn't want Angel to get hurt, even though there generally weren't any fights at the celebration.

"Hey," he said, changing the subject, "can I take a photo of your tattoo sometime?"

Angel looked at him, arching an eyebrow. "Why? I mean… sure, but why?"

Demie shrugged. "I dunno. Only so many interesting things to photograph out in the woods. It'd be cool to have a picture of a person."

"Yeah," Angel said after a moment. "Yeah, of course."

#writing #writers on tumblr #original fiction #gay fiction #mlm #lgbt fiction #mlm fiction #wright's writing #w:demie and angel

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bxtonpxss · 4 years

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Learnset # 3 | Thor Would Like to Learn a New Move!

“Thoooor, c’mon let’s go home already. You promised!” After a long day of them exploring the city, Glitch was tired out, not that he could blame her, he could feel a bit of exhaustion beginning to settle in his bones also as he walked. There’s an insistent tugging at his ears that the bigger mouse has grown far too used to, so he doesn’t pay it any mind, not even when its followed by a harsh nip and impatient jolt of electricity that does nothing more than send a ticklish tingle through his system. He does nothing more than twitch a little before wiggling his ears a bit playfully, which causes Glitch, who currently had her teeth sunk into his left appendage to giggle.

“I know, I know kiddo. Just gimme a second,” he murmurs, front paws and nose pressed firmly to the cool glass of the window he leaned against while his eyes were glued to the television screen sitting in the window. The door was wide open to allow customers to enter, thus allowing his heightened senses to pick up the sounds from the TV. There was a battle between two humans going on, and normally he wouldn’t give the fight much thought, but one of the humans had a Raichu, so of course, he had stopped, obviously wanting to see how that played out. Even Glitch had stopped nibbling at his ear for a moment to watch the fight, entranced at the battle.

“Raichu, Reflect!”

X0X0

With the sun having already set and the sky beginning to darken, the duo finally made it home after an eventful day spent in the city. The second Thor enters the den, Glitch jumps down from her perch in between his ears with a laugh and darts straight to their nest, running around in a tight circle a few times before falling back on the pile of leaves with an audible thwump. Thor watches the Pichu with a fond look in his eye as he pads over, grabbing a few berries from their stockpile along the way. Once situated on their bed, he drops the fruit in front of Glitch and settles down on his stomach, reaching out with an arm to pull the smaller mouse close in between his forepaws so he could proceed to bathe her while she ate.

They work in comforting silence, with Glitch pushing the remainder of her berry into his mouth while he’s in the middle of finishing cleaning up her face. He chuckles before chewing and swallowing the piece of fruit, while she giggles playfully. He nuzzles at her chin and presses his yellow cheek sac against her pink one. The two electric rodents trade warm affectionate sparks before pulling away. Glitch then leans back, tucking herself right in between the space where Thor’s head meets his neck, it’s her second favorite spot to sleep after Thor’s belly. He shifts his arm a bit closer so he could rest his head on the brown tipped appendages, and the movement shifts his child a little from her space tucked away in his shoulder, but it doesn’t bother her, rather she settles even more deeply against the taller, beginning to drift off to sleep with a wide yawn.

“Mnya, gnight Thor~”

“Night Glitch.” It doesn’t take long for the Pichu’s breathes to even out and eventually slow, indicating her deep sleep. Thor isn’t too far behind her, though his mind can’t help but think back to the match they watched from earlier. After the trainer’s Raichu had used Reflect against their opponent and successfully blocked the attack, she suddenly called the mouse back.

Disappointed by the sudden disappearance of their biased Pokémon, Glitch began groaning about leaving again, and Thor couldn’t help but agree. There was no point in sticking around if the Raichu wasn’t gonna be there, so as he lowered himself back on all fours about to walk away, he hears the trainer suddenly call out an unfamiliar move that has his ears lifting and his attention focused on the screen window with an interested gaze.

The scene replays over and over in his head.

“Electrode Magnet Rise!” Thor watches as thin bolts immediately begin to form around the electric type steadily beginning to lift the owner slightly off the ground. Electrode, moments later then pushes its energy out even further, destroying bits of the field around it which then also begin to float in the air. He listened how the trainer explains that they use this move as a counter to ground types, therefore negating its only weakness.

After that, the fight was practically over before it began, with Electrode obliterating its opponent with its speed and maneuverability. Once the match was over, and the woman with the Raichu and Electrode won, Thor finally decided to head back home, but he was in awe of that move. As the bigger Chu finally settles down and begins to drift off to sleep as well, there was only one thing on his mind.

Magnet Rise.

He wanted to learn it.

X0X0

Trying to teach yourself a new move that you’ve only seen once and had no idea how it worked was the worst. Thor was having no luck with figuring out Magnet Rise, he didn’t even know where to begin, and none of the Pokémon that lived nearby could help, and aside from Elysia and her group and Izzy, Thor’s electric type connections around the forest was very limited.

As days went by without much progress Thor was just about ready give up, maybe learning Magnet Rise was simply not to be. He sighs somewhat dejectedly as he sits resting by the stream not too far from his den. Although it was another hot day and their den was much cooler, the Raichu had wanted a bit of fresh air and something to drink, but as he sat staring at his reflection he began thinking about his lack of progress towards learning this new move, which is why he’s just sitting by the water.

After a few moments of absolute silence he hears the faint sound of wings flapping in the distance, then a familiar squawking.

“Thor! Hey—Thor!” The rodent lifts his head off the ground and looks towards the noise, eyes squinting a bit as he sees the shadow of Fearow, one of his few non Chu esque friends that lived around here. The Beak Pokémon soon flies closer then softly lands a few feet from the other.

“Fearow? What are you doing here?” He blinks in confusion, having assumed the other would be tucked away in his nest today. He knew the avian didn’t really enjoy being out when it was hot, like most of the forest dwellers that lived around here, and didn’t leave his nest unless it was necessary.

“I found you a teacher!” Fearow's large wingspan expanded a bit as he stretched out his feathers excitedly while explaining. “You said you weren’t having much luck learning that new move, right?” The shorter of the pair nods slowly before realizing what his friend had said.

“W-Wait, you said you found me a teacher?”

“GREETINGS!” A garbled and mechanized cry reaches his ears, causing the rodent’s long appendages to twitch as he slowly deciphers what was being said. His gaze then shoots over to the Magneton hovering towards them, it raises one of its magnets in what Thor believes to be an impression of a wave.

“WE ARE MAGNETON!” It takes Thor a moment to understand the others speech, Magneton and its evolutions didn’t share the somewhat universal language he and many other Pokémon spoke, the magnets spoke in beeps and staticky sounds that mimicked their speech patterns.

“Uh, hi. I’m Thor,” he gives a small smile before he moves to sit up on his haunches and lift a paw in order to wave back politely.

“GREETINGS FRIEND THOR! FRIEND FEAROW SAYS YOU NEED HELP? LEARNING NEW MOVE?”

“Oh!” He stumbles a bit, not expecting Fearow to bring along another mon to help him learn the move. He looks a bit sheepish as he scratches at the side of his face absently with a paw. “Uh yeah, I’m trying to learn this attack called Magnet Rise, but I don’t know how.. to start?

“NOT TO WORRY! WE CAN TEACH YOU! VERY SIMPLE!”

Thor looks a bit skeptic, was it really that easy?

“WHEN WOULD YOU LIKE TO BEGIN?”

“Uhm... could we start--like, now?”

“AFFIRMATIVE! BEGINNING TRAINING SESSION!”

X0X0

The sound of static crackling fills the cool afternoon air as Thor’s frame is covered in thin bolts of electricity, which then shoots towards the two small objects he was told to try and make float. The sparks of electricity merely bounce all over the stone and leaf before fizzling out and dispersing into the air.

Thor lets out a groan as his move once again, fails.

That’s the fifth time today.

It was not as simple as Magneton said.

“FOCUS THOR!” Says Magneton from his spot hovering a few feet away. “REMEMBER OUR SUGGESTIONS!”

Right, it had been weeks since they first started training. Several long frustrating weeks of Thor trying and failing to lift even the tiniest and lightest of objects with his electromagnetism. The good news is, he’s no longer putting out too much energy and accidentally burning up the fallen leaves and exploding pebbles.

Magneton had explained to him that all electric type Pokémon naturally generated their own kind of magnetic fields and once able to tap into that field, one could learn to manipulate it and change how their electric currents interacted and reacted to the environment around them.

He’d managed to locate his magnetic fields, the electric currents around it had felt different than the usual energy he put out. Where his natural electrical energies were strong and had somewhat of a sharp sizzling feel to it, his magnetic energies almost felt light and airy, and cool. Now after finding them and being able to tell the difference between the two energies, it was simply a matter of manipulating it for his own personal means.

That’s where the leaves and stones came in. The objects were small enough that their magnetic fields are easier to manipulate and levitate for practice. As Magneton’s words to focus and concentrate echo in his head, the orange rodent shakes his head and tries again, releasing another set of thin sparks.

As the electricity travels and jumps along the stone and leaf, he takes a deep breath and concentrates, pushing out his own energies to connect with the two objects. As he’s focusing and probing, he suddenly feels something. Eye ridges furrowing Thor chases that odd sensation and latches onto it. Then, like a lock clicking into place, the Raichu feels his energy shift.

The crackling sound released from his sparks grows louder and begin to jump sporadically around the pair of items. Thor’s eyes grow wide as he gasps in amazement when the rock and leaf start to raise slightly off the ground. They hover for several seconds then fall back to the floor, barely any indication that they’d been moved.

But, both Thor and Magneton saw it.

Thor was vibrating with excitement, a wide smile split across his face while turning to face Magneton.

“Hah...aha! HA! I did it!” With a loud whoop, he leaps into the air arms extended. “WHOO! I DID IT!”

X0X0

After finally being able to lift the stone once, Magneton had Thor immediately try again. His second time was a bit shakier than the first, he managed to lift the leaf and rock, but not for as long as the first time. Magneton says that while this is great progress he still needed to practice and learn to focus more.

He’s got the basics down but now he needed to improve on that and still work on trying to make small objects levitate before trying to lift himself or anything else, as Thor had immediately asked if he could do exactly that some time after he’d finally lifted the leaf and stone.

A few more days of training sessions pass, with Thor gradually getting the hang of using Magnet Rise. He’s been lifting up small pebbles and juggling them for fun as practice. With the goal being to make sure the stones never hit the ground. It’s during that time that Magneton decides it's time for him to leave.

“Hey wait!”

Concentration now broken, the small pebbles that had been hovering around Thor soon fell to the ground, but the mouse paid no mind to that, instead approaching his new electric friend who’d proven to be a great teacher. “You’re leaving already?” He knew Magneton would eventually have to leave, but the mouse had grown kind of attached to the metal mon.

“WE MUST GO!” The magnets beep, bouncing a bit in the air with a slight buzz. Thor has learned during their spent time together that certain noises Magneton made was an indicator of an emotion, like the soft buzzing sound meant they were happy. “TASK ACCOMPLISHED! NEW MOVE ACQUIRED!”

Thor lets out a thoughtful hum, expression falling momentarily before he nods a bit. He supposed Magneton had a point, they had only come here with Fearow to help him learn a new move and nothing more, for all the mouse knew, Magneton might have family waiting for them wherever it was they’d come from. It wasn’t right of him to be selfish and ask the other to stick around any more considering they’d already spent so much time together already.

“DO NOT WORRY FRIEND THOR! WE WILL VISIT AGAIN! TAKE CARE!”

He couldn’t help but smile and clench his paws into determined fists. Right, this was only goodbye for now. That’s not to say he’d never be able to see Magneton again, there was always next time.

“Bye Magneton! Thanks for everything!” He waves the steel type off as they float away into the distance. Thor then turns back towards the fallen rocks he was messing with and sends out a thin trail of sparks to surround them. The stones lift high in the air above the mouse as he watches from below with a satisfied grin.

If he worked even harder, soon he’ll be able to lift himself, and maybe even the field around him as well.

Just like Electrode!

And maybe, someday he’d be able to float even longer in the air without even thinking about it. All of these ideas were nothing but future obstacles he’d have to overcome.

Man he couldn’t wait...

Congratulations!

Thor learned Magnet Rise!

#Thor || [headcanon] || nasty plot #prompts || [drabble]#oof its finally done #Now Thor's got the basics of the technique down and can only lift small things through threads I’ll show his progress towards mastering it!

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jebentnietalleen · 5 years

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By now most people have read and seen a lot about the convention already, but since I said I would write about it (and because I like to be able to look back on my own experiences later), I'll ramble on for a bit...

First and foremost, it was a pleasure to meet and see other Tumblr users and fans of skam in general, I loved being in a room with so many like minded people 💖🙏🥰 . I've never been to a convention before so it was truly special. I wanna give a special mention to

@chelouelou

, meeting her was one of my personal highlights and I am so glad we hit it off just as well as we did online. She is the sweetest person and a ray of sunshine, and we had multiple laughing fits for no good reason. All lovely things imo 🧡😍🙌✨

Some random facts:

I almost drew a braincell at La Petite Ceinture so I could write 'the skam france galaxy braincell' but I chickened out last moment because it felt like sacrilege

Every time we saw one of those step scooters we felt triggered

Every time we saw someone carrying a baguette we laughed

Elise brought everybody clown noses

La Petite Ceinture is absolutely calming and just a great experience to visit

About the convention:

We arrived around 9:00, and because we already got our passes the night before (the organization for that was also shitty, we arrived at 17:30, which was suppose to be the time that they would open up for the passes, and left at 21:00. They were not prepared, everything arrived in boxes through out the night, we had to wait a long long time) we didn't have to wait in line and sat on the floor for a bit while we waited for everything to start. We sat next to a large glass window, and suddenly we heard some fans shrieking in excitement. We looked up and saw Maxence walk past us, and let me tell you, that alone was quite an experience. Mannequin elite, indeed. There is just something so alluring about him, it's even more apparent in real life. We were all very nervous and also excited about the whole day, and this hyped us up even more ngl. We saw more cast members come in, Coline, Paul, Robin, Leo, and probably more that I can't remember. We got called into the big room where the panels were held, at around 10:00.

After a short speech by the host, and a video introduction of all the casts (which was lovely and I might post later, I don't know if anybody posted it yet? I haven't seen it) the cast of skam france came on stage. The crowd went wild, naturally. They got a standing ovation. The energy was buzzing. Axel was joking around from the first second, he was talking with Maxence and with the boys and with Zoe, making jokes the whole time, even gave the host what looked like a slap on the ass hahah. He looked very hyped up. The whole cast looked very happy to be there.

The duo photoshoot was suppose to start 10:15 but started around 10:45 instead. So the day already started with a delay, and because a lot of events had some overlap (for example they couldn't start the group photo shoot if a few cast members were still busy with their duo's) it had a sort of domino effect throughout the whole day. There was a lot of waiting and a lot of standing around. When I was in line for the duo photoshoot, Axel and Maxence were both hugging fans they met before (even though it wasn’t allowed, which I still don’t understand tbh) and one girl wanted to do the Polaris hand holding bit with Axel and he went with it and looked at her so softly it was a lot okay, I hope that girl is still alive. I saw Maxence do the same thing with another girl during the same shoot, so they stood back to back with the girls in question (the picture later became famous because of the manip smh) And just before it was my turn, Maxence draped himself over Axel and they hugged with Maxence standing behind Axel and Axel reached up to touch Maxence's arm. This wasn't for a photo they weren't even facing a camera, this was just them being their caring selves. They were really sweet together the whole day, as everyone has seen by now.

