#in poems or directly or when he thinks i’m asleep. DIE. DIE NOW
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nobody is allowed to acknowledge this post or its tags
#but thinking about zhongli professing his love for me in a cheesy lengthy dramatic way... crazy >__<#in poems or directly or when he thinks i’m asleep. DIE. DIE NOW#i saw a reel about something similar and i just couldnt stop thinking about it ueue#i found it again online so let me paste it here:#when the hills are flat / the riverbanks dried up / when it thunders in winter and snows in summer / when heaven and earth coalesce#not till then will i allow myself to part from you.#SICKENING. DIE MANY TIMES#i just like the thought of him whispering such silly sweet things when we’re cuddling at n- GO KIL L YORUSELFLEAHHHHH#i should kiss him.#💭#mika ♡ zhongli
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March 21, 2021: Orlando (1992)
Tilda Swinton...confuses me.
Like, in a good way. Because Tilda may be the most versatile actor working today. I mean, look at the goddamn filmography, and you’ll see what I’ve mean. I’ve seen Tilda Swinton in a lot, surprisingly, and I don’t think anything I’ve seen was bad. For example, I am an ARDENT defender in the portrayal of the Ancient One in the MCU.
I understand the controversy here, but I actually think this is excellent casting. Especially considering...being comic book-accurate would NOT have been a good idea with this role, if we’re trying to AVOID controversy. But Tilda Swinton FUCKING KILLED IT in this role, and I will always be happy for this choice.
Let’s see, there’s Jadis in the Narnia films, as shown at the top, there’s Snowpiercer, as Mason (an amazing character, and an acting job that Swinton disappears into), Moonrise Kingdom as Social Services, The Grand Budapest Hotel as Madame D., and Gabriel in Constantine. Which is a good segue to the next talking point...
Gabriel is pointedly androgynous, and honestly, Tilda Swinton kind of is as well. You may have noticed that I haven’t used any pronouns in referencing to Tilda Swinton, entirely out of respect. Gonna be a little hard to keep up with, so I’ll be using she/her from here on out, only because those are the pronouns that Swinton’s most recently promoted for herself. She’s also referred to herself as queer of some variety, as well as being famously gender non-conforming.
Which is fitting, given that a lot of that public image began with today’s movie, one of her first big roles. I’ll be revisiting Swinton in the independent movie scene in a couple of months, but this may be a good introduction. Instead of spoiling anything off the bat, I’m gonna jump right in. And so, I present: Orlando. SPOILERS AHEAD!!!
Recap (1/2)
We begin with a young man named, well, Orlando (Tilda Swinton), a young man with a feminine appearance and a good upbringing. His name means power land and property, but all he really wants is company. He writes and rests by a tree in the day, but falls asleep by mistake. When he wakes up, he runs back to where he’s meant to be, with a tribute to Queen Elizabeth I (Quentin Crisp) playing in the background. And that’s a REAL song, by the way, actually sung in the 1600s for Elizabeth! Very neat.
A title screen flashes, reading “1600: Death”, and we see where Orlando is meant to be. He speaks poetry for the Queen and her court, but is interrupted by the aged queen, who asks whether or not his poem is appropriate for her presence, as the poem is about youth, and Queen Elizabeth is not that. Orlando’s father (John Bott), who is serving as host to Elizabeth, intervenes on his behalf. However, it doesn’t seem to matter to the Queen, as she invites Orlando back to England to serve as her “favourite”. He accepts, and soon lives alongside the Queen. She quickly promises Orlando much land and property, for him and his heirs, but on one condition: that he does not fade, wither, or grow old.
The same wish cannot be applied to Elizabeth herself, nor to his father, as both grow old and die soon afterwards. Fast forward 10 years, and it’s a cold winter in England. Visiting Orlando’s vast estate is a woman from Russia, named Sasha (Charlotte Valandrey), and Orlando quickly falls for her. This is to the dismay of Euphrosne (Anna Healy), his fiancée? I’m not sure, to be honest, but they’re definitely involved, and she’s definitely upset.
However, this is also a scandal for everybody else as well, not just because Orlando’s already engaged, but also because Sasha is Russian, during a particularly poor economic period for the country. Euphrosne angrily throws his ring back at him, and Orlando speaks directly to the audience, telling us that a man must follow his heart. The two go to his private cottage, and they start to make out, when Orlando suddenly comes down with intense melancholy.
Because this is such great happiness that he feels, but this happiness too will one day end. Which is, like, the most emo-shit I’ve ever heard, but I’m kinda here for it. And yet, that happiness does indeed end, when Sasha is forced to return to Russia, despite Orlando’s pleading for her to stay. He asks her to meet him at London Bridge, so that they may elope together.
Later, Orlando happens upon a performance of Othello, noting to us that it’s a terrific play. This is as the death of Othello is being played out, so that’s probably foreshadowing, right? Anyway, Orlando leads two horses through the thick fog, waiting for Sasha to arrive and come away with him. But as a storm sets in, there is no sign of Sasha. And Orlando stands there in the rain. Said rain, though, soon becomes ice, underneath his feet, floating away down the river, along with his hopes of a happy future with Sasha. The treachery of women, according to Orlando.
Over the next week, Orlando languishes in his bed, asleep for the entire time. Increasingly more servants are brought up to try and rouse him, only for him to remain asleep, no matter what they do. But then, he wakes up, noting that he can only conjure three words to describe women, none of them worth explaining.
Forty years later, and the title screen cries “Poetry”! And Orlando looks exactly the same. Guess he really took that whole “don’t grow old” thing from Elizabeth to heart, huh? He speaks to a poet, Nick Greene (Heathcote Williams), and gushes about his poetry, which is a pursuit that he loves greatly. But Nick is...well, Nick is kind of a dick, to be honest. Orlando wants only to share his love and his poetry with him, but Nick’s only in it for the money. Not a true artist, and he mocks Orlando’s poetry, which he reads only after Orlando offers him money. And then, he writes a poem mocking Orlando further, which angers Orlando...but doesn’t stop the money flowing to Nick.
Orlando moves onto his next pursuit, in 1700, in the next section: Politics. Now over 100 years old, Orlando becomes an ambassador to the Ottoman Empire, and travels to Constantinople. There, he receives a somewhat rough and awkward greeting, which Orlando is not helping with. They share some Turkish coffee, Orlando has trouble drinking that Turkish coffee, they drink a LOT of Turkish coffee, and they toast to multiple things, including the “beauty of women, and the joys of love.” Orlando pauses at this, and reveals that he is still suffering quite a bit of heartbreak. His Turkish friend, the Khan (Lothaire Bluteau), bonds with him about this.
After 10 years, Orlando has fully retreated into life as a Turkish man. This is interrupted by a British emissary, sent to bring him news of a new appointment and power from the Queen. However, something goes wrong when the Khan arrives and takes Orlando hostage. The city is under attack, and the Khan asks Orlando if he will help against their enemies. Orlando agrees, and gives them arms, and heads to help himself at the walls. There, he witnesses a man dying, and it shakes him greatly. And just like before, he sleeps it off for seven days. And then...she wakes up.
YUP. WHAT.
Yeah, um, Orlando is now a woman. Like she says: “Same person, just a different sex.” Which is a very interesting premise, not gonna lie. Looks like Orlando now has to live life as a woman, which is going to be...difficult in 1700s Turkey. Or England. Or anywhere. Or any time.
Still, Orlando approaches this new life with aplomb, and without really any needed caution. Parading in some awesome dresses, she greets fellow nobility as the lady Orlando. However, the emissary from earlier, Archduke Harry (John Wood), begins to recognize her as similar to the lord Orlando.