We had to wait a long time for the panel to start, and they started way later than planned. Maxence was still busy with his duo with Rocco and Assa and Lais also came in later. Everything was in French and the host translated. I considered going up to ask a question (tell us more about the 90% social media content that Axel wanted to do that went too far lmao) but the queue filled up so quickly and I knew there was a limited time for the cast, so I didn't. In the end it's probably for the best seeing as they went on for a half hour longer because Axel is the literal best and I will not hear anyone say anything different. I thought the host did a good job, but I still think a lot of details got lost in translation because he obviously couldn't translate every single thing word for word. I cackled because when he talked in English he pronounced Axel and Maxence's names very Englishy. I thought it was cute that Axel kept shouting for Maxence to come join them when they started, and that when Maxence came in he sat in front of him. I sat pretty close to the stage at that point and saw that Axel explained to Maxence that he yelled his name hahah. That whole panel was golden, loved hearing about their fave lines and upcoming projects, plus they were all so sweet to each other, ugh, name me a better cast istg. Some of the other highlights for me were how adorable Axel and Leo were together and how Moussa and Lais are integrated into the whole cast and got along with everyone. Seeing Lais and Maxence interact got me thinking about seeing Sofiane and Eliott together on screen and now I want it even more tbh. Of course everyone knows that Axel ignored the rules and insisted on talking to everyone who had a question, went off stage and talked to the people who were left, tried to include everyone, in general he had a really big role yesterday. I got an ask saying he is a true born entertainer and that's true, he really is (I will answer that ask later I promise, I am just way behind tbh sorryyy).

After the panel was the group photo with the skam france cast. The chaotic energy was off the chart. Especially Axel and Maxence, I saw Maxence bite some girls tag that was around her neck for the picture lmao. They kept cheering the people on who came for their picture, it was adorable. When it was my turn I stood between Axel and Maxence and ugh, just, it was great okay. I said thank you when I got my picture, and Maxence went: nooo, thank yOuUuU (you know the voice he sometimes uses? Yeah) what a sweetheart tbh.

After this there was a looooot of waiting for me. The only thing I had left was the autographs and selfies (this was one event) and that could not start before all the group photos were done, and they went on for way too long. That just means the organization sold too many or didn't calculate the right amount of time it would take. I managed to catch some of the skam og panel and italia, but not all of it, and tbh it's all a blurr because I was busy with processing everything haha.

Finally it was time for the autographs, and the line was looong. I had the pleasure of seeing Axel carry Lais to the tables up close and personal, what a legend. The times I fondly shook my head with a grin on my face yesterday because of that chaotic king are countless. Just before I was almost at the end of the line, they cut us off because they needed to start the closing ceremony (for lack of a better description). Luckily they wrote numbers on our hands so we didn't have to wait all the way back in line again, because after the ceremony they would get back to it. This wasn't in the schedule, it was suppose to be over, hence closing ceremony, so the skam france cast stayed behind way longer than planned. The closing ceremony was very emotional, most of the cast got tears in their eyes as people shared their stories. Not everything was translated but you could still tell it meant a lot to them. Not to mention the amount of money they managed to raise with the convention. Truly amazing. Of course we all saw the cast go absolutely nuts to one direction lmao, that was a treat to see after such a long day. Idk how they kept up their energy, especially Axel who seems to be inhuman tbh. He never seemed very tired, you could see it a bit in his face but he powered on and I love him for that. The rest of the cast was definitely more visibly tired, some more than others of course. Finally we got back to the autographs, and still it was a long wait. I think we were there for nearly 2 hours and I only got to Marilyn, Lais, Axel and Maxence. By then it was 21:00 and I could barely stand. I only ate two mini croissants for breakfast and had a few handful of nuts during the day. I wasn't hungry but that still probably wasn't very smart of me. I kind of regret not staying to get the other autographs as well, but I was truly spend. Lais is as much a ray of sunshine as he is on TV, he is super nice and thankful, as is Marilyn. They were kind to everyone. That's something that I can say about the whole cast: everywhere I looked, I saw happy cast members who were touched by every single person who come up to them. Amazing really.

I'm not gonna lie, I was looking forward to getting to Axel the most. Anybody who follows me will not be surprised by this. So let me tell you a little bit about it. Axel gives the best hugs, is kind, is soft, calls you by your name, explains to you that he will read your letter later and carefully because he reads every one of them (I assured him that I am aware of that and very thankful) and that he wants to take his time with it to be able respond to it (which is not something I expect or even want, I just wanted to thank him and tell him how great he is, no response necessary). When I said it's been a long day he said no no no no, it's been a cool day, and I think he really means it. He was so full of energy after that long a day. He is so happy whenever he sees someone he remembers. And when I asked for a hug he said pffff of course!!! Did I mention he winked at me? Yeah. I really thought I could not love him more than I did but I do. I'm so grateful to have been able to meet him and talk to him and ugh ugh just, I can die happy now.

Maxence was really tired and stressed by the time I got to him and he took a smoke break just before. They warned us to keep it short because it was taking too long, so I did. I gave him the letter I wrote and he thanked me and we took some selfies. He was very nice but you could tell it was a lot for him, and that's very understandable.

After that we went back to the hotel and I literally could not even form proper sentences anymore. We didn't get any dinner, we just talked for a bit to let it all sink in and then we went to bed.

Tbh, it's still a bit like a dream when I think back on it. It's a good thing I have pictures because otherwise I wouldn't believe it myself. I love this cast and this show and the crew too of course, I am so happy I went and the next time I get the slightest change to see them again I will take it without a doubt. They are all amazing. 10/10 would recommend.

PS: if anybody has any questions don’t hesitate to ask, although I might not know the answer or remember haha.

#tara at eli3 #eli3 recap

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virmillion · 5 years

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Coffee’s for Closers

alternative title: lab has absolutely no chill when airing out their dirty laundry

Summary: Virgil is a barista. Logan is a barista. Everyone is gay—it's just that this gayness only occurs at Logan's cafe. Warnings: cursing, rude customers and coworkers, let me know if you think of any more Ships: romantic analogical, romantic royality, platonic LAMP+Remy Words: 22,222

Check it out on ao3!

Grande white mocha latte. Steam milk to the third line, four pumps of syrup, two shots of espresso, put on a sleeve, pour the milk, whipped cream, lid, hand it off, next. Kid’s hot chocolate. Steam milk to the bottom line at one-twenty seven degrees, two pumps mocha, one pump vanilla, pour the milk, whipped cream, lid, hand it off, next. Venti iced caramel macchiato upside down with coconut milk and an extra shot. Pull two shots of espresso into each teacup, six hits of vanilla in the cup, espresso over the vanilla, coconut milk to the top line, ice to the rim, caramel drizzle of seven vertical, seven horizontal, two circles, lid, hand it off, next. This is literally the only thing running through Virgil’s mind anymore.

Alright, maybe not the only thing. There is the odd customer who gets annoyed at receiving a small cup when they asked for a tall, because ‘I thought tall meant large!’ and Virgil has had just about enough of people not understanding the price difference. There’s also a regular here and there that hands off their reusable cup with a grin, so he can fill it with caramel and decaf and nonfat milk for the regular’s wife, and the guy can get a tall pike place roast with caramel syrup in a grande cup, and Virgil can hand it off and feel proud of himself for knowing a regular’s order so precisely. Oh, and lest we not forget the ever-present parents thinking it’s cool to let their toddlers run wild and knock down his signs and spill drinks everywhere because ‘it’s okay, honey, he gets paid to clean that up!’

Okay, so there are several things running through Virgil’s mind right now. At this incredibly specific moment, one of those several things is the fact that he only has to survive twelve. More. Minutes. With the literal worst coworker on the face of the earth. He can’t speak to the quality of workers beneath the earth’s crust—sorry, team members—but for air breathing losers such as he, his buddy here just. Takes the damn cake. Stole the candles. Blew out his wish. On his birthday. Without a birthday gift. Spit on the frosting. Grabbed two chunks with her bare hands. Ate them like a toddler. Complained when she was the only one eating cake. Took the cake anyway.

Virgil doesn’t particularly care for cake.

“Hey, how’re you doing?” Kim asks the next guest, plastering the absolute fakest smile Virgil has ever seen on her face. Like, he’s pretty sure it’s bordering on genuine. That’s how fake it is.

Virgil doesn’t particularly care for Kim, either.

“I’m good, how’re you?” the guest replies, staring up at the trifold menu and holding up a line of seven people behind them because they didn’t have the foresight to decide on a drink during the fifteen minutes they spent in line. “I’ll take a grande salted caramel mocha.” Virgil ignores Kim as she delivers the spiel about the limited supply of whipped cream, instead focusing on the measurements of all the drinks waiting to be finished. Sure, he admires that one lady for getting eight shots of espresso—he could definitely do with some of what she’s having—but her drink is doing a terrible job of holding up the line when their dinky little store only has one mastrena.

Ten minutes.

“Venti double quad for Debra?” Virgil calls, ignoring the line of drinks that haven’t been claimed yet. Seriously, if these people are as intent as they seem to be on getting out of here quickly, you’d think they’d jump at the chance to take their drinks. Virgil doesn’t really care either way, as he only has to survive nine more minutes.

“Hey, we need a milk run before tomorrow,” Virgil tells Kim, shuffling down the line of drinks. To be fair, they’re moving much more quickly now that the whole espresso machine isn’t focused on one drink from five minutes ago. “Want me to do it?”

“Ugh, yeah,” Kim groans, rolling her eyes. She waves off the concerned look from the next guest, eyeing Virgil’s obscenely long queue of drinks. “I’ll finish those up, you go get the milk, peace out in ten?”

“Something like that,” Virgil agrees, topping off the last row of grande hot chocolates. “You know where the button is for extra help?”

“Duh, of course I know where it is.” Rather than give a sarcastic remark to her attitude—which is what he wants more than anything—Virgil smiles brightly, pushing his way past the swinging door and straightening the hat that never sits quite right on his head. In the near back, he pulls out his constantly dying phone to snap a picture of the barren fridge. All the way to the back of the main store and into the freezer, he trundles one of the squeaky-wheeled carts between the aisles, dodging oblivious mothers and manspreading dudes with man-buns and ratty tennis shoes.

“Okay, twenty two blue, five pink, seven red,” Virgil mumbles to himself, double- and triple-checking the picture to reassure himself of what they need. “Maybe just seventeen blue, five pink, five red.” These corrections continue as he sets about pulling every jug he can find from the crates, absently tugging down his sleeves as the cold sends goosebumps skittering over his skin. “Two more red, maybe a few half and half?” Thinking back, he’s pretty sure corporate didn’t ship any half and half this week, either. Sunday’s gonna be a blast. “Still no heavy whipping cream, no surprise there. The rations thin. The plot chickens.” Allowing himself a small laugh at his own nonsense, Virgil backs the cart out of the fridge and deepens his chronic slouch to put more force behind the wheels. They squeal and scream in protest as he shoves the—trolley? Is that what they call it?—back to the front, practically spilling it everywhere as he swerves around a narrow corner to avoid a stray child pinballing off the end cap displays.

Finally at the near back again, Virgil fights with the cart to get it through the doors and over the floor mats covering the little alley, very nearly ramming his head into the sink when the wheels free themselves with no warning. “Okay, freakin’ ow,” he mutters, rubbing the bruise on his side from the impact. “Whatever, just a few more minutes, and I can go somewhere that doesn’t totally suck or drain the life from its patrons.”

True to his word, Virgil eventually succeeds in restocking the rest of the milks, popping his head out to check on Kim’s status in regards to whether she’ll survive the next three minutes. One severely long line that’s steadily trickling out, most of them with drinks in hand, and if the flurry of legs outside the shuttered window is anything to go by, another slam is hot on its heels. Virgil tosses out a flippant farewell to Kim and makes a break for the punch clock, having absolutely no desire to stick around for the hell that awaits.

“Okay, cool, cool, love driving in the rain, favorite part of my Saturday,” Virgil sighs, glancing at the window. If nothing else, should customers not be deterred by the weather? Seriously, just go home. Go home!

Of course, no one is listening to Virgil’s complaints. All too aware of this fact, he rolls his shoulders forward to shrug on a hoodie over his work-mandated black shirt—at least the uniform doesn’t suck, he supposes. Flipping his hood up to protect his hair and tucking in his earbuds, Virgil strolls out into the clogged aisles of people and things, easily blending in with the other loners that would rather be literally anywhere else, were it not for their families dragging them along. Virgil has no such ties, and accordingly escapes from the store with ease.

And no, he won’t lie—Virgil absolutely walks slower in the rain to the beat of the song in his ears, and he absolutely imagines some cheesy pathetic music video happening around him, and he absolutely would deny that if you confronted him with it.

By the time Virgil reaches his car—neon blue, mind you, because it was the cheapest model he could afford—his hoodie is sopping wet, and he has had just about enough of this whole ‘existing’ nonsense for today. But no, no, he wants to go to that new cafe one of the regulars told him about. Stupid stubbornness. Of course, he’s too stubborn to get rid of it. So. On he drives.

You might think this is where the stars align—where Virgil stumbles his way into a warm cafe from a cold car, where he bumps into his soulmate on first sight, where he knows in an instant that this is where he belongs, that this new place is the home he was always meant to find.

You would be wrong.

“Damn broken phone,” Virgil scowls, shaking his phone as the screen refuses to wake up, despite being at a solid seventy percent. He keeps his gaze toward his shoes and the tiled floor beneath them, pressing the home and lock buttons harder than he probably needs to. “If anyone dares to so much as look at me the wrong way, I am chucking you out the window and letting you electrocute yourself like a tiny toaster in the rain.”

“—Upside down, iced, and pick your poison for the milk,” the person waiting at the register is saying, leaning forward as if they have all the time in the world. Virgil’s frown deepens as the person starts to socialize with the barista.

“Ah, Roman? I believe there might be someone waiting behind you,” the barista says, their voice carrying over past the pompous person that’s basically a wall at this point. As the guest scuttles away to wait for his drink, the barista beckons Virgil forward, saying, “sorry about him. Never seems to understand that other people occupy this world besides himself.”

“It certainly would appear that way, wouldn’t it?” Virgil says out of the corner of his mouth, not looking up to meet the barista’s eyes. Regardless of whether they’re the social type, he isn’t about to find out the hard way. The hard way being the only way, of course. Virgil does not want to talk to this person, is what he’s saying. “I’ll just take a small of whatever the cheapest thing you have is that isn’t brewed coffee. Please.”

“Sure, that’ll be one fifty.”

“Keep the change.” Virgil passes over the first crumpled bill he can find in his pocket—a five—and moves for a table around the corner of the bar to wait. According to that regular, the baristas here are competent enough to hunt down the guests when their drinks are done. So. Hiding around the corner. His modus operandi.

The worn chair at a table for two is more than welcoming enough, offering a decent view of the crying clouds outside and the over-soaked flowers decorating the windowsill. Virgil dusts off the plum colored seat, which probably used to be plush when it was new—at this point, it’s so well-loved that there can’t be more than an inch of fabric separating Virgil’s rear from the wooden underside. He tucks one leg beneath himself, propping the other foot along the reddish brown window edge. The beaten-up greys and purples of his sneakers offer a painful contrast to the flowers, shining dull under the relentless rain.

“Hey, haven’t seen you here before,” a new voice says. The same guy that was bugging the barista plonks himself down across from Virgil, pressing his nose to the window. What was his name, Ho Man? “Did the rain scare you away from a main chain trash place like Starbucks?” Rather than dignify him with a response, Virgil holds up the too-small black cap he’s supposed to wear to work. Proudly displayed in white stitches is the Starbucks logo. The way Ho Man’s face turns beet red as he fumbles to cover up the mistake is almost enough to make Virgil laugh. Almost. “Okay, wait, I didn’t mean—it’s not like I wanted to—obviously I don’t disrespect your profession—not that it’s like you have to have it! I mean, unless you like it, but I didn’t want to assume—that’s what they always say about assuming, isn’t it, ass out of you and me, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, yeah, yeah, cool! I, uh, I’m just gonna—I’m gonna go sit over there now.” Ho Man jabs his thumb back over his shoulder, loudly scraping his chair back under the table as he stumbles over his own feet in a mad scramble for the front area of the cafe.

“He seems fun,” Virgil mumbles to himself, resting his chin on a knee and pressing his forehead to the window. Out in the parking lot—if you can even call it that, it’s basically just ten rectangles that happen to be outlined in white—his car looks incredibly crowded in. Neon blue trapped by dark greys and flat reds, all of them reduced to shields sending rain shooting to the concrete.

A few tables away, Ho Man has plonked himself at a bigger table, facing off with someone turned away from Virgil. They certainly seem to be in deep conversation about something, but Virgil doesn’t care enough to figure out what, much less elaborate on it. To drown out the light conversation of a considerable amount of quiet patrons around him, he digs his laptop out of his shoulder bag and unfolds it on the table. In any fantasy story he’s ever imagined, this is probably the part where his one true love appears in the vacant chair across from him, reaching out to close the laptop and reveal sparkling blue eyes that dance like the stars on a dark and clear night.

Yeah, no thanks.

“There you go, cheapest thing we’ve got that isn’t brewed coffee,” the barista says, appearing very much in Virgil’s field of view to hand over a ceramic mug decorated with tinier cups in every shade of blue and purple. “Apple cider with cinnamon and caramel.”

“That’s the cheapest thing you’ve got?” Virgil sputters in disbelief. “That’s, like, four bucks at a chain place.”

“I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized we were on par with a ‘chain place,’” the barista replies, making air quotes around the words. “Anyway, make sure you return the mug when you leave. If you take it with you, bring it back next time for a refill, five cent discount.”

“Seriously? Cool,” Virgil says, reaching for the mug as the barista turns away. “Seems like a good way to encourage people to steal the mug if you ask me, but alright.” The barista hesitates, looking from the bar to Virgil and back. No guests demanding service. Without asking permission or begging forgiveness, the barista slips into the seat across from Virgil. “Yeah, sure, have a seat.” Virgil closes his laptop, bringing the mug to his lips.

“So I’m not even going to ask whether this is your first time, since it’s pretty obvious,” the barista says. “For one, you didn’t even make eye contact when you ordered your drink, which, okay, rude, and for another, you don’t know the system with the mugs, not to mention that you didn’t even say hi to—”

“Yeah, yeah, cool, great, can I just enjoy my cheap drink in peace here?” Virgil interrupts. He certainly wouldn’t admit it if this guy asked, but it’s better than what they make at Starbucks. “Yes, my first time, I don’t like eye contact, I certainly don’t like conversation—actually, come to think of it, I have a long list of dislikes, and you are quickly working your way to the top. Please go away.”

“My name’s Remy.” The barista sticks his hand out, prompting Virgil to merely stare at it with thinly veiled disdain until he retracts it with an awkward laugh. “I run this place with my brother, since he bought the building when the lister needed to move before the taxes got too high, and he pulled me in on the deal for my sparkling charisma—”

“Of which you have none.”

“—and because he likes dealing with the numbers more. He’s actually sitting right over—”

“Don’t care. Why are you sitting here?” Remy wags a finger at Virgil, biting his lower lip and puffing out his cheeks. “Spring a leak much?”

“Mostly ’cause I was bored. You seem interesting, I don’t know. Thought I could educate you on the mystical ways of how we don’t go bankrupt from people stealing our mugs.”

“Okay, yeah, sure, cool. Great. Educate away. Special tip, though? You kind of suck at educating so far. Like, a lot.”

“Noted. We’re small enough that we don’t get many guests, and the ones that come in pretty often usually have their own mugs reserved. Picked yours out for you when I saw you walk in. Brand new, never used. Just for you. So special.”

“Alright, let’s lay off the dramatically short sentences, Mettaton. You still haven’t convinced me why I should care.”

“I mean, I think you’re cute, so there’s that. Anyway, we use the same mugs for our regulars, and we get so few one-timers that we barely ever lose a cup. Even when we do, they normally come back out of guilt for keeping the cup, and get another drink at a crap discount. That’s our motto, you know? Come for the guilt, stay for the five cents you save. Well, not really our motto. We don’t have a motto. I’ve always wanted one, but we never set one in stone, since my brother isn’t exactly into all that stuff. Speaking of which, you wanna meet him? He’s right over—”

“I do not want to meet your brother,” Virgil says. He shakes his head, trying to force his mind to register Remy’s nonstop babbling. “I literally just want to finish my drink in peace.”

“You’ll be back,” Remy replies, tapping out a rhythm on the table. “The cute ones always come back.”

“I have literally never wanted to come back to a place less than I do right now. Please go away.” Finally, miracle of miracles, Remy takes the hint, scraping his chair back and moving for the table where Ho Man is still chatting up whoever it is that probably doesn’t want him there.

Alone once more, Virgil exhales, scraping off part of the dollop of whipped cream on his drink with a finger. Before the caramel drizzle can drip down his hand, he fwips it off with a sharp inhale, pretending like he doesn’t care that he’d probably be drawing thousands of weird looks if anyone were paying attention. Over at Ho Man’s table, Remy slams his fists down on the tiled surface, making the collection of mismatched mugs bounce around dangerously. Ho Man’s friend relaxes their perfect posture by half an inch before straightening again as Remy leans forward to whisper something. Virgil quickly shifts his focus to stare out the window.

While the rain seems to finally be letting up, its aftereffects are long from forgotten. Orange tulips and red roses in the distance are wobbling on thin stems, desperately holding onto the last of their leaves as the wind does everything it can to wrench them away. Even the trees are mourning the early summer storm, their overgrown leaves tearing away and drifting across the streets to stick themselves to windows. Virgil fights back the urge to recoil as a particularly large leaf smacks into the other side of the glass, tiny drops of water peeling away to race for the flowerbed below.

When he lifts the mug to his mouth again, it’s empty. Smalls are always so much smaller than larges. Time to go.

“Hey, uh, where do I, um…?” Virgil calls to Remy as he moves for the door, lifting his empty cup as indication. “Like, do I just leave it on the table, or…?”

“Just keep it,” Remy replies, waving off Virgil’s annoyed sigh. “Seriously, keep it.”

“Seriously, no.” Rather than take the mug and run, which would be immensely gratifying if it were, you know, actually against the rules, he deposits it on the island with cream and sugar for coffee. Dammit, even their carts are nicer than the crappy little nothings that Starbucks has.

“See you later?” Remy yells as Virgil wills the door to close faster behind him.

“Maybe. Probably not, but maybe.” Before the bell over the door frame has even finished chiming, Virgil is already at his car, not bothering to dodge the few remaining raindrops. “Weirdo. Hate to see how much of a disaster his brother is.”

---------------

“How long, exactly, did you talk to that poor guy?” Remy appears none too impressed by the question, much less the implication of how annoying he probably was to said poor guy.

“Look, bro, he looked lonely, I thought I’d just pop in on his day and—”

“And encourage him to leave my cafe without taking the mug for a discount next time? Try harder to cover for yourself. And stop calling me ‘bro,’ it makes you sound like a teenager.”

“Alright, Logan,” Remy retorts, letting the mocking tone dangle in the air, “FYI, I am a teenager, so lay off for a hot sec, why don’t you?”

“I would rather not. Don’t use acronyms out loud, you sound like a preteen. You turned twenty last week. Roman, kindly refrain from displaying the inside of your mouth like that.”

“Dude, what? Happy birthday, man! Why didn’t you tell me?” Roman demands, leaning his elbows on the table and forcefully inserting himself into a conversation where he’s decidedly not welcome.

“I’m having a surprise party for myself,” Remy hisses in a stage whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, Logan thinks I don’t know about it.”

“I am not planning you a surprise party,” Logan says. “There is literally not one person planning you a surprise party, in this cafe or otherwise. Go help that next guest, I never said you could take a break for this long, anyway.”

“You aren’t the boss of me,” Remy grumbles, crossing his arms and slouching lower in his chair.

“Technically, I am, having been the one to buy the place, not to mention that I was born first. Go help the next guest.” Logan rolls his eyes as Remy trudges over to the bar, a completely different demeanor washing over him like a wave as he steps behind the register and turns into a cheerful mannequin. Shifting his focus back to Roman, Logan presses his glasses up higher on his nose and releases a low, steady, frustrated groan.

“Talk to me, man, what’s goin’ on?” Roman asks. “Are you really that mad that what’s-his-nuts didn’t take his mug? You didn’t even pick it out, Remy did.”

“Mmm, no, that’s not it.” Logan rubs his knuckles against a sore spot on his forehead, considering Roman’s earnest look. “We haven’t been doing too well in sales lately, not that many new guests coming in, much less any of them returning for the discount, and I’m still waiting on your list of ideas for how to make myself more welcoming.”

“Well, for one, don’t dump all your emotional baggage on the first person to ask.” Roman waves his hands quickly as Logan moves to get up, trying to fan whatever flames of frustration are boiling in his brain. “Kidding! Kidding, I am totally, completely, legit-ly kidding.”

“Legitimately.”

“Tomato, potato.”

“To-mah-to.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s tomato. Anyways, I did draw up that list for you, which, objectively, is the literal best thing in existence ever to be created. In existence. Ever. Objectively.” To be perfectly frank, Logan is incredibly close to shutting the cafe down and locking himself in the fridge to cool down, both literally and figuratively. Nevertheless, he endures, propping his chin on his fist and sighing heavily as Roman draws a stack of bent and ruffled papers out from who-knows-where. At the very least, if Roman’s antics don’t put him out of business, he’ll be able to end the month with a bang. Maybe.

Roman smooths out the uppermost pages on the tiled table, letting the bottom sheets flare out like a background for the top nonsense. Pointing to each piece of paper as it comes up, he fumbles his way through the chaos, periodically looking up to make sure Logan is paying attention. Against better judgement, he is.

“Okay, so first off, it’s June, right? Pride month, bay-bee! Break out a new collection of mugs—”

“I am not changing the mugs.”

“He is not changing the mugs,” Remy seconds, returning from the last guest.

“Alright, alright, truce, no new mugs. I know you don’t totally go for the pizzazz side of things, but—and hear me out here, just something small—we could put different colors of powder on each drink, like purple sprinkles on a latte can be called a purple drink—”

“We cannot do that, Starbucks already has pink and violet drinks, and I will not associate with them.” Logan straightens his glasses again, pulling one piece of paper out from beneath the rest. “Are all of these ideas centered around pride month?”

“No,” Roman grumbles, scraping about half of the papers off the table. “I do think it would be cool if you did pride stuff, though. Show support to everyone.”

“Me, in particular,” Remy cuts in. “Show some support to my gay ass.”

“Your ass is trans.”

“What’s your point?”

“I guess I don’t have one, Remy. Roman, please, if you would?” Logan gestures with his hand, indicating for Roman to find a new thread of ideas to follow. The watch on his waving wrist boasts of closing time rapidly drawing near, as a solid third of his patrons slowly head for the door, carefully selected mugs clutched between their fingers.

“Right. Okay, so you said no new mugs, and you said no pride stuff, and you said no fun, so let me just jot that down, and we’ll keep going.”

“I said no new mugs, I asked for different pride stuff that wouldn’t infringe on corporate coffee franchises, and fun is a subjective measurement on behalf of our patrons. Drop the attitude, or I’m cutting you off.”

“What? No, I’m your best customer!” Roman whines, wearing a pout for a good few seconds before continuing. “I really do think some nice decorations would probably help the atmosphere, maybe string up some white fairy lights around the ceiling? I know you hate those, but they do wonders for how the interior looks once it’s dark outside. Turn off the main lights, turn on the tiny ones, and bam, you’ve got a fairytale date night. Literally.”

“I don’t think you know what literally means.”

“I also think you should hire me. Not with obscenely high pay, I know how frugal you try to be, but Remy and I are basically your best bets for customer service. Let me cover the shifts when he disappears for clubs and stuff, you can make the drinks as precise as you like, and I’ll chat up the guests to keep the drinks coming. If nothing else, it’ll train me for how I should exist in the real world.”

“You’ve existed in the real world for years without working in a cafe.”

“What’s your point?”

Logan is very well aware by this point that the conversation is going nowhere. A few decent ideas, a few pieces of nonsense, and that’s about it. As such, he snaps the piece of paper he already grabbed, watching the top stand at attention at the peak of its arc.

“I guess I don’t have one. Remy, please, if you would?” Struck by how he’d unintentionally repeated himself, Logan shifts his focus to the paper, blowing a long breath out through puffed cheeks. “We’re supposed to close up soon, and I sincerely do not have the willpower to do it tonight. I have way too many things to deal with behind the scenes, and I can’t just—”

“Say no more,” Remy interrupts, plucking the paper from Logan’s hands. “Sit here, close your eyes, don’t do anything. I’ll teach Roman how to make your usual.”

“Seven extra shots,” Logan murmurs, dropping his head to rest on the table. “Actually, make it eight. Please.”

“Yeah, no, we’re only gonna give him hot tea,” Remy whispers to Roman, dragging him away from the table. A heavy exhale from Logan sends a few more sheets of paper fluttering to the floor. “He doesn’t get caffeine until he can go a full night without waking up to finish whatever piece of work he forgot about.”

“And you think he can’t tell there’s no espresso in that?” Roman asks, watching Remy move as quietly as possible, considering that he’s dealing with the sound of metal on metal.

“Oh, no, he can definitely tell. We’re both lying to each other, it’s kind of our thing, you know?”

“Sounds like a great sibling rivalry.”

“You could say that. Here, put these gloves on, protects from germs and junk when you’re handling the tea bag.” As the last dredges of guests file out of the cafe, most of them pausing to knock gently on the table in lieu of a soft goodbye to Logan, Remy and Roman fall into an amicable silence.

“Maybe the pride powder would be fun?” Logan mumbles to himself, dragging his chin to his chest so only his forehead rests on the tiles. “Or I could get some food coloring, dye the whipped creams? We definitely don’t have the funds for colorful cups or anything like that, but maybe I could put a little colored dot on the bottom of each cup, have random chance dictate what color whip they get? But then I might not meet the demands, we could run out of food coloring, run out of whip, it doesn’t let me appeal to vegans or people who abstain from dairy products, not to mention that the color might leech into the actual drink. Maybe the fairy lights, just as a summer thing for softer lighting, quiet hours once they go on, I could probably get some people to do open mic stuff or something, clear out a couple tables…”

Logan lets his words trail off at the sound of Remy plunking a drink beside his head, and while he knows very well that there’s no caffeine in the cup, he downs the whole thing in one go. Roman appears behind Remy, offering an identical drink in a bigger cup.

“Whoa, try coming up for air bro—brother of mine. Brother. Is what I was going to say. Was brother. And not bro. Brother.” Remy excuses himself to finish dealing with closing up the bar, letting Roman reclaim his seat across from Logan.

“Hey, buddy, you want to maybe get home, get some sleep?”

“Yeah, probably,” Logan mumbles, not lifting his head from the table. “Still got so much to do, though. Barely even touched most of your ideas.”

“Oh, please, you tore them to shreds!” Logan allows himself the smallest of smiles at that, shaking the back of his head and pressing his forehead deeper into the table. There’s probably a pattern of indents appearing on his skin by now. “And we didn’t even get to the best ones, which you can tackle tomorrow, after you get some sleep.”

“Get some sleep!” Remy echoes, flitting between the sinks with every possible piece of dishware in the building. “But not at home. Go hang out at Roman’s.”

Roman splutters indignantly, sending the rest of the papers flying. One lands over Logan’s head like a blanket. He does not remove it. “Why does he have to come to my place?”

Although he can’t see it happening, Logan would wager a good fifty dollars that Remy has positioned himself atop one of the counters that food doesn’t touch in a dramatic pose. “Because he literally lives at work. Like, the next floor up. He needs to get some distance from this place. Plus, I mean, look at him. I’m not putting him up for the night.”

“I’m the one paying your rent,” Logan retorts to the floor, watching his heels and toes click together.

“You’re also the one keeping me awake at three in the morning because you had a sudden idea and are seemingly incapable of restraining yourself from writing with a squeaky marker on a squeaky whiteboard, but no one’s asking me. Just go with Roman. Roman, take him. I am not asking you, I am telling you. Take. Logan.”

“Taking Logan,” Roman confirms. “Come on, Logan. I, Roman, am taking you, Logan. Onward, to my house, owned by a man named Roman, where I am taking Logan!”

“Shut up, you goof.” Remy’s semi-humored tone is accompanied by the sound of what is probably a balled-up napkin punting Roman in the head, but Logan still isn’t paying enough attention to see. When he hears Roman’s chair scraping into place, he forces himself to stand on exhausted legs.

Once he sees Logan steady on his feet, Roman shouts, “dibs on the bed!” and runs for the door. Logan offers a half-hearted wave to Remy before trudging after Roman, wincing against the ringing bell. Sure, the tea was good, but it does absolutely nothing to help his flagging energy.

“Why would I ever want to take your bed over the couch?” Logan mutters, barely stifling a yawn as he slides into Roman’s bright red car. “Moreover, you knew it was supposed to rain today. Why on earth did you not close your windows?”