In speaking with a group of poets, however, Orlando learns EXACTLY what men think of women in this society, and it’s not even a little bit good. She leaves, enraged and embarrassed. Harry also speaks with her, assuming that she was a woman all along. However, Orlando’s in EVEN MORE shit, as she’s quickly served with papers that are an attempt to take away all of her property and titles, because Lord Orlando is legally dead, and Lady Orlando is a woman, which one of them says is basically the same thing. FUCKIN’ YIKES, BRUV.
Ah, but Harry tries to help by proposing to her ON THE FUCKIN’ SPOT. He believed that Orlando was perfect as both genders, and is happy to do it. However, Orlando understandably refuses, and after Harry tells her that she will die as a spinster, alone and dispossessed, she runs into a nearby hedge maze. And while in the hedge maze, time passes, and her outfit changes to match the period accordingly.
Forward 140 years now! The year is 1850, and a new chapter begins: Sex.
And as she runs from the maze, she runs into who else...but Shelmerdine (Billy Zane), a man who...Shelmerdine? SHELMERDINE? What fuckin’ witch cursed his entirely family line to have THAT name? That’s the kind of family that was named AFTER a bridge, not the other way around! WHAT KINDA NAME IS FUCKIN’ SHELMERDINE?
Well, I’ve looked it up now, and it is apparently a real name. So, if any Shelmerdines are reading this...I mean, I’m sorry, but also, FUCKIN’ SHELMERDINE? OK, back to Shelmerdine. He’s twisted his ankle falling off his horse, and Orlando is now taking care of him. She reveals, in the process, that she’s about to lose everything. The reasons for that aren’t quite said, but Shelmerdine offers a place at his side, back to the great free land of America.
After having a conversation about the roles of men and women in the world (which is interesting given the context of the film in general), the two fulfill the chapter’s imperative. And we never see the act, but we do get some interesting angles and hand-holding. But the next morning, this post-coital reverie is interrupted by the lawyers from the Queen. The lawsuits have been settled, and Orlando has been legally declared a woman, meaning that unless she has a son, all of her possessions will be lost.
Shelmerdine (I swear, every time I say that name, a fairy gets chlamydia) leaves as well, with the southwest wind. As he heads back to America to fight for freedom, Orlando stands in the rain, facing an uncertain future, and broken fully by the politics of the time period.
And then...the sound of planes overhead. Looks like a new time period once again, heading into the periods of World Wars, and Orlando is now...heavily pregnant. OH. FUCK. Welcome to the next chapter: Birth.
We jump past the period of World War II, and to the 1990s! Orlando is presenting a book to a publisher, and he believes that the book will sell. With her young daughter in tow, she finally goes back to her old mansion, now finally able to go back after losing it 100 years prior. The narration from the beginning repeats, recontextualized for Orlando’s new life. She is over 400 years old, and finally, FINALLY...she is happy.
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And that’s Orlando! I think I loved it. Real talk, this was a fascinating movie, and I’m into it. I’m very much into it. I’m sure there’s more to be gleaned from this film, but I’m glad I watched it regardless. More in the Review, though! See you there!
#orlando#orlando 1992#sally potter#tilda swinton#billy zane#lothaire bluteau#john wood#virginia woolf#orlando film#fantasy march#user365#365 movie challenge#365days365movies#365 movies 365 days#365 Days 365 Movies#365 movies a year#mygifs#my gifs
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things people who haven’t read/studied the homeric poems should know
the iliad isn’t about ten years of war. it’s about fifty-one days from the last year of war. more than nine years have passed since the beginning. neither the recruit of achilles or odysseus nor aulis nor the sacrifice of iphigenia nor the trojan horse and not even achilles’ death feature in it. it actually ends with hector’s burial.
similarly, the odyssey starts during the tenth year of odysseus’ travels, when he leaves the island of the nymph calypso who had kept him there for eight years. while the story of his travels is actually there, it’s a massive flashback that odysseus himself narrates.
odysseus actually only travels circa one year, if you subtract the seven years spent on ogigia, the one year with circe, the various months and bits they camped in other places.
part of the odyssey is actually about odysseus’ son, telemachos, and his quest to find his father. also another part is about odysseus returning to ithaca and killing a bunch of princes who were trying to usurp his throne.
the aeneid is not a homeric poem. it’s styled on the homeric model, but it was written in latin by a roman poet, and the protagonist is technically one of the antagonists from the iliad.
homer never existed.
he isn’t a historical figure, he is a name with a legend attached, to whom these poems are attributed. the poems were written—no, not even written, composed orally by a series of unnamed aoidoi (hm... ministrels?) through the ages.
in fact this is quite obvious when you read the iliad. there are a lot of inconsistencies, like frequent style changes, chapters that have nothing to do with anything else and no influence on the story whatsoever, strange time lapses—at some point it’s midday twice the same day
it is thought that all of these separate fragments were then collected and organized by one person, and this version was then handed down, orally, until the first written edition around 520 b.c.
the mycenean civilization that these poems originate from ended in 1200 b.c. circa
the odyssey was initially part of a whole group of nestoi, aka “return poems”, that were basically the tales of the return of each hero from troy. the odyssey is the only one that remains, though we do know something about the others too from other pieces of greek literature
a warning for the interested. these poems are a pain to read. they are delightful but they are a pain. they were composed orally so they are full of epithets, descriptions, metaphors and similitudes. these acted as fillers to help the aedo of turn reach the length of the verse, make the various characters more recognizable, and also make the poems more comprehensible to the general public, composed mostly of common people who had never actually been in a battle—so battles and duels are often compared to more familiar scenes, like fights between animals.
no i’m not joking
there is one in particular where the screeching army of trojans coming down the hill is compared to cranes migrating over the oceans.
also, the duel between hector and patroclus is one of the “compared to animal fights” scene
when odysseus is about to drown, he talks to his own heart. possibly because it sounds slightly less crazy and more Romantic than just directly talking to oneself.
helen insults paris real often. hector berates him both internally and publicly. in fact everyone insults paris. paris is the local coward and scapegoat. deservedly. i rejoice
everybody loves patroclus. all the kings hate each other but everyone loves him—so much so that they risk their lives over his corpse
which, mind me, wasn’t something that special in and of itself. it was important to retrieve comrades’ corpses because if the enemy got ahold of your body he’d leave it to rot and be devoured by dogs and crows, which was a huge dishonour (and also possibly barred you from entrance to the afterlife)
so much so that the ancient greek version of “go to hell” is eis korakas, “to the crows” (“may you die, lie unburied, and your body be eaten by crows”)
at some point they hold a truce (possibly several times) so they’ll have the time to collect, burn and bury all the fallen soldiers.
back to patroclus because i got sidetracked: still. this time it is kind of a big deal because the literal centre of the fighting after patroclus dies is all the major greek heroes playing tug-o-war against hector and his brothers with patroclus’ corpse. the centre of the fighting, people, this is no joke
at some point someone is sent to tell achilles that his lover’s body is in danger so he better get out of your sulk, hurry up and come help the rest of us
achilles going armour-less to the battlefield and screaming for patroclus is enough to send the trojans running.
i am sure that all of you know this but the reason achilles doesn’t have armour is that when hector kills patroclus he takes achilles’ armour, that patroclus was wearing, as spoils of war
so an entire book after that is devoted to hephaestus forging achilles new, better armour so he can actually fight again
look, it is not actually stated that they were lovers, but it’s obvious. in greek culture especially. that was the norm and italian school teachers can get over it and stop omitting it from lessons and school books any time now
odysseus isn’t actually an asshole. sure, a lot of his misadventures were caused by him being too curious and disregarding his comrades’ advice *cough*cyclops*cough* but most of the most destructive events were caused by them disregarding his orders.