“Because I like how it looks better with the windows down.”

“I want to make sure that you are aware that we are currently sitting on wet leather, and that your steering wheel is drenched beyond belief. Are you aware that we are currently sitting on wet leather, and that your steering wheel is drenched beyond belief?”

“I am aware of whatever it is you just said. Now be quiet, I can’t have you talking if I want to see the road.” Logan doesn’t bother to explain just how many levels of incorrect that is, instead reclining in the passenger seat and removing his glasses to watch the lights float by in blurry spirals of red and yellow. “So how ’bout that new guy?”

“What, the one that Remy assigned a mug to based on first sight? Yeah, no, just another guest. What about him?”

“Well, super cute, for one, and you’ll never believe this, but he actually works at—” Roman cuts himself off, glancing at a very much asleep Logan. “Alright, fine, I won’t tell you. Let you work it out for yourself.” With that, Roman turns up the radio and hums along quietly, careful to keep the noise low, to let Logan rest. Until tomorrow, at least, when Roman has every intention of screwing with his friends’ love life.

Come on, you’ve gotta let Roman have some fun.

---------------

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, we really don’t have blond espresso beans here, and we don’t have blond roast, and we don’t have decaf roast, as our shipment doesn’t come in ’til tomorrow. Is there anything else we can help you with?” To tell the truth, it is taking every single miniscule last ounce of willpower for Virgil not to vault over this counter and punch the very nice lady in the face.

“Okay, but could you just do a blond pour over?” The very nice lady seems to be getting very agitated, but Virgil very much does not care. “Like, I get that you don’t have blond roast brewed, but I’m willing to wait for a while for a pour over.”

Virgil is incredibly close to having to physically restrain himself from saying you’ll have to wait until tomorrow, since that’s when your stupid shipment will come in. Instead, he continues, “Sorry, no, we can’t do that. No blond roast beans.”

“Yeah, but I’m not asking for blond roast beans. I am asking for a blond pour over.”

“Pour over machine’s broke,” Virgil finally sighs. Yeah, sure, it just takes a small filter and some hot water, but he doesn’t have the patience for this person, much less to find any missing blond beans. So. Broken and nonexistent machine.

“Oh, well that’s perfectly understandable!” the very nice lady says. “I’ll just take a medium blond roast, then.”

Virgil leans over to grab Kim’s shoulder, pulling her closer to hiss in her ear, “if there are any hammers in here, you need to find and hide them immediately, because it will end up inside of this lady’s skull, and it will then find mine in quick succession. Fix her situation, I’ll catch up on the hot bar drinks.” Kim nods quickly, and Virgil is half-convinced that she thinks he’s serious. Maybe he is.

Nonetheless, he moves past her for the mastrena machine, praying for the end of his shift to come quickly and with reckless abandon. It does not.

“Grande affogato vanilla bean frap for Jenna?” he calls, handing off the espresso-drenched smoothie. “Thanks, have a nice day.” She probably says something or other about him having a good one, but Virgil doesn’t even bother pretending to care, already busying himself with the next drink. “Couldn’t’ve possibly picked a better day to start grinding beans slower,” he mutters, wincing against the comparatively louder screams from steaming coconut milk. Of literally all the times for the mastrena to decide that it was being too efficient with the espresso, this is the worst time imaginable—smack dab in the middle of a rush of people, none of whom understand the concept of ‘not having blond espresso.’

“Venti iced americano in a trenta cup with extra ice for Matthias?”

The end of his shift literally cannot come fast enough.

“Okay, dude, I’m really trying here, but I have absolutely no idea what this says,” Virgil informs Kim, showing her the illegible box on the cup. “You need to write the order down, and when you do, you need to make it possible for the most basic computer to decipher.”

“It’s a salted caramel mocha with two extra shots and almond milk instead of two percent for Tommy,” Kim says. It does not slip Virgil’s notice that she has to squint incredibly close at the cup for a solid five seconds to figure out what it says.

“Awesome. Great. Try to write it more neatly next time, yeah?” Finding a rare moment of gratefulness for his constantly cold hands, Virgil presses a frozen finger to his temple as he waits for the machine to finish rinsing. Is his shift over yet?

Miracle of miracles, his boss, Anne, pops her head around the corner of the bar. “Hey, Virge, call for you guys, I’m covering food av, can you take it?” Virgil plasters a fake smile on his face and nods, neglecting to comment on how he never agreed to that nickname as he accepts the phone.

“Gainesville Starbucks north, this is Kim speaking, how can I help you?”

“Breakfast sandwiches.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Breakfast. Sandwiches.”

“I, ah, I apologize, I’m unclear what you’re asking me.”

“Breakfast sandwiches! You got any?”

“Oh! Yes, um, we’ve got tomato mozzarella paninis, sausage egg and cheddar sandwiches, ham and cheese croissants, turkey basil—and they hung up. Cool.” Virgil nods at the dial tone coming from his hand, quirking his mouth to the side. “Just, uh, just gonna stick that right down there.” Dropping the phone on a nearby counter, he returns to the hot bar, where Kim is absolutely drowning in the chaos she caused by sucking so much.

“Virge? Seriously?”

“If you even think about calling me that, I am going to go find that hammer I was talking about and bury it in your spine.” Kim pulls her lips between her teeth and nods, turning back to the register. Sniffing twice, Virgil tops off the next round of drinks. “Salted caramel mocha, two extra shots and almond milk for Tommy?”

“Hey, Virge, over here,” Anne calls again. “Need to see you for a sec.” Virgil bites back a relieved huff for the break from Kim, instead settling for a long exhale through his nose. No, he doesn’t really care for the nickname, but he’ll suffer through it for a brief reprieve like this.

“What’s up?” he asks, leaning over the swinging door. “’Nother phone call?”

“No, it’s just—you’ve got a lot of overtime, you know that?” Virgil glances back at Kim, who is currently occupied with trying to find the serious strawberry frappuccino button.

“Frapp creme, second row, last on the right,” he calls, taking great pride in how he doesn’t roll his eyes at her. Turning back to Anne, he continues, “yeah, I kind of have to have a lot, since she’s kind of, you know…” Virgil trails off, hoping Anne is enough on his page to fill in the blanks.

“Drowning? Yeah, I noticed. You’re doing a great job carrying her, you know that?”

Virgil pokes a tongue against his cheek, unsure how to respond. “I mean, I’ve only been here a couple months.”

“You’re really doing great. Anyway, too much overtime for you, and we aren’t supposed to be letting team members have any overtime. You think you’d be good to head home early?”

“There’s nothing that would make me happier, but are you sure she’ll be okay with this on her own?”

“Definitely not, which is why I’m here. I’ll relieve your position, but you need to get going, like, now.” If Virgil were a more confident person, he would take Anne by both hands and press them to his lips in a show of relieved thankfulness. As it stands, he snaps and offers her a pair of finger guns, skirting the swinging door and making a run for the break room before Anne can change her mind.

“No human has ever existed with a better soul than Anne,” he murmurs, punching out faster than he’d ever done so before. There’s a certain cafe he’s interested in getting to a little earlier today.

In his car, Virgil hisses lightly as he scrapes his bare wrist against the scalding metal of the seat belt buckle. Now safely secured and ready to go, he queues up the route to the cafe on his maps, bopping his head along as a song starts up on the radio. Skip, skip, skip, skip, skip, he chants in his head, getting through a solid twenty songs on shuffle before finding one he likes.

The lights of the streets, not yet bright as they battle the sun for dominance over the mid-afternoon sky, pepper the sidewalks with golden flecks between the cracks of beige and white. Virgil tilts his head to avoid the glare of the light reflecting in his eyes, skipping through his chosen song before it’s over. As he flicks on his indicator to pull into the cafe’s parking lot, he belatedly wonders whether the owners will start to think he’s weird for showing up this often. Especially that Remy guy, what was his deal?

This worry chases him past several traffic lights and more than a few disconcertingly fast drivers, right up to pulling into the same parking spot as yesterday—decently far from the doors, but not so far that it’d be a hassle to get there if he happened to be holding seven cups of coffee. He shifts into reverse, triple-checking that he’s perfectly within the lines before parking the car and sliding out.

A cold breeze swipes over his face, startlingly out of place in the mid-June heat. Were it not for this abnormality giving him pause, maybe he would’ve gotten inside safely without drawing the attention of the silver car careening into the parking lot. It beeps brightly as it pulls into the furthest spot from the door, spitting out a driver dressed in bright blues and pale greys.

“Virge, hey, you made it! I was wondering whether you’d ever listened to my suggestions!” he calls, running over to Virgil and ignoring how his loose sleeves smack against his chin. “Find your way okay?”

“I mean, I’m here, so I guess I did.” Virgil shrugs, electing not to comment on the forbidden nickname that he would punch Kim in the face for using again. “And anyway, I always listen to your suggestions. Come here, try your usual—not a fan, by the way—and call you Pat. I’m not really one for nicknames, either, so I’d rather stick with Patton, if that’s okay with you.”

“Whatever makes you happiest!” Patton replies, taking Virgil by the hand and swinging it violently as he leads the barista inside. “So did you get to meet the owner yet, or is this your first time? I can introduce you to—”

“Pantone!” Remy exclaims, vaulting over the register counter to greet Patton. Virgil steps aside, bumping into someone’s shoulders and muttering his apologies as they leave. “I haven’t seen you around here in forever, what the heck, man? Hanging around with the cutest riffraff in town, I see.” Virgil scowls, moving for the register and scanning his eyes over the menus. Handwritten in white chalk, they look much more personal than the ones at Starbucks. Maybe not very colorful, but nice enough.

“Remy, how many times have I told you not to let any part of your body make contact with that counter? It doesn’t know where you’ve been,” someone scolds from a nearby table. The same person Ho Man and Remy were tormenting yesterday. Remy ignores them, still chatting up a storm with Patton. The person sighs, pushing back from a table covered in loose papers and moving to the register.

Virgil sizes them up as they walk, inspecting their carefully strict gait, the tie cinched perfectly around their neck, the strict khakis with only the most uniform of creases. If Virgil didn’t know better, he’d swear they were going out for a job interview at some craphole like Starbucks.

“Sorry about Remy. Little brothers, what can I do, right? What can I get started for you?” Virgil doesn’t answer, his gaze fixated on a speck of dirt marring their sharp glasses. They blink, waiting patiently and having no idea of where Virgil’s attention is directed.

Ho Man appears from around the corner, where only a few other patrons occupy the tables overlooking the windows. “Hey, it’s you! Logan, buddy, he was the guy here yesterday, the one Remy gave the wrong mug to! Wrong mug guy, this is Logan, he runs this joint!”

“Wrong mug?” Virgil repeats.

“Wrong mug,” the new person—Logan, apparently—confirms. “We carefully select mugs based on the person they go to, rather than selecting one at random like Remy does. He refuses to learn the process behind choosing mugs, so whatever he hands you, it’s probably wrong.”

“Sounds about right,” Virgil agrees, glancing back at Remy and Patton, both of whom are staring at him and giggling.

“So what can I get started for you?” Logan repeats. Virgil cocks his head to the side, considering Logan for a long moment.

“Surprise me.” Logan’s steely expression lightens for the briefest of seconds, revealing a soft grin and bright eyes. It vanishes as quickly as it came.

“I’ll have that right out for you.”

Virgil offers a small smile in return, passing over a five dollar bill and waving off Logan as he tries to hand him his change. “Just keep it.”

“We really don’t do tips—”

“Just. Keep it.” Virgil slips around the bar and moves for his seat from yesterday, tucking his legs under himself and watching Remy nudge Patton repeatedly. After a solid few bumps to the back, Patton stumbles forward, bumping into Ho Man as he curbs around the bar to straighten the creamer cart. Distracted by the way Patton’s hands flutter around his face as he talks to Ho Man, Virgil hardly notices Logan until he’s positioned himself in the empty seat across from him.

“Drink it first, then tell me what you think it is.” Logan pushes a mug across the table toward Virgil, careful to keep the motion near the bottom so it doesn’t splash. Unlike the cup covered in cups from yesterday, this one is something Virgil might actually consider stealing, if they hadn’t drained the excitement of doing so by explicitly allowing thievery.

Midnight blue and splattered with tiny white dots, this mug looks to be plucked straight from the heavens themselves. The inside offers a pale blue to offset the darkness folding in at the rim, enveloping the top of the drink’s meniscus in hues to rival the sky. Virgil traces a finger over some of the constellations skirting the outside—bright enough against the blue to be recognizable, but not going so far as to connect the dots with garish straight lines. All in all, a good mug. Maybe he will steal it.

Virgil takes a long, slow pull from the cup, pretending to be deep in thought as Logan stares unabashedly into his eyes. He holds the mug over his mouth a few seconds later, waiting for the flush in his cheeks to subside. Why couldn’t Logan have been the one to take his order yesterday?

Virgil lowers the mug, licking away the drink moustache on his upper lid and pulling his tongue back in with a pop. “First guess?”

“First guess.”

“Green tea latte.”

Logan grins, rapping the table three times. “Nailed it.”

“It’s ’cause I’m a genius,” Virgil says, lifting the mug once more. This Logan guy might keep some strange company, but he can make a mean green tea latte. “Eleven out of ten, would order again.”

“That’s an improper fraction,” Logan mutters, but there’s a gleam dancing behind his eyes. The bell chimes over the door, drawing Virgil’s attention to where Ho Man and Patton look to be in a particularly compromising position. With Patton flattened against the door and Ho Man hovering closer than necessary, Virgil can only watch as Remy appears out of nowhere, shoving Ho Man forward without warning. Logan releases a breathy laugh as he watches the debacle—moreover, as he watches Ho Man thrust his hands out to brace himself on the wall, as well as caging Patton in around the shoulders by doing so. If this were a romance movie, they’d probably start kissing right about now.

As it is, Ho Man stammers out some excuse, cheeks almost as red as the roses smattered his white shirt. Patton only smiles back widely, not moving from the wall. If Virgil didn’t know better, he’d swear his eyes were delirious. Maybe he doesn’t know better.

“I see you understand the nonsense I’m forced to endure around here,” Logan says. “With Roman being a flirt and Remy being the charming everyman, I do pretty much everything myself. Any tips on how to better survive it?”

Virgil blinks, unsure why Logan decided to dump all this on him. At least he knows what Ho Man’s actual name is now. Full disclosure, Virgil’s gonna miss calling him Ho Man. “I don’t know that I’m your best bet for help running a small coffee shop.”

Logan huffs something close to a laugh, gnawing on the corner of his lip. “Not a problem, I’m just uncertain where to go from here, and they’re being of little help. All they’ve done is force me to get sleep and toss a couple papers about pride at me, and that’s hardly a reliable way of forming a more successful business.”

“Sleep is important,” Virgil says. “I can’t speak from experience, but I’ve heard a lot of people say so.” Still midway through processing Logan’s words, his mind catches on a certain piece of information. “Did you say papers about pride?”

“Indeed, Roman thinks I ought to spruce the place up for pride month, and he’s even managed to pull Remy into the idea. You’re welcome to help, if you want to, but there’s no obligation on your end.”

“Sounds fun,” Virgil admits, raising the cup again and startling himself as he finds it empty. “I’ll take a look, if you want to show me those papers. Oh, by the way, my name is Virgil, in case I haven’t said that yet.”

“Virgil,” Logan repeats, testing the word and rolling it around his mouth. He peels his lower lip out slowly, savoring the V, puckering his lips out around the R and letting his tongue hesitate against his teeth on the L. “It’s a pleasure. I’m sure one of the other two said it at some point or another, but I’m Logan.”

“Logan,” Virgil confirms. “So, Logan, about those pride papers and this empty mug?”

Logan stands, somehow managing not to scrape his chair as he pushes it back. Virgil attempts a similarly graceful move, wincing at the grating sound of metal on tile. “Let me get that mug from you and I’ll fill you up—do not even think about handing me another five, this one is on the house, and I am returning your three dollars and fifty cents at my first opportunity. These papers, disorganized and chaotic as they are, are the only things we’ve got in the way of ideas to drum up more business.”