“do not kill and eat the sacred cows of apollo! he’d kill us.” guess what they did. guess how it ended
or when they stopped by eolos’ island. eolos, god of the winds, gave odysseus a flask with all the adverse winds imprisoned inside, leaving free only the one that he needed to take him to ithaca. they got so, so very near, and then odysseus fell asleep and the others opened the thing because they thought there was more treasure inside it, and all the winds came out and blew them halfway across the mediterranean
athena often glamours odysseus to look younger and prettier or older and then again younger. it’s amazing because he always looks either like an old beggar (for camouflage) or like a young and handsome man.
do some maths. at the beginning of the war he must’ve been at least twenty. + ten years of war. + ten years of travel. at the end of the odyssey he is at least forty. by ancient standards that was not young.
odysseus’ whole voyage is basically a pissing contest between poseidon and athena. actually between poseidon and the rest of the gods. poseidon hates him and all the other gods take turns helping him.
odysseus is not an asshole, but the greeks probably considered him a shitty character, because he was clever, shrewd, and the only survivor of his community. the greeks really insisted on the concept of community, the individual doesn’t have worth in and of themself but as a part of society. this is particularly evident when he gets to the cyclops, who are the very antithesis of the greek man, described as uncivilized and living in isolation without assemblies or laws. a lot of emphasis is put on the fact that they live outside of a community.
alternatively, the difference between the iliad and the odyssey (and their respective heroes) signifies the change in greek culture, from the warrior myceneans to commerce and voyage: odysseus represents the victory of intelligence over force, and his qualities are the characteristics, for example, of a merchant
i should perhaps point out that the odyssey was composed much later than the iliad, which is also the reason it has a more complex structure (begins with the gods + telemachos’ quest, we first see odysseus on ogigia, then he recounts his whole voyage in a long flashback triggered by a bard at a feast singing about the trojan war)
oh look i got sidetracked again
back to the trivia!
do not be fooled by madeline miller. patroclus was indeed a warrior, and a very good one at that. and briseis was indeed achilles’ lover, and loved him (that is explicitly stated).
odysseus might have loved penelope but that does not mean he did not sleep around with every woman he met
circe. calypso (by whom he is imprisoned for seven years). and nausicaa princess of the phaeacians falls in love with him. this is engineered by athena
i don’t think he actually sleeps with her but athena does make him look younger and prettier so she’ll be smitten and welcome him at the palace and give him a bunch of gifts and eventually a ship to take him back to ithaca
in the poem named after him, his own poem, odysseus is always the stranger, the guest, or the beggar.
or all three.
or all three, but it’s a lie and he’s actually at home, the king returned.
despite the iliad being about one and a half months and the odyssey being more than a year + more time taken up by other characters, the iliad is about one and a half times the odyssey.
more to come (maybe)
#if i can think of anything else#eden rambles#iliad#odyssey#homer#this is half actual stuff i learned in class half things i find funny
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Good grief, Charlie Brown.
I’ve never owned an electric toothbrush. I’ve never had a dishwasher. I am the dishwasher. I like washing dishes. I never bought an iron. I don’t have a hairdryer. I find it strange that I get advertised these reusable alternatives for things that I never use anyway. Alternatives to cling film. I put another plate over the dish. Alternatives to cotton buds. I use my finger. (Ew, you may say, but surely a finger’s that size to fit in ears and nostrils? Or whatever orifice you please. Wash your hawnds.) Alternatives to cotton wool circles. What? I dont know why these thoughts have come into my head, when I want to write about my youngest child. Really, I’m meant to be working, but an annoying email from my dead daughter’s school sent me down a suicide rabbithole. Perhaps those other thoughts come about as my classic brain avoidance schemes. Like when you hoover instead of doing an essay. Positive procrastination, I used to call it. I wanted to visit some friends last night- a fun thing! but I was feeling all solitary and awkward. I cleaned the bathroom ceiling at first, instead! I had to really talk myself into going to see them. I was looking at my bed and it was saying, “Get into me! and read your book!”
Then I went, and I had a lovely time, of course. I still finished the book I was reading, when I got home at midnight, until three am, making myself ever so tired. I’ve stopped taking the tablets- beta blockers and mirtazapine (more by accident rather than design. They’re still up in the chemist waiting for me. I’m rather disorganised) and so sleep doesn’t come as readily. I have to take deep breaths for ages sometimes, to get over. And I awake in the night hearing things that aren’t there. I heard The Woodcarver calling me, one night, plain and loud as day. Another time, I heard my son knocking my door three times, sharply (or was it a burglar? I said that to someone and they laughed. Burglars don’t knock! Oh, hello there, wake up, I’m robbing you blind!) Bounced out of bed. Heart hammering. Called him. He was fast asleep. Was it her ghost? I don’t believe in ghosts, really. Kind of wish I did. She’d be a mischievous one, no doubt. Is it always 5:57am, when I awake? The same time. Time to find your dead child.
I’m often in the house alone, now. They didn’t want to leave me alone, and there were so many people in the house, for ages. Then all of a sudden, it stopped. And I changed lovers... I changed to the one I’d been in love with for over a year, the one who seemed too young, the one who wasn’t interested. Suddenly he was interested. Well. It wasn’t sudden. It took a few weeks. Seven weeks? The seven week itch? It coincided with when the Scottish lover asked me to stop letting other people come to the house. He wanted me to himself. Which is kind of fair enough, though I knew it wouldn’t last anyway. (People coming to my house, I mean, not the relationship. I really enjoyed having a relationship with him. He is very sweet, funny, intelligent, and kind. The sex was great. He can cook wonderful food and play guitar well. I liked to sing with him. I am ashamed to say I was bothered by his being smaller than me, though. His face tended to itch me, too- he never quite grew a beard long enough to stop that. As he kept shaving it off, not because he couldn’t. That was the first time he kind of annoyed me, though.)
Lockdown doesn’t help, of course. We were all breaking rules in our grief. Covid is cancelled, my mother said. Masks off. Hugs all round. A friend told me you need extra oxytocin when you’re grieving. I was getting plenty of it. Good grief...
Now I am frequently alone, and as my new lover is very busy studying (or perhaps less interested in me again now that he has my attention back? Though his reticence in getting with me stemmed from his concerns about the uneven nature of our interest in each other...) I haven’t seen him all week. I feel myself becoming depressed, and withdrawn, and paranoid, yet I still don't feel particularly sad about my daughter’s death. Which is strange. Isn’t it? Here is the email I received from her school this morning (it had her name and class at the top of the email):
“Good morning
I hope this email finds you all well.
A number of years ago I signed the college up to the campaign against period poverty. I receive and distribute sanitary products to girls, primarily on free school meals, but any who are in need of the products and either can’t afford them or it is difficult to get them. The products are normally distributed by myself, during P.E and games, unfortunately this can’t happen at present.
These products are still available during the school closure. If you wish to avail of them, please contact our school info account (which is only read by one member of office staff) your request will be directed to me and I will contact you directly regarding collection.
These are difficult times for many at present and to quote my favourite supermarket, ‘every little helps’.
Kind regards...”
I was really with her until she quoted Tesco. And said they were her favourite!! Ugh! I mean, it really is a great idea. Though they really should check if the people they are writing about are still capable of bleeding. My heart bleeds....
I replied thus:
“Hello there.
Great idea, but as (my youngest daughter) has died, she won't be needing them any more. I hate Tesco- they ruin many little businesses.
Maybe take me off this mailing list?”
Then I attached one of her seven suicide notes: the one for school. Which I had previously not shown them. I only found it on Christmas Eve. Can I attach it, here? It has no names...
There we are. Is it wrong of me to find her notes amusing? She is so angry, people say. I wonder how much of it is literal, and how much of it is using the school as a big nameless scapegoat. She was funny in the rest of them, too, and very loving. I found them comforting, like a fucked up Christmas present.
Then I started reading articles about suicide, and they were about how we shouldn’t call the people who do it selfish, about how depressed they are, how they need pity, not anger. I’m tired of the pity (though I’m not the suicidal one). I’m not producing enough sadness from myself when people pity me, either. Where is my sadness? Am I too acceptant of it all? We are all going to die. Is suicide like a C-section? Is it cheating death, like I thought my Caesareans cheated birth? Is suicide self euthanasia? Why do I not miss my daughter more? Is it because she had already left? Was she released, happy, free as a bird, swooping away on an Awfully Big Adventure? Trapezing her way into the æther? I googled to see if I could find any positive reactions to suicide. Is this my nature, to try and find the good in everything? To try and make light of the horrific? Is everything a joke to me?
I found this blog post, from Andreas Moser.
I love it. Am I trying to take the blame away from myself? The NHS? The school? Should I be reeling and railing against the systems that let my daughter get into that state? Why am I instead trying to find ways to applaud her behaviour, accept it, even enjoy it?! When I read his words, “I admire their courage (because logical as it may be, it’s not easy) and the determination to make the ultimate decision in life oneself.” I felt a strange sensation of relief, that someone else could think those things. I had been thinking them, but trying not to, because it seemed like such an awful thing to think. But then I think, why does anyone else have to be to blame? It was her decision.
The book I was rereading is called Life After Life, by Kate Atkinson. It’s my favourite book, I have decided, for now. Do favourites stay favourites? I was looking at my old Couchsurfing Profile today (because of Andreas’ blog- he, as a hippy hermit, is, of course, on Couchsurfing). One needs to update these every so often. Explain that you have watched another film in the last twenty years, that there is one less sofa in your living room, one less child on your earth. Even though no-one is allowed to move around, really. No visiting. No exploring. Perhaps she killed herself to escape the boredom.
In Life After Life, the main character, Ursula, lives again and again. (I forgot that to live again and again, she had to die again and again. It's a very sad and graphic book, spanning two wars- read it. It is, ultimately, uplifting.) I wanted to read it again to make my daughter live again, and again. We need to write her alive. Show her drawings and paintings. Listen to her songs (they're hilarious). Read her poems. Admire her photographs. Tell the stories of her antics.
I know that really she was actually depressed and withdrawn. I know it isn’t a glorious escape. That her wee head was broken, and that sometimes it’s just easier to say, it was unfixable, she was determined, this is what she wanted, than to contemplate it as my (or anyone else’s) failure to help her. I know that she used to be confident and gregarious. She would have danced in front of people, inspiring others. She was always upside-down, tumbling, twirling, cartwheeling. She had a dry, cheeky wit, and rather an amusing obsession with poo and wee. She was kind, and wise. She liked to bake vegan treats. She could draw, and paint, and sing so beautifully. She played the ukelele, but by then she was hiding away. She had started to write poems- songs? She wouldn’t show us them. We had to beg her to perform on the trapeze for her Granny’s eightieth, in July. She did so, beautifully, but you could tell she hated the attention. Four months later, she hanged herself on it.
Had we all withdrawn into ourselves, this 2020? Was there really nothing else to do? Yet I remember the start of Lockdown seeming idyllic. All that free time, all that sunshine. Was I just trying to convince myself, as usual? The only people we saw were the Woodcarver and the neighbours. She taught the wee boy next door to ride his unicycle. When she died, he brought in a picture he had drawn, of them on their unicycles, she as an angel above herself, a rainbow arcing over the three figures. His sadness affected me. I felt like I could only be sad through other people. Where is my sadness? Where is my grief? Good grief, bad grief, no grief? Alternatives to grief.
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love lyrics {yoongi x reader}
Words: 11.8k
Summary: Min Yoongi is a Modern Arts student. You are kind of a Modern Arts student. Min Yoongi lives and breathes his music, would die for a good grade. You are hopping from course to course, still trying to figure out what you want. Two seemingly opposite people somehow form a connection in the mess of trying to complete a relatively difficult homework assignment that focuses on the topic of love - something Yoongi is completely oblivious to.
Genre: angst - fluff - high school au
Notes: masterlist - support my writing or ask me about commissions!
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Min Yoongi is fairly certain this is the stupidest thing he's ever been told to do.
Ever.
He's a Modern Arts student – he's learning to produce music, for crying out loud. So, why is he being forced to sit down and write some stupid love poem for a person he doesn't even know?
The assignment came from his music teacher, Miss Seymour. Miss Seymour, a pleasant elderly lady who prides herself on the fact that she's married to the music, is someone Yoongi usually respects a great deal. In truth, she's taught him almost everything he knows, has paved the way for the future he wants to pursue once he leaves the hell hole that is Daegu High School.
However, this morning she'd walked into class, chipper as anything with her usual flask of coffee in her hands, and she'd told each and every student in that room to sit down and write about love.
Yoongi could have honestly slammed his head into the desk.
Yoongi isn't a hopeless romantic by any stretch of the imagination. He's read romance books (mostly because of Namjoon) and he's watched romance movies (mostly because of Jimin) but never before has he taken that side of media and applied it to his own hobby – writing music. Never before has he even wanted to, because the minute you start mixing complicated feelings into a piece of music, it can start deteriorating very, very fast. The song can quickly become something you don't even want to look at, let alone properly record and release to the world.
Nonetheless, Yoongi needs this grade. He needs to keep Miss Seymour's respect, and so he ducks his head down and starts scribbling on the piece of paper he's pulled from his backpack.
Nothing happens.
He's moving his pen. He's pretty sure there should be words on his page, but instead, all that appears is a tiny doodle of a hedgehog in the top left corner. Beside it, a smiley face. Soon, an entire little family of bizarre doodles have taken up the space of his lined page, and there is not a single word or flowery lyric intermingling amongst them.
Miss Seymour makes her usual rounds of the classroom. Yoongi tries to shield his page from view, folding his arms over the top of it, ducking his head into the tiny box he's made. However, Miss Seymour is actually a decent teacher, and she really does worry about the work of all of her students – Yoongi isn't getting away with this one.
She taps his shoulder. He doesn't move. Maybe if he pretends he's asleep, she'll realise just how exhausting it is to be a student, will take pity on him and leave.
“Yoongi.”
He squeezes his eyes closed. “Hm?”
“Can I see what you've got done so far?”
Yoongi knows he has no choice. Haltingly, he slides away from the desk and shows off his doodles. Part of him is quite proud of the little hedgehog – maybe Miss Seymour likes hedgehogs.
She tilts her head, grey eyes narrowed behind her wire-framed glasses. Yoongi sees her purse her lips, and he knows then and there that he's done for – he's nearly wasted an entire lesson, nearly an entire fifty minutes scribbling stupid doodles rather than doing this stupid assignment, and now he's going to fail, and-
“Not quite what I asked for, Mr Min,” she says.
Yoongi nods slowly. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“Are you struggling?”
“I just. . . don't know what to write.” He looks up. “You know I'm more of a hip hop writer.” And she does know, because she's praised Yoongi so many times on the different pieces he's shown to her. She knows this isn't the kind of thing that comes easy to him.
She hums, settling herself down on the only other seat at the desk – it's been empty since the start of the year, considering most people would rather sit with their friends and chat then get any actual work done. Yoongi made the sacrificial decision to sit by himself this year, leaving Hoseok and Namjoon to their gossip at the back of the classroom.