Virgil seats himself at the cluttered table, grabbing a sheet at random and letting the distant clanks of Logan behind the bar fill his head. Stuff about colored whipped cream—probably too expensive, not to mention non-vegan friendly, and powdered sugar colors—kind of similar to Starbucks with their colored drink gimmicks, which doesn’t seem like Logan’s style. He pauses on the mention of white fairy lights, glancing around the room and imagining how they might look framing the windows. Maybe a little too winter-holiday for mid June, but the tackiness could very well add to the overall charm of the place. Certainly a warmth that overcrowded Starbucks stores could never hope to have. Or they could line the windows in different colors, if Logan really does want to keep with the whole pride thing, or else—

“Try that, tell me what you think,” Logan says, plunking the blue mug on one of very few clear spaces between the papers. Virgil complies, poking his tongue at a crooked front tooth as he considers the flavor.

“Tastes like cinnamon, but that’s all I’ve got.”

“Cinnamon and almond milk latte, one of our most popular drinks,” Logan confirms.

“You don’t get called out for it being too similar to the one Starbucks does?” Logan goes deathly still, an expression somewhere between fury and shock freezing on his face.

“We are nothing like Starbucks here, and I’m going to pretend you didn’t just compare me to that steaming pile of garbage.” Virgil nods, deciding this probably isn’t the best time to inform Logan about his own line of work. “Anything good come out of that disaster?”

“Maybe.” Virgil takes another swig from his mug, running his tongue over his lips and humming to himself. “The colored powders and whipped creams seem kind of impractical, but the lights and quiet-hour thing doesn’t seem to bad. You could do soft pastels for a warmer tone around the room as a whole, and different colors around each window to fit pride month. I don’t know about open mic, since that’s a lot to organize, but maybe use that empty corner on the other side of the door for some little bookshelves and comfy chairs, have a chill zone when the lights go down and the moon comes up? Oh, and this is definitely just a suggestion, so you don’t, like, have to do it, or anything like that, but it might be cool if you changed up the colors of your menu signs, so they weren’t all just white and plain. You could do one board in blue and purple and pink for bi, and another in purple and yellow and white for nonbinary, and another in pink and yellow and blue for pan, and then do a bunch of little drink drawings on all of them in every color to represent gay pride as a whole?” Virgil bites his lip, suddenly realizing that Logan is staring intently at him. Again.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—I mean, I wasn’t trying to—you don’t have to do all that, obviously, and it’s not like I’m forcing you to, and I wasn’t trying to—” Virgil cuts himself off, ducking his head down and hiding his face behind his mug.

“No, no, that’s great, really, I love those ideas,” Logan stammers, waving his hands frantically to shake away Virgil’s hesitation. “They’re splendid, exactly what I was looking for.” Virgil nods quickly, not coming out from behind his mug. Logan places a hesitant hand on Virgil’s shoulder, trying to offer some semblance of comfort. Against his own volition, Virgil leans into the touch, tilting his head toward Logan’s knuckles before he can stop himself. The moment his ear grazes the back of Logan’s hand, he jerks out of the seat, spilling the rest of his mug all over his work-mandated khakis.

“Oh, jeez, oh man, I mean, shoot, crap, okay, I just, I’m just gonna go,” Virgil rambles, stumbling for the door and clutching his unwittingly emptied mug tightly in his shaking fingers. Before Logan can even think about calling after him, he’s behind the wheel of his car and careening out of the parking lot, already berating himself for being such a dork.

---------------

“Where’d Wrong Mug Man go?” Remy asks, popping his head over the bar as he pauses midway through restocking the milk fridge. “Scare him off with your utter lack of charm and cold exterior?”

“A little too on the nose,” Roman calls out from his usual spot in the corner. Well, not ‘usual,’ per se—Roman can barely tolerate staying in the same place for more than a week before moving on for bigger, better seating options. He’s had much the same opinion regarding boys for as long as Logan can remember, and the selection of the week seems to be Patton on the windowsill with the Toy Story clouds mug. Practically a real-life version of Clue, with romantic motives to boot.

Remy finger guns at Roman and ducks back down to finish with the fridge. Logan blinks, the exchange flying past him as he tries to come up with a reason for Virgil’s sudden disappearance. The first person to choose his flatter tones over his brother’s exuberance, and they run away like an owl from a forest fire in the middle of Canada.

Logan has never been one for analogies.

He reaches across the counter, startling Remy in the process as he grabs for a clean rag and sanitizing spray. In no less than five minutes, the spilled latte is gone without a trace. At least Virgil took the mug with him—if nothing else, he’ll come back to return it. Maybe even to use it for that discount—not that Logan would charge him. Virgil doesn’t seem like the type to acquiesce not to pay, but Logan is the owner, so what’s to stop him from making every drink free for the short instances when Virgil shows up?

“Roman,” Logan says, “what are the odds you have some colored chalk you don’t need?”

“Fifteen out of three,” Roman calls back, not looking up from the phone tucked in his lap. Across from him, Patton mirrors the position, curled into the corner of the windowsill—not strictly a real seat, but they both seem to be making do well enough.

“So five?”

“You know that’s not what I meant. I’ve got, like, a whole crate full of art supplies that I can’t use, because someone told me not to pursue my lifelong dream of becoming the next Leonardo Dicaprio.”

“Da Vinci. And I would hardly phrase it like that—I merely suggested that, were you to aim for realism, it might be wise to avoid giving your elephants tails for trunks and trunks for tails.”

“Stop stifling my creative energy!”

“Stop stifling his creative energy,” Patton echoes. Oddly enough, Logan doesn’t feel that familiar urge to roll his eyes as he watches Roman glance up from under a curtain of bangs, staring at an oblivious Patton. He’s never looked at one of his weekly obsessions like that before. Or maybe he has, Logan doesn’t pay very much attention to that sort of thing.

“The point being, you do have colorful chalk, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because I need some. Bring it in with you tomorrow, if you would be so kind.”

For reasons Logan doesn’t care to puzzle out, Roman tumbles off the windowsill, jumping to his feet and brushing off his knees as he rushes to Logan’s side. “Or,” he whispers excitedly, bouncing on his toes and waving his hands around his face, “I could run home and get them now! I could even go out to a store, buy more stuff you didn’t know you needed, spruce the whole place up! Patton could come with me!”

Patton’s head perks up at this revelation, and he pockets his phone before joining the other two. Even Remy leans over the bar, half-intruding on the conversation as he waits for the next guest to decide what they want. Logan crosses his arms, considering Roman’s eagerness.

“You know very well that I don’t trust you to decorate my cafe to your tastes, much less on your own dime.” Glancing at the menus in plain black and white, Logan does have to admit they look, well, plain. Boring. Virgil wasn’t wrong when he said they might look better with more colors. And yes, Logan would greatly prefer having Virgil here to coach him on how to properly execute the pride color schemes—Logan’s never been one for art—but Patton doesn’t seem totally hopeless. “Tell you what. I’ll close up early tonight, and us three can all go out and stock up on decorations. Keep the place closed tomorrow, and we’ll plan out how to make it look best to ramp up business.”

“Excuse you,” Remy cuts in, “but I think you mean us four. Don’t go excluding me from the party.”

“Who said you were invited?” Logan retorts. Roman stifles a snort behind his fist as Patton’s jaw drops in startlingly believable dismay.

“Logan! We have to take Remy with us, he brings half the fun! It wouldn’t be as exciting without him there!”

“Who said I wanted it to be exciting?” Logan mutters to himself, shooting a quick look toward the back of the cafe. Pretty empty, save for a couple patrons here and there nursing at their personal mugs. Casting his eyes to the ceiling, Logan pulls in a long breath through his nose, blowing it out through his lips and wondering why Virgil couldn’t be here to endure this nonsense with him. Immediately thereafter, he wonders why he wonders that. He didn’t even know Virgil’s name yesterday, why is he so set on having him here now?

Remy and Patton’s hopeful expressions drag him back to the moment—specifically, the moment where Logan is being forced to take three overgrown toddlers on a shopping spree to decorate the building that makes up his entire livelihood. No pressure.

“I am definitely going to regret this,” Logan sighs. Pretending as if he hadn’t said that, he continues, “fine, I guess Remy can accompany us. No candy, though—we don’t need to be buying food when we already have some upstairs.”

“Aha, but I have tips!” Remy declares, shaking a paper cup full of coins. “I’m gonna buy so many peanuts with these.”

“Explain how,” Roman says.

“Do not explain how,” Logan says. Not allowing either of them the chance to finish their charade, Logan turns to Patton. “You walked in with Virgil, didn’t you? Do you two know each other?”

“Something like that. I’m a frequent customer where he works.” This catches Logan’s attention. A direct pipeline to the owl that got away.

Again, Logan has never been one for analogies.

“Where does he work?”

A mischievous glint takes residence in Patton’s eye as he nudges Roman’s shoulder. The latter snickers quietly, nudging right back as the former gets out between giggles, “that’s just something you’re gonna have to figure out on your own. The answer will shock you.”

“If he works as a clickbait journalist for Buzzfeed, I am banning both you and him from this establishment.”

“He does not work as a clickbait journalist for Buzzfeed, but you’ll never guess what he does instead!” Roman hisses in an action-star voice. “This summer, coming directly to your screens, and coming soon to own on video and DVD—” He drops his tone to an impossibly deep register while ramping up his volume, drawing the attention of pretty much everyone in the room. Patton and Remy join in on the tagline, both yelling at the top of their lungs.

“Are you quite finished?” Logan asks, wholly unimpressed. Having failed to get so much as a huff of acknowledgement, the other three sigh dejectedly and nod. “Good. Remy, finish cleaning up behind the bar. Roman, can you wipe down the tables and start stacking chairs? Patton, I know you don’t work here, but—”

“On it,” Patton interrupts, already moving toward the back to gently rouse the student that fell asleep doing their homework at a table. Morally, Logan has no problem letting people stay as long as they like, even if they don’t buy anything, but it’s a little more difficult to be lenient about that sort of thing when he’s closing up the cafe. He turns his attention back to the papers scattered across the table as the other three flit about their respective tasks, and wonders whether Virgil might try to come back tomorrow. If they close the cafe for renovations, would he even get out of his car? Or would the lack of business and other patrons scare him off? Maybe Logan should position the other three at various seats in the back as he does all the work himself, making it look like he kept the place open so Virgil would still come in, without being terribly obvious about that being his goal all along. Of course, that brings up the inevitable he knows that I know that he knows situation, but it’s not as if—

“Hello? Earth to Logan? Paging alien squadron fleet two K four one nine oh?” Roman waves a hand in front of Logan’s face, pulling him out of his head. Before him is the only unwashed table in the cafe, still littered with papers that have yet to be picked up. The only page that managed to find its way into Logan’s arms is the one Virgil was talking about when he made additional suggestions. Logan blinks, gathers up the rest in a haphazard bundle, and steps back to let Roman finish his cleaning.

“Can I drive?” Remy asks. He slides around the bar, dusting his hands off on his pants and tossing a dirty rag over the lip of the sink.

“We need to get you an apron,” Logan replies absently, eyeing the gathering dirt stains on Remy’s thighs.

“I didn’t hear a no!” Remy singsongs, tilting his head to lean against Logan’s shoulder. The top of the mess of hair tickles along the crook where his jaw meets his earlobe, and Logan blinks as his mind unhelpfully conjures an image of Virgil in the same position under a blanket of stars. Where on Earth did that come from?

“No, you cannot drive. Give me Roman’s car keys.”

Roman emits an unholy shriek, somewhere between miffed and scandalized that Remy had managed to steal the keys to his soccer mom car. Granted, those things basically live in various spots around the cafe as it is, but still. Groaning in a pitiful attempt at getting sympathy, Remy tosses the jingling chain to Logan, who snatches them out of the air with ease. Before the owner of said keys can protest, Logan passes them on to him, biting back a laugh as Roman instinctively ducks.

“Hey! No dangerous projectiles in the house!” Roman whines. The keys hit the door and clatter to the tiles below.

“Not a house, and you don’t make the rules here, anyway.” Logan wisely keeps his gaze elsewhere as Patton makes his way to the door, grabbing the keys to pass them to Roman. Of course, the windows are reflective surfaces—this unfortunate reality fails to protect Logan from having to see how Patton’s hand lingers a moment too long on Roman’s. Honestly, the whole point of looking away was to not have to deal with their nonsense in the first place. “Let’s go.”

Lingering at the back of the group, Logan lets the other three exit before him, double- and triple-checking that everything is off, unplugged, cleaned up, closed, and generally in various states of presentable. The last thing he needs right now is for his life’s savings to literally go up in flames. Well, not his life’s savings. He’s got some common sense—everything he hasn’t spent is carefully accumulating interest in various reputable banks. So. The expendable portion of his life’s savings. That’s what he doesn’t want to go up in flames.

“What happened to ‘let’s go,’ sonny boy?” Roman calls, popping his head back in the door and making the bell chime. Logan tilts his head, wondering if anyone would ever question why he picked that bell in particular to greet his guests.

“I’m older than you.”

“Patton dared me to call you kiddo, but I thought mine was funnier,” Roman admits.

“I’m older than Patton, too.”

“You didn’t even tell me Patton’s name until last week!”

“Ever heard of barista-guest confidentiality?”

“No, because it doesn’t exist. Now hurry up and get in the car, or we’re tying you to the roof and I’m letting Patton use the backseat as his own personal lounge area.”

Tossing a sigh to the ceiling and casting one last glance at the way his cafe was always meant to be—before everyone else barges in to redecorate for him—Logan follows Roman out.

He slides into the back on the passenger’s side, not voicing his apprehension at Patton taking the front seat. That’s Remy’s seat, he thinks. Remy doesn’t seem to mind, though, already pressing his nose to the window and bouncing on the worn cushion.

“Seatbelt,” Logan reminds his brother—and the car as a whole, he supposes, as even Roman jolts to comply. “I am hereby imposing a price limit of one hundred dollars on this excursion. Anything over that will be coming off of your dime.”

“I don’t even—” Roman begins, but Logan isn’t having any of it.

“I know, I know, you don’t even work for me, but if you want to? And you want to help, shall we say, ‘spruce up the place,’ you will refrain from exceeding my budget, lest you pay the overages.”

“If we go to the place on the corner of Eighth and Main, I’ve got an employee discount for ten percent,” Patton offers.

“By the Texaco?” Roman punches the coordinates into the car, tapping his foot impatiently as Siri attempts to connect with his dwindling internet connection.

“You really ought to know your way around the town by now,” Logan opines. “You’ve been to the Texaco more times than Remy’s flirted with my guests.”

“Shut up, Logan!” Remy hisses. Were his face not pressed against the window and his shoulders hunched defensively, Logan is certain his comment would be rewarded with cheeks glittering ruby.

“Got it!” Roman exclaims, punching the roof. “And I refilled the tank a couple days ago, which means no gas money going into this excursion! Can I get a what what?”

“You cannot,” Logan says.

“What what,” Patton agrees.

“Plus,” Roman continues, shifting into drive and doing a mediocre job of backing away from the building, “with the discount, just think of how much more stuff we can get!”

“Yay.” Logan has never known his own voice to be more flat. He glances up just in time to see Patton shoot him an apologetic look, mouthing the word sorry. He smiles as he does it, though, so Logan isn’t completely convinced of Patton’s regret.

The excited conversation of the other three fills up the car as Logan lets his gaze drift out the window, watching the bright greens of summer flash by in bursts between the blemishes of humanity’s invasion upon the world. Traffic lights, street signs, lampposts, telephone lines, couches at curbs, discarded plastic bags, crushed coffee cups, dead patches of grass, cracked squares of concrete, buildings crawling for the skies and stretching to escape the natural world without which they could never dream of existing.

Logan does not particularly care for the overdevelopment of what used to be a homey nook of nature around his cafe. He can hardly see the stars at night anymore, what with all the city lights pulling his eyes to the ground.

“Beep beep!” Roman announces, punching the roof again before slipping out of the car. Logan blinks, suddenly realizing they’d already arrived at the store. Time to suffer.

“One hundred dollars,” he reminds the others. His words fall on deaf ears as they all sprint for the doors, chattering excitedly amongst themselves about color schemes and bargaining and how to make the most of spending every last dime they can squeeze out of Logan’s pockets. More to himself than anyone else, he murmurs, “I bet Virgil would understand the significance of imposing a spending limit before getting surprised with an obscenely high total crowning the receipt.”

“Come on,” Remy groans, doubling back to grab Logan’s wrist. Patton and Roman have already vanished, probably traipsing through the birthday party aisles for decoration ideas. “At least pretend you’re having fun, yeah? Show some enthusiasm for Virgil’s ideas, I bet he’d love that.”

“When did he tell you his name?”

“He didn’t. You used it when you asked Patton where he worked.”

“Where does he work?”

“If you push the price limit up to two fifty, maybe I’ll tell you.”

“Maybe I’ll stop letting you accept tips.”

Remy’s eyes widen slightly at that, and he wobbles on his toes before running the rest of the way to the door, waving his hands over his head. “La la la, I can’t hear you, I’m too fast for the sound barrier to keep up!”

“That’s not how—oh, whatever,” Logan mutters. Hands in his pockets, he dips a chin to the greeters just inside the door and maintains a leisurely pace, waiting for his friends to reveal themselves. Admittedly, he’s a little impressed when he sees them next—they’ve managed to avoid getting covered in streamers and sparkles. So far, at least. Unfortunately for Logan, the night is still young.

“Hey, what about these?” Patton asks, grabbing a pack of pride-themed playing cards from an end cap display.

“How are those supposed to drum up business?”

Patton shrugs, turning the cards over in his hand. “I dunno, they just look neat.”

“Make it a puzzle,” Roman suggests, picking up a matching set. “Have different fun facts about pride history written on cards from one set, but keep out a piece of important information. Someone finds a card and can tell you the answer without having to look it up, they get a card from the deck you didn’t write on. Get a full suit, get a prize. Maybe they get all the diamonds, then they get to name a drink after themselves. Get all the hearts, they can save ten cents instead of five.”

Logan has to admit, it isn’t the worst idea Roman’s ever come up with. The worst was probably that time with the stuffed sheep, the empty ramen cup, and the half-eaten ring pop. He shudders at the memory before relenting. “How much for a pack?”

Patton glances at the sticker on the side, sucks a sharp inhale through his teeth, and sets the deck back where he found it. “More than it’s worth, even with the discount. Come on, I know where the shelf is for stuff we’re trying to get rid of. It’s hidden in the back so we can make more money, but who ever had fun paying full price?”

“I did, back when it meant doing less damage to my cafe,” Logan grumbles. Nevertheless, he follows dutifully behind, stifling a snort as Roman grabs Patton’s hand and they skip—literally skip—down the aisles. Every few steps, one yanks the other to a stop, cooing over some toy or game meant to catch the eye of passing toddlers. Remy’s eyes sparkle, and he leans over to Logan when he thinks the other two aren’t listening.

“You know,” he whispers, “I like this one a lot more than Roman’s other flings.”

“They’ve barely been talking for more than a few days,” Logan retorts, careful to keep his voice low. “You cannot place all your eggs in the basket when the eggs don’t even exist yet.”

“You lost me, but seriously, bro, look at them.” Tutting to himself, Logan watches the way Roman’s eyes catch on Patton more often than they catch on bargain bin attractions. “You can’t honestly expect me to believe you don’t see it.”

“That’s hardly any of my business. All I care about is how much they’re making me spend. And what did I tell you about that ridiculous nickname? It isn’t even original.”

“Nothing’s original, not even originality,” Remy fires back. “A redux of something that already exists is way more fun than not doing it in the first place. Or would you rather have me tell Virgil the real reason you opened up the cafe?”

Logan yanks Remy to a stop by the neck of his shirt, balling the fabric up in his fists. “If you do that, then so help me, I will have you shipped back home faster than you can spit out that infernal nickname, and you will never set foot in my cafe again.” Remy blinks, laughs, and bops Logan’s nose.

“I bet Virgil would think you’re cute when you get all angry like that.”

“That’s not—I don’t—shut up!” Logan sputters. The epitome of elegance.

When Logan’s first instinct upon releasing Remy is to wonder whether Virgil would think he looked cute like that, he knows he is well and truly screwed.

Elegance, indeed.

---------------

Virgil’s current favorite shift is opening. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he shows up at the ass crack of dawn for work. A solid hour by himself to get the bar set up to his liking, to work in silence without worrying about angry guests, and the knowledge that he’ll be out by noon. The turning stomach of too little sleep is certainly less than ideal, but he’s lying to himself about liking being here this early. Cut him some slack.

“Just fire her already,” he mutters to himself, moving faster than he’d like to as he restocks the pastries. Not for the first time, Natalia closed last night, and she never does any of the shift’s duties right. Case in point, the expired pastries still being in the serving zone. The milk fridge being barren. Having less than three whips. Forgetting the refresher shaker lid in the washing machine—still dirty, mind you. Not wiping down the tables before stacking the chairs. Not washing the half and half from the little cart. A quick sniff reveals the insides to be well past curdled.

You know, maybe Virgil just wants to gripe in general about the incompetence of his fellow team members, and it really has nothing to do with the quality of his workplace experience.

Or it could be that he’s still reeling from the ridiculous note he left Logan on yesterday. That is a very strong possibility.

Glancing at the clock on the register he has yet to open, Virgil weighs his options. He can either sprint for the milk fridge and pray there’s enough left to restock, or he can stay up here and try to straighten up the place for the off chance that corporate shows up and tears Anne a new one. Though he likes Anne well enough, he’d rather face the consequences of corporate’s wrath than deal with pissed-off customers who can’t have their precious two percent milk.

Just his luck—the stock fridge is empty. This is the moment Virgil’s mind chooses to remind him that today is Monday, and that they’re supposed to be getting a shipment in later. So no half and half, no two percent, no heavy whipping cream, and an insatiable desire to go home before the whole ‘interacting with the public’ part of his shift has even started.

As the clock ticks over to eight, his boss’s boss’s boss, Stephen, walks over with his usual fistful of crumpled singles. Virgil doesn’t even bother asking for his numbers, already keying in the discount and punching the order into the register. In the amount of time it takes him to start lingering on yesterday’s disaster, Stephen’s usual—grande mocha, no whip—is already done and gone. Whether this is because Virgil is fast with making drinks or because he’s very adamant about the masochism of reliving embarrassment is open for debate.

Seriously, what was that? Logan puts a hand on his shoulder and gravity decides to be a little bitch, dragging Virgil’s head to the side to lean on a basic stranger? Naturally followed by the most logical reaction—dumping his entire drink all over himself. Yesterday was the first day he wore those pants after their wash, too; he can usually get three or four days out of a pair before they need to be cleaned. What a waste.

One singular glimmer of positivity in the hellscape that is the opening shift, though, is how much faster it seems to go by on Mondays. When the mid shows up, they vanish to the back to take care of the order, so Virgil basically has the bar to himself for four hours, then the fifteen minutes of dealing with the other mid. All the better to suffer through his own blunders in peace.

At least it’s a slower stream of guests.

“I’ll take a trenta very berry, but with all the kinds of berries in it,” some guy with a greasy man bun says, strolling up and scrolling through his phone. Virgil nods, keying it in and going through the usual polite spiel while he waits for him to pay.

“Anything else for you?”

Man Bun glances up from texting, raking his eyes over the purple fading from Virgil’s bangs. “Yeah, can I also get extra blackberries—”

“Sure.”

“—and your number?”

“No. Five twenty-nine.” Virgil turns his back to the register as Man Bun sets about dealing with his credit card, and wonders whether this guy’ll be a nuisance for him as he finishes the drink. “Trenta very berry, extra blackberries, have a good one.”

Man Bun takes the cup, tearing off the straw wrapper and throwing it on the floor. Literally, the garbage can is, like, right there, dude. Don’t be an ass. “So I seriously don’t have a chance with you?”

“Definitely not.”

“What, are you not gay? I mean, with the hair, and with—”

“I’m gay, just not for you. Have a good one.” To escape any further annoying questions, Virgil vanishes into the near back, organizing the drying dishes to wait out Man Bun. Once the coast is finally clear, Virgil returns to the bar, where Patton awaits with a bright grin. Fantastic.

“Hi, Virge!” Patton calls, bouncing on his toes. He does a twirl to make sure no one else is in line behind him before propping his elbows on the counter and leaning in as if he were sharing a secret. “I’ll take a venti iced caramel mach-yeet-ato with an extra shot of eek-spresso, if you please.” With another spin, Patton nearly crashes to the floor, the weight of the bag on his back yanking him faster than he can recover from.

“I got the yeet, but you’re gonna have to explain the eek bit.”

“I want you to pull three shots like normal, but scream at the fourth one. Scare it into submission. Then I’ll drink it, and get the scared bean energy.”

Virgil blinks, his pen hovering over the boxes on the side of the cup. “You. Want me. To scream at your espresso?”

“Only the fourth one! I need the other three to be brave, so I can have the bravery in addition to the terror.”

Virgil opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and shakes his head. “Okay. Five thirty five.” Patton presses a ten across the counter, refusing as Virgil tries to pass back the change, and slides to the end of the bar before Virgil can force him to take his money. True to form, Patton leans over the counter to watch Virgil making the drink, scrutinizing the pouring shots. “You know,” Virgil remarks, “it’s faster to pull two and two shots than two and one and one.”

“Yeah, but then my drink would be half scared, and we can’t have that, now, can we?”

“I guess not. What if I just pull the last two into two separate cups, and apologize to one to get rid of the scared emotions?”

Patton quirks his mouth to the side and hums. “I guess that could work. Make sure the apology’s genuine though, so I can have some empathy in my drink, too. And you don’t have to actually scream at it, either—just rile it up a bit. Scare it into submission however you see fit.”

This was one of the worst possible things Patton could have told Virgil to do. The barista leans in as the second round of shots pours, putting his mouth as close to the cup as he dares. “I’m going to stand outside your house and chant ominously about your sins while pouring expired coffee grounds on your sidewalk, then I’m going to hack into your sims account, give everyone full autonomy, and age them up to the maximum elderly age possible. Sorry, other espresso—I promise your sims are safe and your sidewalk is clean. For now.”

Patton looks understandably disconcerted by the time Virgil has finished, although the latter isn’t completely convinced that what he said was necessarily scary. He hands off the drink, drenching it in far more caramel than necessary and leaving the lid off. With an unholy grin on his face, Patton brings the cup to his lips and swallows half the caramel drizzle before the scared espresso even has a chance to settle.

“So hey, are you coming by Logan’s cafe today?” Patton asks. Virgil glances at the clock—five more minutes, and no line to be seen. He swings around the bar to sit at one of the guest tables, pulling out a sharpie and setting about dating the pastries. Whoever the mid is, they didn’t bother to show up on time, so they certainly can’t be trusted to do something literally in their job description. “You kind of left in a hurry yesterday.”

“Yeah, no, I don’t need a repeat of that embarrassment. I’m just gonna go home and hide under a blanket.”

“What embarrassment? I think Logan liked talking to you, I bet he’d like to have you come back.”

“Definitely. I’m sure he’d adore talking to the guy who couldn’t even keep his drink in his mug, much less remember to leave the mug there.”

“Virge, that’s the point of the mug system. You weren’t supposed to leave the mug there.”

“It’s not the point of my system, though. Now I’m basically, like, obligated to go back and return the cup, if not use it for that discount. Not to mention—which I already did—how I literally dumped my drink all over myself. I do not want that to happen again.”

“So just don’t drop your drink, and it won’t happen again! Simple.”

“Oh, and I bet you’ll just go ahead and police Logan so he doesn’t touch my shoulder again, prompting the situation that drove me to run out in the first place.” At the way Patton’s eyes sparkle, Virgil rushes to backtrack. “Not that it meant anything! It just startled me, so I shook my hand and my drink spilled.” Virgil glances at the bar, but there’s still no guests appearing to save him from this disaster of his conversation. All the pastries are dated, too, so he doesn’t even have the excuse of occupying his hands. “I do not want to go back.”

Patton grins. “So you’re going back?”

Virgil throws his hands in the air and groans. “I’m going back.”

“Promise?” Holding back a sigh as Patton thrusts out a pinky, Virgil links it with his own.

“Promise.”

“Great! Because your shift just ended, and Logan’s keeping it closed for the day so he can do renovations. Just you, him, and a few other people for as long as we’re there, doing decorations and generally engaging in close teamwork. Forming bonds to last a lifetime.”

“You tricked me,” Virgil hisses. “You scheming snot.”

“But it worked, didn’t it? And oh, look, there’s your mid! Let’s leave.”

Virgil glares behind him, where Natalia is tying her impeccably clean apron around her waist and fastening the hat on her hair. The only reason her stupid apron is so clean is because she’s impossibly slow, so as not to get anything dirty. The one time he could use her tardiness to his advantage, too.

“Fine, whatever, give me five minutes to clock out and I’ll meet you back here.”

Patton takes another sip from his quarter-scared drink and nods. “But if you aren’t back within those five minutes, I’m gonna find your boss and file a missing team member report.”

“You don’t even work here.”

“You don’t even understand the extent of my relentless matchmaking skills.”

“Nor do I want to. See you in five.”

“Make it four.”

This is how Virgil finds himself begrudgingly driving toward Logan’s cafe, with Patton’s car hot on his heels. Clever enough, he supposes, since now there’s a literal heavy piece of machinery holding him accountable for reaching the destination he pinky promised to attend. Virgil would rather be hiding under the covers at home.

Swinging into the parking lot and taking his normal spot, Virgil wonders whether Patton would notice if he just hid out in the bathroom until everyone went home. He glances at the mug nestled in the passenger seat—secured with a seatbelt, of course—and decides against it. If nothing else, Logan would probably get suspicious about the goings-on in there, not to mention he’d be the one to have to clean it. Patton’s cheerful honk rings through the air as he locks his car, scooting over to press his nose to Virgil’s window.

Virgil raps the glass lightly, jolting Patton into taking a few steps back before he not-so-discreetly points at the door and dances on his toes. To tell the truth, Virgil is procrastinating, because he absolutely does not want to go inside and see Logan.

“Hi, Logan!” Patton calls, bursting through the door with Virgil in tow. “We’ve been waiting all day to see you!”

“We?” Virgil repeats skeptically.

“Oh, right, right, my bad,” Patton says, waving his hands sheepishly. “Virgil has been waiting all day to see you!”

“That is not better,” Virgil mutters. He lifts a hand to his shoulder, massaging a sore spot along the slope of his neck and wishing he could be literally anywhere else right now. In an effort to diffuse the awkwardness that Logan hasn’t bothered to notice, he continues, “looks nice in here with the lights down. Kind of home-y.”

“Indeed,” Logan agrees, balanced precariously on the second-highest rung of an unreasonably tall ladder. At its base, Roman holds the legs steady, grinning as Patton slings his backpack onto a nearby table. “Patton, I assume you brought more decorations I never greenlit?”

“You know it.” Patton grins, upending the bag and watching every manner of rainbow trinket spill over the tabletop and onto the floor. “Okay, so see these? They look like normal food coloring, but they actually—”

“If they sparkle or make the drink behave like pop rocks, I do not want them.”

Patton pouts before tossing the food coloring stuff back in the bag. “Alright, well how about this one? It’s like a DIY mug for—”

“Don’t use acronyms out loud, and I am not having mugs that guests design themselves. That defeats the purpose of my system.” Patton puts the mugs away.

“Fine, so I also found these little mythical creature trinkets that—”

“No.” Patton puts the trinkets away.

“Or these things that look like scratch off tickets, but instead of the lottery, you can—”

“No.” Patton puts the tickets away.

“I found this book of stickers that has—”

“No.” Patton puts the stickers away.

“You know, I’m beginning to think you didn’t want me to bring all this stuff.”

“I did not want you to bring all that stuff.”

“Well, fine! I’ll just take it back home, then!”

“Good! I do not want it here! Please remove it from my establishment!” Virgil cocks his head to the side, his thoughts catching on the mock enthusiasm in Logan’s voice. If anyone could possibly be the breathing personification of a sarcastic exclamation point, it’s Logan.

“Can I help you up there?” Virgil offers. Logan glances down, still precariously balanced on his ladder and stretching out an arm to toss a strand of string lights over the menu boards. “You know, it might be more effective to pull the signs down and write the menu first, then tape some lights to the top, then hang them back up.”