“I've taught a lot of boys just like you, Yoongi,” Miss Seymour says. “They have a specific idea in mind of what they want to do, and they think that's it. They think music falls into one of multiple categories, and they choose which one they like best and that's them sorted for the rest of their life – well, I don't want you to fall under the same assumptions, because it really isn't true.”
Yoongi frowns.
“As musicians, we have to learn to love all genres of music. We might not enjoy writing them, and some will be stronger than others, but the respect at least has to be there. You have to fall in love with the art, not the genre.”
Yoongi continues to frown. Maybe he's too young to understand what she's saying. Maybe she really is bat shit crazy.
“Today we're writing about love,” she points out, tapping his page as if that will prove anything. “So, I want you to think of someone you deeply, deeply love and I want you to write about them. I know how good you are with words, Yoongi – I think you can make something beautiful out of this.”
Yoongi looks down. He might be hiding a smile; he isn't really sure yet. Part of him is amused by Miss Seymour's outlook on life, but the other half of him can kind of see where she's coming from – yes, it's important that he forms some kind of respect for all genre's of music if he wants to work with a broad range of artists in the future, but god, does he really have to suffer through the additional task of thinking about his own emotions?
Miss Seymour leaves. Yoongi never responds to her, but she doesn't really need him to. She's made her point, and now she's gone, and Yoongi is left with his pen and his sheet of paper.
He really just has to think of someone he loves.
He loves his mother, yes. His father, yes. His brother, yes, and sometimes he'll even feel a flicker of fondness for his small group of friends, as rowdy as they are. He loves music – but he can't write about that, can he? That's even worse than writing about how much he loves his family. It's just. . . not what people want to hear, and it certainly isn't what he wants to write about.
There's so much emotion in the word love. There's so much it can be, so many forms it can take, so Yoongi doesn't fully understand why he's struggling to come up with something to write about. None of it has to be truthful – he can bullshit his way through an English essay, so why can't he do the same in music?
He sighs and slumps back in his chair. His hood is already pulled on over his head, but he exaggerates his need for privacy by popping an AirPod in his ear, covering it with the hood of his jacket. He leans his head back, inhales deeply and-
The door to the classroom swings open. All attention is sucked directly towards the source.
“Sorry! Sorry, ah!” You awkwardly laugh. “I hope I'm in the right room. Miss Seymour's class, right?”
Miss Seymour pauses, chalk still in her hand as she scribbles some random motivational quote on the blackboard. It's been a long time since Yoongi's seen a startled Miss Seymour; the sight is oddly refreshing.
“Uh...,” the elderly woman drawls. “Yes. I'm Miss Seymour.”
“Sorry for being late.” You're talking so fast. Yoongi wants you to slow down. “I only signed up for Modern Arts a few days ago, and today's my first actual class. I'm still trying to find where everything is.”
Miss Seymour nods, dazed. “You've got the right place. T-take a seat wherever you want, love.”
And Yoongi knows. He just knows, because it happens in every single movie, and every single book, and you look over at him as soon as the words have left Miss Seymour's mouth. He can hope, but it's useless. You immediately make a B-Line for the one free chair in the entire classroom – which just so happens to be right beside Min Yoongi.
“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, even though he isn't entirely sure why he's so put-out by this. He doesn't even know you, but he knows you're loud and you talk too fast and the way you stumble over to his desk makes him think that maybe you're a little bit clumsy, too.
Bits and pieces of your personality are showing to the surface, and Yoongi hasn't even said two words to you. Clearly you don't like to keep yourself subtle.
Yoongi shuffles to the side when you slam your bag on the table and start rummaging around for your books. You're smiling the entire time – Yoongi doesn't know why, isn't entirely sure if he wants to know why.
“Sorry,” you mutter. “I take up a lot of room sometimes.”
“You're fine,” Yoongi grumbles. He tucks his AirPod back in his ear and turns back to his work; he needs to get this done. You can't be a distraction.
You sit down beside him, chair screeching with the force of which you plonk down. Yoongi tries to curl up against the wall. You don't get the hint.
“Well, hello,” you say. “I'm Y/N.”
“Hello.”
You pause. Yoongi should probably say something, maybe tell you his name.
He bites the top of his pen.
“What's your name?”
You sound like a six year old in a park.
“Yoongi,” he replies.
“Min Yoongi.”
He glances at you. “How do you know?”
You smile sheepishly, glancing down at your hands. To the untrained eye, you might look a little embarrassed, but Yoongi is struggling to believe someone with a personality like yours is capable of felling embarrassed. “I heard a bit about you when I was signing up for my extra classes. Apparently you're really good at Modern Arts.”
“Yep.”
“Well, it's an honour to sit beside you, Min Yoongi.”
“Just Yoongi.”
“What?”
“You don't have to say my last name. It's just Yoongi.”
You grin. “Well, okay, Just Yoongi.”
“We're not doing that, either.”
Your grin fades. Yoongi almost feels bad.
He shuffles a little closer to the wall and goes back to chewing on his pen. There's only ten minutes of class left. He honestly doesn't see a point in trying to force his creativity at this point.
“I don't know what you're doing,” you say. “Miss Seymour didn't explain the work.”
“Did she not?”
You shake your head. “Nope. Are you working on anything interesting?” You lean forward. “Can I hear some of your work?”
“No.”
You flinch back. “Oh. Okay.” It's silent for a moment. “Can you explain what the work is?”
Yoongi glances at you. The word “No,” is playing on his tongue again, but even he can admit that's a little bit too mean. He sighs and sits forward, nudging the instructions page towards you. He taps it lightly and says, “That explains everything.”
You read over it, furrowing your brows. “You're writing about love.”
“Apparently so.”
“But that's so broad.” You push the sheet away. “There's so much you can do with that. Like, forbidden love, platonic love, familial love, material love. What about love when it comes to hobbies, or passions? How can she just tell us to write about love?”
Yoongi shrugs. “Dunno.”
“What have you got so far?” Before Yoongi can protest, you snatch the page hidden beneath his folded arms.
He winces; fuck. You've literally just told him that people claim he's some genius when it comes to Modern Arts. He's meant to impress you, but there's absolutely nothing impressive about what you're looking at.
“Aw! That's a nice little hedgehog.”
Yoongi blinks. He thinks of saying “Thank you,” but that seems kind of stupid. He snatches the page out of your hand and mumbles something along the lines of, “Please don't do that again.”
You giggle. “So I'm guessing you're just as stumped as I am. Tell me, Yoongi – is it because there's so much to write about, or because there's so little to write about?”
Yoongi raises a brow. He spares you a glance, just over his shoulder, just something small, but it's enough for him to see the tiny smile twitching on your lips. You lean back in your chair, sighing dreamily, and the two of you wait till the bell rings, because that's all you can do – a hopeless romantic and someone who doesn't even want to ponder over the idea of love.
----
“So the new girl was pretty weird today, don't you think?”
As soon as Yoongi hears the words coming from Namjoon, he wants to turn and walk away.
He doesn't, though, because god forbid he get caught eating alone in a high school cafeteria. It would take months to recover from the torment.
So, he sets his tray down next to Hoseok and tries to change the subject immediately. “Does anyone have good sociology notes I can steal?”
Namjoon perks up. “Ay, there you are! Just the man we were waiting on.”
Hoseok leans in, nudging Yoongi's arm. “So, how was the new girl today?”
“Uh. . . On her best behaviour.” He isn't sure how else to respond.
Hoseok frowns. “No, dude. I mean, like, was she cool? Was she annoying? She seemed really overbearing when she walked in this morning.”