Thrusting out a hand for stability on the top rung, Logan lowers the spool of lights waiting to be thrown. “You may have a point. Roman, if you even think about shaking this ladder, I am going to ban you from helping any further with the decorations.”

“Come on, dude, it’s pride month! Show some spirit!” Roman whines. Regardless, he holds the ladder steady as Logan descends.

“I’ve already shown my spirit by deigning to allow you in my cafe while it’s closed. Don’t push your luck.” At the sound of a yelp and something crashing near the seats around the corner, Logan presses his middle finger to his glabella and groans deeply. “Remy, if you broke one of my windows, I am legally obligated to inform our parents that you are unfit to be an adult, and that I am sending you back to them, effective immediately.”

“No, nope, everything is totally fine back here. You aren’t legally obligated to do anything whatsoever.” Remy pops his head into view, his cheeks flushed and his hair flopping into his eyes. Taking one look at Logan’s stern face and Virgil’s reserved one, he jerks his head at Roman. “Hey, wanna give me a hand back here? Your boyfriend can come too, I guess.”

“He’s not my—” Roman begins, but Patton barrels right through it.

“Sounds fun!” he declares, grabbing Roman by the elbow and dragging him toward whatever chaos Remy already caused. With a quick pause to point from his eyes to Virgil’s and back, Patton winks and vanishes from sight. In their absence, silence reigns supreme.

“So,” Logan says.

“So,” Virgil agrees.

“How’s your handwriting?” Logan asks, clearly just as desperate to fill the awkward silence as Virgil.

Virgil shrugs, grabbing one of many pens spilling from Patton’s abandoned backpack and twirling it between his fingers. “Not terrible, I guess. I do most of the boards where I work.” For a brief moment, Virgil wonders whether he’s ever mentioned to Logan where he works, but ultimately decides it’s not important just yet. He watches the pen spins for another few moments before continuing, “I have this style of super straight lines, though. Not exactly bubbly and inviting for your guests.”

“My guests know I own this place. They aren’t expecting any manner of bubbliness, inviting or otherwise. Help me pull down the signs?” Allowing himself the smallest laugh at Logan’s matter-of-factness, Virgil moves for the lower right corner of the trifold board, hoisting it off the wall in tandem with Logan. “I suppose we ought to erase it first, before we go about ruining it.”

“Do you know what kind of scheme you’re going for?” Virgil asks, shifting into decoration mode as he starts wiping off the first section. He shoves aside any lingering thoughts of yesterday’s fiasco in favor of focusing on the task at hand. Maybe if he pretends to have forgotten, it’ll be like it never happened in the first place.

“Scheme? I was simply going to write the drink options in various colors,” Logan admits. He scrapes together a pile of chalk from a children’s craft box leaning against the bar, grimacing as he rubs the dust from between his fingers. “Unless you know of a better idea.”

“I mean, we could do something like cold drinks here, and hot ones here, and you could have some people personalize based on this third one over here? And then, like, each third can be a different pride flag, like how I was saying yesterday—maybe make the miscellaneous board the pan flag, since it’s basically everything? Unless you don’t like the pun side of that, of course, then we don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. Or we could do the whole rainbow there, again with the ‘everything’ deal, but it might not look so cohesive as being strictly separated thirds of the menu. We don’t even have to separate by themes, if you wanted the whole menu to be just one section. Maybe we could do the bi flag for the cold drinks—if you decide to go for the cold, hot, miscellaneous boards, I mean—just because the blues and purples could go well with cold drinks, color theory and all? Or I guess there’s also the possibility of stuff like the transgender flag, or the polyamorous flag—maybe you could have a pastry menu, and put it there for a sort of pie-pi pun? I don’t know how well that one would go over, but if it sticks out to you well enough…”

---------------

Logan props his chin on a fist, his legs crossed beneath him and his knee supporting his elbow. All of Virgil’s words are floating straight over his head, and he doesn’t even pretend to hide it, so entranced is he by Virgil’s enthusiasm. In all honesty, Logan stopped listening by the third sentence, more focused on how Virgil’s pale lips formed the soundless words, washing the cafe in an ocean of rolling tones and low asides. Not ten seconds into his rambling, Logan is certain he saw Virgil’s eyes light up, ever so slightly, at the prospect of having creative control over something so simple as menu theming.

“Does that work for you?”

Shit. Logan forgot he was supposed to be listening.

“Er, I’m actually somewhat unclear on what you meant. Do you mind rewording your suggestion?”

Virgil blinks at him, and Logan feels his soul melt—no human has a right to look that much like a confused puppy. “I don’t really know how you expect me to reword ‘I’m gonna run to the bathroom real quick while you think about which theme you like,’ but I’m certainly willing to try if you need me to.”

“Yes, no, I mean—of course, absolutely. Go right ahead, second door on the right in the back.” Logan waves a flippant hand as Virgil pushes off from his knees, tossing a two-fingered salute to the other three working in the back. Logan has no idea what they’re doing back there anymore, nor does he really care. He’s slightly more concerned with that complete social blunder between Virgil and him. Could he have come across any more ridiculous?

“So what do you think of Virgil, hm?” Patton asks, appearing over Logan’s shoulder. Logan flinches, sitting up straighter and nearly slamming his head into Patton’s chin. “Think he’s got a cute butt?”

Pausing to absorb the second question, Logan wonders whether he doesn’t look too dissimilar to a computer rebooting itself. “He certainly has an ass.”

“Do you know any other swear words?” Remy groans, trudging over and draping himself across the bar. Meanwhile, Patton is spluttering in disgust at Logan for daring to use a more crude synonym for the word ‘butt.’

“You should be proud that he even knows that one,” Roman chimes in. “Why, when I first met Logan—”

“We are not doing emotional history montages,” Logan declares, getting to his feet and waving a hand at Roman. “We are here only to improve the environment in and around my cafe, so that is what we are going to do.”

“Actually,” Remy corrects, “I’m mostly here because I want to set you up with Virgil. He was a dick from the moment he walked in that first time, which is exactly your type.” Pointing at Logan with a wink, Remy moves to lean against the wall.

Logan doesn’t bother to question his motives, and pretends he didn’t hear the first half of Remy’s statement. He does, however, hear the general motivation behind the words, and responds accordingly. The sly grin on his face makes Roman take a subconscious step back.

“Oh, and you aren’t here to set Roman up with Patton?” Turning his focus on them, Logan wonders in the back of his mind whether Virgil might walk in on this. “Of course, everyone’s talking about it, Remy. Don’t you want to be the first trendsetter with the newest, hottest couple?”

“Since when does he know what ‘hottest’ means?” Roman hisses in a stage whisper. Patton shrugs, pressing his lips together as his cheeks stay annoyingly neutral, not at all embarrassed by Logan’s tirade. “Do you think he doesn’t know?”

“I think he doesn’t know,” Patton replies. He doesn’t even bother to lower his voice, which serves only to further infuriate Logan.

“What don’t I know?”

“He definitely doesn’t know,” Remy agrees, peeling himself away from the wall. “It’s almost pity full, really.”

“You don’t know the meaning of the word. You don’t even know the pronunciation.”

“But I know you use it on me, like, all the time, which is only that much more pity full for you.”

“Pitiful. Like your tenuous grasp of the English language.” At the sound of the sink faucet turning on around the corner, Logan glances back at Roman and Patton, who are still whispering together intently. Patton is barely hiding his giggles. “So, tell me; what is it, exactly, that I don’t know?”

“Should we tell him?” Roman whispers. Patton shrugs, pushing his glasses up by pressing his finger directly against the lens. Logan can feel something shattering, deep inside his innermost soul.

“Oh, tell him, you dorks,” Remy groans. “It’s literally, like, so obvious, it’s almost sad that he hasn’t figured it out yet.”

“Figured out what?” Virgil asks, materializing around the corner.

“That me ‘n Patton are dating,” Roman says.

“Duh, everybody knows that.” Glancing around, a look of concern grows on Virgil’s face. “Was I not supposed to know that?”

“Well, actually, Logan here—” Remy begins, but with a swift smack to the arm from Logan, he cuts himself off. “Nope, yep, totally justified in knowing that. Seven out of three. Good job. So smart. We stan a clever icon.”

“Please stop talking,” Logan says. “Can we just get back to decorating?”

“Way ahead of you.” Virgil drops to his knees, gathering up scattered pieces of chalk and positioning the blank slates in front of him. “Did you decide which theme you liked?”

Logan very much did not do that. “I like both the gender flags and the sexuality flags. What do you think?”

Virgil, clearly not prepared to be in control, blinks twice. “Um. Well. Maybe we could make the first board sexualities, and the second one genders, and have each drink be a different flag based on which menu theme they’re under? And Remy likes making up drinks, yeah?”

“Yes,” Remy unnecessarily confirms. Logan scowls at him until he disappears around the corner with Patton and Roman.

“Cool,” Virgil continues, “So that way we can do a little of everything on the menus, and then the lights can just look nice in general, and they don’t strictly have to coordinate with the menus.”

“Where do you work, some interior design place?” Logan asks, raising an eyebrow at Virgil’s confidence, which rapidly grows the more he talks himself through ideas. “You really seem to know what you’re talking about.”

“Not exactly,” Virgil admits. “Where I work doesn’t really matter, though, does it?”

“Want to work here?” Logan blurts, before immediately clapping his hands over his mouth. “Sorry, that was probably too forward. I don’t even know why I said it, I mean, look at this place, I can barely pay Remy, let alone add another hire, not to mention—”

“You’re fine,” Virgil says absently, more focused on the menu spread. “Anyway, so the flags. Do you want to start listing off some drinks you serve, and I’ll write them on my phone, and we can just go from there to decide which drink goes with which flag?”

Logan swallows thickly and nods, launching into his perfectly memorized list of everything he makes on a day-to-day basis. At least Virgil elected to ignore his outburst.

As the sun makes its trek toward the horizon, shooting beams of light through floating bits of dust in the air, Logan sits back on his haunches to admire Virgil’s handiwork. For how consistently they’d been working all day, he has to admit some small amount of pride in the outcome.

The first board, comprised of iced and frozen drinks, proudly bears all manner of gender orientation flags that Logan could find, both common and obscure. Each in bright pastels, of course, as neither Roman nor Patton had the foresight to bring darker colored chalk. The second board boasts hot drinks and sexuality flags, and despite himself, Logan quite likes the soft brightness of the middle menu. The third is still blank, with an added wooden board at the bottom to hold chalk.

“That way,” Virgil explained, “whoever makes the custom drink of the day can draw it there, and write the ingredients without having to hunt for the chalk.” Although Logan doesn’t particularly care for letting guests take control of the menu, he begrudgingly agreed that it was a good idea.

“You guys took, like, forever to do basically nothing,” Remy complains, now sprawled out across a table.

“Guests eat off those,” Logan remarks, still more focused on the menus than his brother’s antics. “And you only managed to string up a few sets of lights between the three of you. I would hardly call that an achievement.”

“Among,” Virgil corrects.

“What?”

“You said between the three of them. Since it’s more than two, it’s among the three of them.” Logan can’t decide whether to be horrified or enchanted by how Virgil managed to catch his own grammar mistake.

“Roman?” Logan calls, drawing attention away from his flub. “What, exactly, might you be doing?”

Roman merely grins in response, precariously balanced on one of the tables near the front. He lowers his hands from the upper frame of the window and jumps to the floor, trying to duck into a somersault and failing miserably. Patton giggles before helping him up and glancing at what he’d been messing with.

“This is my cafe,” Logan reminds them, “so I believe I ought to know what you’ve done to it.”

Offering a shrug and a wince, Roman follows Patton’s gaze to the window. “Mistletoe.”

“Mistletoe,” Logan repeats.

“Mistletoe!” Patton agrees.

“Mistletoe,” Remy choruses. At Logan’s glare, he raises his hands defensively. “Sorry, I just wanted to feel included.”

“Why, pray tell, is there mistletoe in my cafe?” Logan sighs.

“Bitchmas in July,” Roman replies. Logan can’t decide whether to throttle him or to simply scream.

“Roman?”

“Yes, my dearest friend and barista?”

“It is June.”

“Yes.”

“Bitchmas, as you say, is in July.”

“Yes.”

“June is not July.”

“You lost me.”

“Actually,” Patton cuts in, “I think I know why Roman put mistletoe there.”

“Why might that be?” Logan is extremely close to tossing one of the people in this room out the window, and based solely on proximity, it very well might be Virgil.

“For this.” With no further warning, Patton grabs Roman by the neck of his shirt and yanks him to stand behind the chair he’d been using as a stepstool. Logan hardly has the chance to blink before Patton is pulling Roman in, closing his eyes, and—

“Yep, nope, super cool, very much did not need to see that,” Virgil announces, mercifully drawing Logan’s eyes away from the scene. “Besides that nonsense, did you guys get the lights all finished? I need to peace out pretty soon here, but I want to see the cafe in its full glory before the guests come and destroy it by existing in its presence.”

Roman hesitates to answer, still breathless beside a beaming Patton. Remy cuts in first, allowing the other two to regain their composure.

“We got everything done, so if you wanted to pack up whatever stuff you brought, I’ll get the last of the connections and cords all set up, so you can bask in the splendor before you go.” Leaning in close enough to whisper so that Virgil can’t hear, Remy’s breath tickles Logan’s ear. “His mug is on the side pocket of his bag. Sneak it away while I distract him, and make him a personalized drink. It’ll be totally endearing, I know it.”

“I am not doing that.”

Remy dangles the mug from his fingers with a smirk, thrusting it at Logan when Virgil isn’t looking. “You are doing that.”

Logan frowns and reluctantly takes the mug. “I am doing that.”

“Unless you want to be doing—”

“Don’t you dare say it,” Logan hisses, snapping his head around to cast the entirety of his glare at Remy. “If you swear, in this moment, to shut your damn mouth, I will make him a drink.”

“That’s all I want,” Remy says, dusting his hands off and tugging Virgil to stand in front of the door. The mistletoe dangles a few ominous feet away. Logan’s scowl melts into a vague feeling of contentedness as he watches Virgil taking in the unlit decorations. His hands work on autopilot, making an old favorite of his that has long since outgrown its recipe. When Remy clicks the lights on and Logan catches Virgil’s face in the light, the barista is pretty convinced he might just collapse right then and there, coffee and all.

Framed in the soft blues and yellows of twinkling artificial lights, Virgil’s pale skin almost seems to glow against his jet black hair, a silhouette of ethereal splendor captured oh-so-perfectly for a split second, before the illusion shatters. Virgil turns to look at Logan as the latter absently slides the full mug across the counter, so entranced is he by the former.

“You good?” Virgil asks. Logan can only manage the smallest of nods, barely capable of closing his stunned mouth as he watches the way the moonlight flicks off the purple tips of Virgil’s hair. “Dude, you didn’t have to go and make me anything!”

“It’s one of his oldest favorites,” Remy cuts in, rescuing Logan from himself. “No, no, put your money away, this one’s on the house for helping us remodel.”

“All I really did was draw on a couple menus,” Virgil protests. Nevertheless, he pockets his wallet and takes a hesitant sip from the mug. A beauty to rival that of his shape against the night sky lights in his eyes as he tips the mug, draining the rest as fast as he can manage.

“Good, right?” Remy asks. Logan wonders whether his own mouth will decide to start functioning properly any time soon.

“So good,” Virgil murmurs, still holding the rim of the mug to his nose and inhaling deeply. “Smells amazing, too.”

With a swift elbow jab to the side from Remy, Logan manages to choke out a broken “thanks,” his voice cracking on the vowel. Miracle of miracles, Virgil doesn’t notice. Or, if he does, he pretends not to, which only makes it worse—or better, Logan isn’t sure.

“Well, uh, thank you too,” Virgil mumbles. He clutches the mug as tight as he can manage, shouldering his way out the door. Not two feet beyond the threshold of the door, he absently raises his shoulders toward his ears against a cool summer breeze.

“Logan, close your mouth,” Roman calls. Logan moves his jaw up, realizing all too late that he’d been staring open-mouthed at Virgil for no reason. Turning his face toward Patton’s neck, Roman giggles and whispers, “he’s so head over heels.”