Yoongi shrugs, messing with the top of the salt pot. “We didn't really talk that much.” It wasn't necessarily a lie, but the way he says it makes it seem like one. Maybe you two did talk quite a lot – maybe Yoongi's shyness has reached a point where he doesn't even know what counts as talking a lot.
“Did you get her name?” Jimin asks.
“Y/N.”
Taehyung slaps the table and holds his palm out to Jungkook. “See, I told you that was it! You owe me a fiver!”
Jungkook slaps his hand away. “Fuck off. I can't afford that.” He turns back to Yoongi. “You didn't talk to her at all?”
“This is Yoongi,” says Seokjin through a mouthful of steak bites. “It wouldn't even surprise me that much if they didn't talk.”
Yoongi shrugs. He doesn't know how to respond to that, either.
Namjoon sighs. “Shame. I kind of want to know a bit more about her.”
“Why?” asks Taehyung.
“Why not? She stumbles into our Modern Arts class, yelling about how sorry she is for being late. I've never even seen her walking round the Modern Arts block before – so what made her decide to transfer so suddenly?”
These are all very good questions. So good, in fact, that Yoongi even finds himself listening to the discussion.
“I guess so,” says Jimin. “Do you know what classes she took before?”
“Maths,” Jungkook says. He pauses when he realises that the whole table is staring at him in confusion. He shrugs. “What? I worked on the student council for three weeks – the files I had access to in there, man. Crazy.” He points his chopsticks at Seokjin. “You, sir, are in Mr Brown's bad books, by the way.”
Seokjin curses.
Namjoon waves a dismissive hand, dragging back the conversation. “Isn't that so weird, though? She's moved from maths to Modern Arts – who does that? What maths student do you know that all of a sudden decides their passion is in the Arts?”
Yoongi can understand Namjoon's confusion, but he's also known the younger man long enough to know that he has a habit of looking a little bit too deeply into things that don't really matter. Maybe Yoongi is just a bit of a debby-downer, or maybe he really does just have a bad habit of taking life as it comes, but he doesn't see a reason in stressing himself out over something as simple as another persons academic interests.
But in the same breath, it is confusing.
“I'm happy for her,” says Taehyung, popping a strawberry in his mouth. His lips are already bright red. Yoongi is used to this by now. “You know, I used to think I'd join my dad on the strawberry farm when I was younger. That used to be, like, my goal. And now look at me.” He spreads his arms out, encompassing the whole table. “I'm sat with you assholes, taking a photography course.”
“What a glow-up,” Jimin deadpans, to which Taehyung merely grins.
Yoongi looks down at his own meal. The only reason he avoids these conversations is because they often get him thinking, and that's dangerous territory. He thinks enough when he's in class. He thinks enough when his parents are yelling at him for not doing a business degree. He thinks enough without the added stress of thinking about someone he doesn't even know.
But Namjoon really takes no prisoners. He leaves Yoongi pondering over the strange individual who had sat beside him that morning, the conversation he'd had with you, the way you'd seemed genuinely flustered over the array of possibilities that the word 'Love' brought to the table.
Yoongi wouldn't be surprised if you didn't show up to class next week. You honestly didn't seem too passionate.
---
Okay, so maybe Yoongi was a little quick to judge.
He should have given you more credit, because here you are, and here he is, and the both of you are fifteen minutes early to the first class on a Monday morning.
Yoongi pauses in the doorway, his folder pressed to his chest in the same way all them pretentious, quirky girls always hold them in the movies. He feels a little bit ridiculous, but there was no room in his backpack, so he made do with what he had.
Your head is down. You don't see him yet. He gets the urge to run, just come back in fifteen minutes like a normal kid, but then he's frozen and he's staring at you, silently wondering why on earth you're still here when he's already put two and two together and deduced the fact that you were, by no means, meant to be a Modern Arts student.
Before he can swivel round and flee, your head pops up from beneath the desk. How your eyes immediately train on Yoongi is a mystery, but what he knows for sure is that there is absolutely no chance of him making a swift get-away now.
“Oh! Yoongi!” You grab your bag from his chair, slipping it beneath the desk. Clearly you've already assumed Yoongi is going to sit beside you again.
He hates that you're right.
“Good morning,” you say when he slumps down next to you. “I didn't take you as the early type.”
“I'm not. Not really.”
“Well, I'm sure Mrs Seymour really appreciates your effort.”
Yoongi's eyebrow twitches. “It's Miss.”
You glance over at him. “What?”
“It's Miss Seymour,” he repeats, even though he isn't sure why he's doing this at all. “She's not married.”
You pause. For a second, Yoongi is positive he's somehow offended you – it wouldn't be the first time. He really does try and make decent conversation, but who even knows how to start a conversation these days? Who has the time to figure all of that out?
He starts pulling his hood over his head. Your hand snaps out and tugs it back down.
“Oh,” you say. “Thanks for telling me. That would have been embarrassing if I'd gotten her name wrong.”
“Yeah.”
“So, do you know what we're doing today?” You shuffle down in your seat, getting comfortable, as if Yoongi going through the lesson plan is equivalent to a camp-fire story.
“Probably just carrying on with what we were doing last lesson,” he replies. “Writing about love or whatever.”
“Oh, yes. I remember that.” You shake your head. “You know, I had all weekend to think about that stupid prompt, and I'm still none the wiser.”
“That sucks.”
“Did you come up with anything?”
“Nothing good. Nothing I can work with.”
You nod as if you understand. “That's just it, isn't it? Love has so many different pieces to it, so many different elements, but it really just comes down to our skill. Like, if we can't write about it, then we might as well not even waste our energy thinking about it.”
Yoongi nods. You aren't wrong. He wonders whether or not he should say that to you. Is that a decent response?
“You're not wrong.”
You grin. Yoongi gives himself one point.
“Have you always been a Modern Arts student?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
Yoongi pauses. “Yeah. Most of the time.” He gestures round the classroom. “This whole love thing isn't really my cup of tea, though.” Cup of tea? What does that even mean?
“I gathered that.” Your voice comes out as more of a giggle. Yoongi hates that he notices this, hates the warm feeling that immediately sprouts in the pit of his stomach – it's not very often someone giggles in his vicinity, especially when no one else is around. He's usually either got his AirPods in and his hood up, or he's saying some self-deprecating joke that just makes the other person uncomfortable.
He glances over at you. You don't look uncomfortable at all. In fact, you're slouched, as if being in Yoongi's presence is the most natural thing in the world.
He decides to slouch, too.
“I used to be a maths student,” you say. “It was difficult.”
“I can imagine.” He pauses. He has a right to ask a question, doesn't he? Asking questions is a human right, isn't it? “Why did you transfer?”
“It was just. . . . difficult,” you repeat, shrugging at your lack of a better term. “I mean, clearly I enjoyed it at some point, or else I wouldn't have chosen it in the first place, but it's a lot of work and it just wasn't. . . . I don't know, like, fulfilling enough. You know what I mean?”
Yoongi doesn't. He nods anyway.
“So I decided to give Modern Arts a try.”
“Is that not bad for your grades?” Yoongi spits out before his confidence wavers and he crawls back into his tiny hole of isolation. “Like, hopping from course to course? What happens if it turns out you don't even like Modern Arts?”
You shrug. Your pout says you don't entirely care. “Then I'll find something else.”
“Must be exhausting.”
“Not really. What is exhausting is dragging yourself out of bed every morning to go to a class you don't even like. I'd much rather be a little bit behind and happy than ahead and hating every minute of it.”
Again, Yoongi doesn't really understand. Maybe it's because he's been settled in his major his entire life – from the moment his fingers touched the keys of that piano, he's never wanted to leave it. He took Modern Arts for the same reason most other students take Modern Arts – because they want to study Modern Arts.
You, however, don't seem to care too much about structure, or the future at all, for that matter. You hop from course to course like it's no big deal, like the end of year exams aren't the things that are going to determine your overall worth as a human being.
At least, that's what Yoongi thinks. His grades mean an awful lot to him, but he's heard differing opinions.
“I'll figure myself out,” you say. Yoongi didn't realise he hadn't replied. “We all get there in the end.”
Yoongi hums. It's the only response he can think of, but you seem perfectly content with it.
The two of you sit like that until the first bell rings and the class gradually begins to fill up. Miss Seymour walks in wearing a slightly oversized body-suit with parrots on it, along with a pair of dangly earrings that look about three seconds away from snapping her earlobes off completely.
Yoongi gives her a small smile. He isn't sure why. He must be feeling nice this morning.
Hoseok and Namjoon walk past his table. Hoseok claps him on the back, offers a greeting before his brown eyes flick to you; you're busy scavenging in your bag again, and Yoongi watches as you pull a piece of gum out, frown and then quickly toss it back into your bag.
“Hello!” Hoseok almost-yells.
Your head snaps up and round, a grin immediately taking shape. Yoongi thinks it's been practised, because there's no way in hell someone can smile so well in such a short amount of time. Without warning, too.
“Hi!” you almost-yell right back.
You two give each other a high five, and Hoseok walks away.
Yoongi frowns, turning to you. “Do you and Hoseok know each other?”
“Hm?” You've gone back to studying the contents of your backpack.
“You and Hoseok. Have you met before?”
“Oh. No. I've never seen that guy in my life.” You look at him over your shoulder. Yoongi has the sudden urge to brush your hair away from your mouth. “Is he a friend of yours?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Behind him, Hoseok and Namjoon howl with laughter.
---
Yoongi is starting to get angry.
The blank page, the half-chewed pen, the fact that he's going to have to buy another Refill Pad because he's ripped almost all the pages out of his other one. Call him dramatic, but he's ninety percent sure absolutely nothing in his life is going to work in his favour ever again.
The library isn't even half full, which is weird, because it's exam season and it should be. Nonetheless, the quiet murmuring distracts him. He knows he's just looking for an excuse to get away from his music homework, which makes his anger even worse. Who can you trust if your own brain is going against you?
He squeezes his eyes closed, placing his head against the table. He doesn't want to make a scene, but if this final nerve gets plucked in the next ten seconds, he's fully prepared to flip his chair and scream at the top of his lungs.
So maybe it's a good thing that you seem to be having an even worse day than he is.
He hears you opening the library door. Everyone does. As per usual, your foot gets caught on the door frame and your casual walk turns into a stumble. The apologies fall from your lips, your folder crashes to the floor, and the entire library goes silent.
Yoongi looks up. You're on your knees, gathering up a pile of papers. Nobody is helping you.
“Sorry,” you mutter on repeat. It breaks Yoongi's heart a little bit.
He stands up and goes over to help you; it's not a heroic move. To be quite honest, he's only doing it because he wants to get out of that god damn seat, and the distraction of your misfortunes is a welcome one. He drops to the ground beside you and starts bundling up the pages, rapidly thinking up a conversation starter that might make you feel a little more comfortable.
Your eyes snap up. “Yoongi! Hey!”
Apparently you have the conversation starter covered.
He tries for a smile. It probably looks too forced. He quickly looks back down. “Hey.”
“God, I'm such an idiot,” you continue. “I probably just distracted you from some, like, really important homework, didn't I? You're probably so far behind now. You really didn't have to help me if you're busy – this is me just – you know – being me!” You laugh awkwardly. You flick your gaze around at the staring students before looking away. “Fuck.”
“You're fine,” Yoongi grumbles, keeping his head down. “They'll forget about this in about ten minutes.”
“I hope so. This is the fourth time I've fallen in the past week. Fourth!”
“Maybe you should remember that the door frame is-”
“It's elevated. Yes. I – uh – I understand that.” You pluck the pile of papers from Yoongi's arms. He sits back on his heels, watching you be awkward for the first time since he met you – it's weird. He isn't sure if he likes it or not. Then again, he wasn't sure if he liked your overly-bubbly personality, either, and he's beginning to think that maybe he's being a little selfish trying to grab for the best of both worlds.
You shuffle the papers a little bit, give Yoongi an awkward smile before the two of you finally realise you're still kneeled on the floor. You start to rise, stumbling only once. You manage to catch yourself this time.
“Thank you,” you say. “Uh. . . What are you doing here, then?”
You want to start conversation. Yoongi feels oddly flattered.
Instead of giving you a direct answer, Yoongi nods in the direction of his study area, beckoning for you to follow him. He offers you the empty chair beside him, and you sit down with your legs crossed. Yoongi makes an effort to stay as far to the left as possible, just in case he takes up your space. He doesn't want to take up your space.
You peak over at his blank sheet of paper and frown. Then, your eyes trail towards the array of information sheets, and realisation dawns on your expression.
“Oooooh. You're doing the music homework.”
“I'm trying to do the music homework,” Yoongi corrects. “It's a lot easier said than done.”
“You know, I'd nearly forgotten all about that.”
“Well, it's due in a few days. You should probably get started on it.”
“Probably.” You place your pages on the desk, setting up camp, per se. Yoongi finds that he doesn't even mind your plans to stay. “So have you got any idea what you're gonna write about?”
“Nope.”
“That's not a good start.”
Yoongi shrugs.
You hum, sitting back. You tap your chin thoughtfully, and Yoongi wants to tease you about it but he doesn't really think you two are close enough for that kind of thing yet, so he doesn't.
“Have you ever been in love, Yoongi?”
His head snaps up. “What?”
“You know.” You roll your hands. “Have you ever been in love with anyone? Like, romantically in love.” Yoongi stares at you. You sigh. “Okay then. We'll make it less heavy – have you ever thought you were romantically in love with someone?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
You tap the information sheet – specifically, the word LOVE written in big capital letters at the top.
He swallows. “Oh.”
You lean forward. “Judging by that reaction, I would say you have.”
“Well you're wrong, because I haven't.”
Your eyebrows fly up. “Never? Not even when you were in primary school? Did you never have one of them relationships where the guy – or girl – would give you a flower on the playground and then you'd think you were in love for, like, a week?”
Yoongi raises a brow. That's all the answer you need, apparently.
You guffaw, shaking your head. “Min Yoongi, you have missed out. I was going to suggest writing something about that, but your inexperience has once again trumped my plans.”
“Sorry.”
“Maybe you can write about discovering love, then.” You're talking almost to yourself, even though your suggestions are aimed at him. “Being your age and not knowing what romantic love feels like – you could write about it from the perspective of someone who doesn't really know what all the fuss is about.”
Yoongi nearly winces. “It's not that I don't know what all the fuss is about. I've just never . . . cared about it.”
“Ever read Romeo and Juliet?”
“Of course.”
“Did you think it was romantic?”
“More stupid than anything else.”
You blink. “Yeah. Yeah, you definitely don't know what all the fuss is about.” Yoongi opens his mouth to retort, but you leap up and cut him off. “But that's a good thing! It means you have something to write about!”
“That's going to be so depressing.”
“So? It's art. It's allowed to be depressing – as long as it means something.” You point at his blank page. “Or, in this case, as long as it completes your homework assignment.”
Yoongi looks down at the table. It's a start, he'll admit, but the idea hasn't piqued his interest. He knows when he's excited for a project, because he feels it in his bones and his blood, and his fingers itch to grab the pen and start writing – at this moment in time, he feels none of that.