“That’s an understatement,” Patton replies. “If his head is where it is now, you’d need a cinderblock and the Mariana Trench to get to his heels.”

“That was a bit of a stretch,” Remy says. “I know you’re trying, hon, but maybe try more puns, fewer metaphors?”

“Puns,” Patton echoes, rolling the word between his lips and chewing the n. “Pun pun pun.”

“Now look what you’ve done,” Roman groans.

“Pun,” Patton repeats, pointing up and nudging Roman to the side. Roman blinks and follows his finger to the mistletoe, which is wobbling dangerously. “Don’t think you used enough tape there, Crumb cake.”

“Maybe not,” Roman agrees. As he reaches up to adjust the decoration, Logan’s hand thrusts out of its own volition.

“Do you maybe want to move that over the door instead? Maybe? I mean, you don’t have to, I just—”

“Logan’s rambling,” Remy announces. “Better do what he wants before he short circuits entirely.” Roman and Patton titter at this before the former pulls down the mistletoe, removing the old tape and producing a new roll from his pocket.

“Thanks,” Logan sighs, watching Roman stick the mistletoe just to the right of the bell. What he wouldn’t give to be under that with—

“Closing time!” Logan shouts suddenly, ignoring how the other three flinch. “It was all very fun and nice, but it is time for everyone to go home. Right now. Please leave. This very second. Immediately. Get out.”

Remy exits first, followed quickly by Patton and Roman, none of whom bother trying to hide their laughter. Logan is the last to leave, still focused on that mistletoe. Still focused on who he wants to see beneath it.

---------------

Virgil is having a bad day.

He woke up with only two minutes to spare before having to leave for work. He stepped on poop from his neighbor’s dog when he went outside. He found a smear of mocha syrup along the seam of his pants in a very conspicuous pattern. He didn’t have any other clean pants ready. His car wouldn’t start fast enough. His USB cord to his phone wouldn’t connect, no matter how many times he turned it. His throat ached, but without a fever, he was still legally allowed to work with food. His voice was all but gone.

Virgil wants nothing more than to go back home, crawl under a mountain of blankets, and stay there until the sun goes away.

This would be a task much more easily achieved if Natalia would bother to show up on time. Virgil forces a tight smile onto his face as he mindlessly nods along to the latest guest’s conversation. Ten more minutes and he’ll hit compliance, which means a stern talking-to between Anne and her boss, which means a stern talking-to between Anne and him, which is basically the last thing keeping Virgil from walking out of the store right now.

Virgil wants to go home.

“Have you seen Natalia?” Anne asks, appearing on the other side of the bar once the line dribbles down to nothing. Virgil shakes his head, already halfway through making her usual order as she groans. “Okay, well, you’re gonna hit compliance in a second here.”

“I know that,” Virgil snaps. “There’s not exactly a whole lot I can do about it.”

“Mind your tone,” Anne chides lightly, and though Virgil can tell she’s kidding, he really isn’t in the mood for it today.

“Yeah, sorry. Do you mind, uh, you know?” He tilts his chin to the next guest, as well as the cluster of families preparing to queue up behind them. Anne nods and apologizes with a laugh, scurrying off to do whatever it is she deems more important than helping Virgil to keep this line in check.

This is the part where Virgil is supposed to launch into a spiel of every drink he makes, as well as the struggles that accompany calling out complete orders with a voice that basically doesn’t exist, but based on the morning he’s had so far? He has absolutely zero desire to get into it. Guests are rude, baby boomers are impatient, the sky is blue, Virgil is in hell, next question.

“Hey, um, excuse me?” Some dude leans over the counter, shaking his empty cold cup at Virgil. Evidently, he did not notice the line waiting to be helped. “Barista boy?”

Virgil glances where his name tag should be, shrugs at its absence, and nods. Yeah, that’s a fair nickname. “What’s up?”

“You made my drink wrong.” His empty drink, that is.

“Oh, I’m so sorry about that, did you want me to remake it for you?”

“No, I want you to give me a refund.”

“Sir, I—you already finished your—by store policy, I can only make you a new drink, I can’t give you a refund if there’s no drink to take back in return for the money, sorry.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t like it.”

“Then why did you—never mind, would you like me to make you a new one?”

“No, I want compensation for a miserable drinking experience.”

This goes on for some time, and while Virgil is largely skilled at keeping his composure when he has to, that’s much more easily said than done when the guest is flinging curse words at him left and right.

“Sir, I’m sorry, it’s—there’s a long line, so unless you want to have me remake your drink for you, there’s really nothing I can do.” Angry Guest Man rips out a few more choice words before storming off, shouldering patiently waiting customers out of the way. Virgil rolls his shoulders back and moves on to the next guest, relieved when all they want is a grande mocha.

Virgil.

Wants.

To.

Go.

Home.

“Hey, I’m here to cover for Natalia!” Kim announces, prancing behind the bar without a hat on, as if she doesn’t notice the hold up Virgil’s dealing with.

“Awesome. Get here sooner next time. Put on a hat—or a hairnet, I don’t care which—and start taking orders while I catch up on hot bar. We’re almost out of skim milk, and the almond milk shipment is behind today, so only offer coconut and soy milk.” Virgil tosses out orders almost as fast as he hands off drinks, waving off Kim’s bewildered demands. “I don’t care how or why Natalia got you to show up late—better than not at all—but I need you to kick into gear. I’ll get you as caught up as I can, but I’m gonna hit compliance, so savor this partnership before you’re on your own.”

Kim bites back whatever protests she might’ve had, instead nodding and moving for the register. She plasters a welcoming smile on her face and starts chatting up the next guest as Virgil slowly but surely picks apart his backlog of orders.

Virgil does not want to be here.

Another guest complaining about their cappuccino not having enough foam is incredibly close to being the straw that shatters his back. Virgil bites back a groan as he gingerly takes the unlidded cup from her, nodding his apologies and profusely assuring her he’d remake it. She scowls and mutters something about hurrying up.

“There you go, sorry ’bout that,” Virgil says, passing off the new cup.

She removes the lid, glaring at the drink and completely ignoring the swarm of people behind her that would very much like to get their orders. “There isn’t enough foam for the caramel to sit on top.”

“Yeah, that’s how physics—I mean, yes, my bad, do you want more caramel drizzle?”

“No, I want you to make it right.” With no further warning, she scrapes off the top layer of foam and flicks it at Virgil, cocking her head to the side as it plops across the bridge of his nose.

He might just scream.

“So you’ll have me remake it, then?” Virgil forces himself to smile as she nods with a harrumph. “Right, okay, just give me a minute here, aaand—there you go.” He pushes the latest creation over the bar and comforts his shot nerves with the mental image of throwing the drink in her face.

“There’s not enough foam.” Before Virgil can even pretend to be sympathetic to her first world problems, she dips her finger into the foam.

And flicks this one square at his chest.

“Anne?” Virgil’s voice is sugary sweet as Anne drifts lazily over from across the seating area, moving as if she had all the time in the world. “I’m going to hit compliance in less than two minutes, so I am going to clock out. I will not be coming in tomorrow, as I have a backlog of sick days, and I will be using one to figure out whether I want to come in the day after that. Good luck getting someone to cover for me, since it was obviously such a difficult task for Natalia.”

“Virgil, if you don’t come in tomorrow, you can kiss this job goodbye,” Anne snaps.

Virgil considers this, removes his hat, and places it squarely on her head. “If you want me to stay away, I’ll do so happily. In case you haven’t noticed, there isn’t a whole lot of qualified backup for you here.” Anne can only manage bewildered sputters in response as Virgil unties his apron, drapes it over a chair, and strolls off to the break room.

Virgil is leaving this hellscape.

“I really wanna leave this stupid town,” he sings to himself in the car, ignoring his blatantly wrong lyrics as he tears out of the parking lot. “And today, the time has come.” Ramping up his voice to little less than a furious scream, he pounds the steering wheel to the rhythm, and feels an odd lightness when he sees the empty passenger seat. For once, he doesn’t have to have the ever-present company of that obnoxious apron, wrapped up and tucked inside that ridiculous hat.

Virgil is going home.

At least, Virgil thought he was going home.

No one could be more surprised than him when he finds his hands steering the car toward Logan’s cafe of their own volition.

“Hey, Virgil, what’s going—wait, hey, you walked under the mistletoe!” Roman whines from the counter, where Remy is closely monitoring his work behind the bar. “You can’t just walk past mistletoe without a kiss-letoe!”

“Stop talking, or that mistletoe is going up your ass-letoe,” Virgil mutters, making a beeline for the mound of bean bag chairs in the corner. A nice touch of comfort amidst the soft lighting and colorful menus they’d added yesterday. Probably Patton’s idea.

He falls to his knees before he knows what he’s doing, shoving his face into the plasticky surface and letting the rustling beans consume his senses. He’d barely bothered to notice how loudly his pulse was thrumming through his head until it stopped, overpowered by the artificial cushion beneath him. At the sound of footsteps drawing near his head, Virgil briefly considers sweeping out a leg and knocking them to the floor. An action movie sequence fantasy at best.

He feels them speak before any words come out, and has never felt closer to cussing out someone he met mere days ago.

“Hey. Rough day?” By some merciful chance, it’s not Roman, or Remy, or even Patton. Logan continues, careful to keep his voice low and measured, “I get that. I had the lights turned down temporarily to test the environment in direct sunlight, but I’ll leave them down for your sake. We also received several compliments on the new menus—all your handiwork, of course.

“Remy’s training Roman on how to make drinks right now, since I’ve heard many guests discussing how to get their friends to join them on trips here. With that kind of increase in business, I could really use his extra set of hands, no matter how inexperienced. I see you brought your mug, as well—if it doesn’t upset you too terribly, I’ve already had Remy begin teaching Roman how to make up drinks, so you might get an odd flavor combination, what with the steep learning curve and all. Roman is creative, I’ll give him that, but he’s never truly been one for understanding the intricacies of taste and texture among our staple ingredients.”

With every word out of Logan’s mouth, Virgil can feel his mounting headache slowly, ever so slowly, draining away. In the wake of Anne and Kim’s nonsense, he hadn’t cared to notice the exhaustion, much less how severely it hurt. Even now, his pulse is pounding like a jackhammer against the roof of his skull.

“When Remy first picked out that mug covered in cups for you, I have to say, I was horrified. As far as I could tell, it was just the first thing he grabbed, which is about as basic a tactic as any other. Your current one, with all the constellations and the blues, just felt right, if you know what I mean. Not exactly a logical way to select your mug, but I can’t really explain it.”

“I like to call them mug-mates!” Roman announces. “You know, mug, soulmate, mug-mate?” An image crosses Virgil’s mind of throwing his current mug at Roman’s head, and he laughs. “See, Remy, told you I was funny.”

“I hate to break it to you,” Remy says gently, “but Patton was only lying about you being funny because you suck at everything else.”

“Shut up,” Logan singsongs, his voice achingly calm against their raising tones. In a voice that somehow manages to be even more soothing than before, almost dulcet, he continues, “most of my guests have a particular piece of clothing or accessory that stands out, matching their immediate mug. You just felt, well, different, somehow.”

Virgil fights the instinct to flinch as he feels something come to rest against his head. A moment passes, two, before it starts to move, lightly combing through his matted hair and gently scratching at his aching head beneath. Against his own volition, a contented sigh escapes his lips. The scratching continues unaffected.

If it were possible, Virgil would stay here, just like this, forever. Motionless in a pile of bean bags, with only Logan’s presence to remind him he still exists. Naturally, this isn’t possible, as a gentle set of three raps against the wall over his head jerks him out of his half-conscious state.

Logan nods with a smile as a guest lowers their hand, moving for the door and stashing their mug in their bag. At Virgil’s questioning gaze, Logan raises his hands and explains, “that’s how my best guests say goodbye. The first few regulars I had liked the peaceful silence, so instead of cutting through the air with words, they’d just knock on the tables. It sort of became habit, I suppose.” Virgil glances from Logan’s mouth to his shoulder and back, releasing another sigh as the scratching shifts down to his back.

“Feel any better?” Logan asks. His eyes are filled with a warmth that Virgil swears wasn’t there yesterday.

“Little bit,” Virgil mumbles. “Work sucks.”

“And where, exactly, do you work?”

“Starbucks north.”

The shock in Logan’s expression is almost laughable. “I have never been more disgusted with a single human being in all my life than I am right now.”

“Yeah, that’s fair. I think I just kind of quit, though. Not exactly a ceremonious end to my shift, if you know what I mean.”

“Rude guests?”

“Try obscene and pathetic. One flicked her foam at me.”

“Wait, don’t you get free drinks when you work there? Why buy my drinks when you can get stuff without paying for it at all?”

“We aren’t, like, a chain place, since we’re owned by the department store we’re in, so we kind of follow different rules than the regular stores. I only get one grande drink per shift, and it has to be while I’m on the clock.”

“Okay, but you can still get those drinks. Just make them on your last five minutes and walk out with them. Why bother spending money on what could be free?”

“I’m not funneling the money I get from that place directly back into it. They are a capitalist regime based on the basic downfall of the foremost man empowering story, and I refuse to fuel their fire.”

“How closely did you analyze Moby Dick?”

“Sparknotes.” Virgil pushes himself onto his elbows, still savoring the feeling of Logan’s fingers gently scraping along his back. “Hey, what was that you were saying yesterday about offering for me to work here?”

Logan’s face colors immediately, flush with about as much red as is humanly safe. “I didn’t mean to impose—I mean, er, I didn’t want you to feel like—”

“It’s cool,” Virgil interrupts. “Anyway, were you even a little bit serious? Because I don’t really have a reference from my last place, but if you’re willing to accept a new hire with a shady history who knows how to run a coffee bar, I’m your guy.”

Logan nods quickly, glancing back to where Roman is struggling considerably under Remy’s watch. “You’re hired. You start today.”

“Actually, I know this is probably a bad first impression on my new boss, but do you mind if I start tomorrow? I’m not really feeling it today.”

“Indeed, I should probably draw up the paperwork, as well.”

The finality of this tenuous agreement hangs in the air, an oddly relaxed cloud of, well, something that can only wait to be shattered.

Roman does a perfectly fine job of carrying out this task.

“Logan, you’re gonna be so proud of me in a second here—I made my very first drink! Remy said I have to give it to Virgil, since you won’t take it.” Roman passes the constellation-covered mug over to Virgil, who glances warily at the murky substance rippling within. “Relax, it’s literally the easiest drink I can make.”

“Earl grey tea,” Remy calls over. “Two tea bags, hot water, and honey. I promise he didn’t poison it.” Only after Remy’s reassurance does Virgil take a hesitant sip, admiring the flavor as soon as it hits his tongue.

“Oh, that reminds me!” Logan exclaims, raising a finger in the air. It takes everything in Virgil not to whine at the loss of the reassuring hand against his back. “I got something as a thank you for helping us with the decorations yesterday—it’s right upstairs, actually. Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll have it right back down here for you.” As Logan rises, something jingles and clatters to the floor, escaping his notice as he moves for the door. A keyring, covered in at least ten keys and even more keychains.

“Hey, wait, you dropped these,” Virgil says, grabbing the keys and following Logan to the door. Logan lifts his chin slightly, taking the keys and shoving them in his pocket—careful enough that they won’t fall out this time.

“Oh, look at that,” Roman coos. Virgil raises an eyebrow, turning to see where Roman and Remy are excitedly elbowing each other and giggling. Even Patton appears from around the corner and smiles along with them—probably leaving the bathroom.

“Look at what?” Logan asks, obviously quite finished with their nonsense. Rather than dignify him with an answer, Roman merely points above their heads. Virgil follows the motion to see the last decoration he could’ve expected in June.

Mistletoe.

To the tune of the other three quietly chanting, “kiss, kiss, kiss,” Virgil swallows an annoyed moan and glances at Logan, whose face somehow managed to turn an even deeper shade of pink.

“If you don’t want to, I mean, if you didn’t, you know, feel comfortable with—” Logan stammers, every word darkening his cheeks, but Virgil cuts him off with a laugh.

“Maybe I do want to. Kiss you, that is. I mean, if you want to.”

“No, yeah, I mean—yes. I would like that. To kiss you, I mean.”

Virgil’s face glows like a rose on fire. “Okay, cool, because I also want to do that. Also.”

So he does.

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