Nonetheless, he humours you. “I'll think about it.”
“Please do,” you reply, before you grab his hand and start scribbling numbers on the back of it. “And please keep me updated on your progress, because I'm just as lost as you are.”
Yoongi tugs his hand back. “Is that your number?”
“Yep! Please text me. Just text. Phone calls make me uncomfortable.” You pause. “Although I might like phone calls with you. I don't know. It depends.”
Yoongi blushes, looking away as you stand up and say your goodbye's. He doesn't know where you're going, and he isn't sure if that's an appropriate question to ask, so he simply smiles and waves you off before slumping back in his seat.
As soon as you leave, his anger returns ten-fold. He didn't even realise it had disappeared as soon as you fell into the room.
----
Yoongi likes rivers. He always has, and he's quite certain he always will.
Ever since he was a little boy, rivers have been a source of inspiration for him. He thinks it might be the noise, the faint trickle that could be water, or the footsteps of someone coming up behind him. He can lose himself within that sound for hours on end, and those hours will still feel like nothing more than a few minutes.
His favourite river is the one just behind his uncle's house. It's big. Benches line the side of it, so he always has a place to sit. Ducks walk around in the grass, and they jump into the water and they make little noises that only add to the peaceful ambience.
Yoongi stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks along the riverbank, trailing his fingertips along the top of the weeds. His music homework burns a hole in his backpack, but he's trying hard to ignore that. For now, he just wants to settle in.
It's night time, but that doesn't bother him. He can work in all conditions – in fact, he wrote one of his favourite songs sitting under a canopy when it was pouring it down. He remembers that day well, how his uncle had basically screamed at him for risking his own health all for the sake of a sheet of paper. Yoongi had no regrets.
He finally settles down on an empty bench and takes the sheet of paper from his bag. He presses it against one of his sociology textbooks, but at this point, he doesn't even care about presentation; he just wants something on the page. He wants to get it finished, because in the next two days, he's going to have to hand it in and he'll be damned if he lets one stupid project jeopardize his final grade.
So, he sits down and he gets to work.
He hates it all. It's like pulling teeth, each and every one of his thoughts being forced through sludge in his brain. Nothing sounds right, and he can't get anything to rhyme, and honestly, nothing he's written is even coherent.
He bites his bottom lip. He has to keep his anger in check, of course, because he's in public and god forbid he show any amount of emotion outside the house. He really does just want to hurl the piece of paper into the river, though, and maybe yell some curse words, even though that's unnecessary and will do nothing for him in the end.
Instead, he moves the textbook from his lap and stays seated. He stares out at the river, silently cursing the water for not bringing the usual bout of inspiration when he needs it most. He can already hear Namjoon and Hoseok in the back of his mind, telling him this project doesn't even matter and it's just a simple homework assignment – neither of them care as much as he does, and maybe that's normal. Maybe Yoongi's the weird one, obsessing over his final grade as if it matters.
“Oh! Look who we have here!”
Yoongi's head snaps up. His lips part. He's going to say something, but the words get absorbed by the confusion over the fact that you're currently standing behind him.
“What?” It's all he can manage.
You grin, skipping to his side. You're wearing a thin jacket today, along with a plain white shirt and a pair of jeans that are marked with grass stains. Your shoes are the same, and there's tiny strands of grass in your hair that Yoongi has to fight to ignore.
“It's me!” you exclaim, as if Yoongi would forget. “I didn't know you came down here.”
“I – uh – my uncle. . . He lives. . .” Yoongi awkwardly gestures to the top of the hill, where his uncle's house is.
You nod, not even following the direction of his gesture. Yoongi wonders why he bothers. “I've just never seen you around before. I come here almost every weekend.” You swing your leg over the back of the bench and perch on top of it. Yoongi shuffles over, silently offering you the place beside him, but you're quite content sitting right there.
You nudge his backpack with your shoe. “The music homework?”
“Yup.”
“You know, I finished mine the other day. After our little chat in the library.”
Yoongi looks up, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Really? How long did it take?”
“About ten minutes.”
He frowns. “Lucky you.”
“Hey, that's not to say it's any good.” You nudge him with your foot. “I'll admit I rushed it. I bet yours is gonna be ten times better than mine.”
Yoongi scoffs. “I actually have to have something to hand in to be better than you.”
You fall silent, and Yoongi wonders if he said something wrong again. He doesn't even care at this point, though, because the sheet beside him is still blank, and he has absolutely no idea what to do about it.
Love. Such a stupid, dumb concept. Did Miss Seymour even take into consideration that maybe some people don't believe in love? She may find this to be a bit of a surprise, but not every teenager in the world is a hopeless romantic – some of them just want to curl up and watch Netflix. Some of them are perfectly content being on their own. Some of them don't even want to think about love and it's complexities, because life is difficult enough without it.
God, he's being such an idiot. He knows this. It's a homework assignment – so what if he doesn't get the expected grade? So what if Miss Seymour looks at it and laughs? So what if his emotional capabilities are sitting at zero?
It doesn't matter. Nothing fucking matters.
“Yoongi?”
He doesn't look up.
You reach forward and place your hand over his own, and it's only then does he realise he's been gripping the strap of his backpack a little too tightly. The blood has drained from his knuckles, rushing to his fingertips until his fingers look like candles.
He quickly releases and pulls his hand into his chest. “Sorry.”
“You don't need to apologise.” You tilt your head. He can feel you staring at him, but he doesn't meet your gaze. “Are you okay? This isn't bothering you too much, is it?”
He closes his eyes. “I just . . . really don't want to fail.”
He isn't sure why he's telling you this, why you would even care, why he even cares. But the words are out, and suddenly you're sliding from the back of the bench to sit beside him, and then your head is on his shoulder and your humming something Yoongi isn't familiar with, but he wants to be familiar with it because it sounds so beautiful coming out of your mouth.
“You're a very tense man, Yoongi.”
He snorts. “Oh?”
“Mm. That was one of the first things I noticed about you when we met.”
“How tense I am?”
“Yeah. That, and the fact that you don't seem to care about it at all.”
“About what?”
“How tense you are.” You squeeze his upper arm, as if all the tension you're describing is in that single muscle. “You've just kind of accepted that that's how you are. Haven't you?”
“I've never been any other way.”
“That's sad.” You sit up. “Why don't we go in the river?”
Yoongi's head snaps up, eyes suddenly frantic. “What?”
But you're grinning, and Yoongi knows you well enough to know that isn't a good thing. You rise from the bench, and you're already tugging your shirt off before he has a chance to tell you to stop. There is no shame to your movements, no worry whatsoever.
Yoongi wants to know what that's like.
“Come on!” you exclaim. “The waters cold!”
“Exactly!” Yoongi stumbles up, reaches for your hand but suddenly it's at the button of your jeans and Yoongi flinches away. “Y/N, stop. The dark won't stop us getting caught.”
“So what if we get caught? I'll keep my bra on.”
And then you're tugging your jeans off and leaping into the river.
Your scream echoes through the trees. A tiny splash of water lands on Yoongi's arm and he grits his teeth – you were telling the truth. The water is ice cold.
“You're gonna get hypothermia in there!” he calls out.
“Don't be silly! Just get in! It warms up eventually!”
Yoongi closes his eyes; you're going to drive him mad.
Apparently, you're also going to persuade him to jump in an ice cold river.
He's peeling off his shirt before his sensible brain can kick in. And then it's his trousers, and then his socks and then he's lowering himself into the river, using the river bank as a grip.
You wade over to him. His eyes widen, and he tries to bat you away, but you're laughing as you tug his hand and pull him into the water. He grits his teeth, trying to bite back the scream threatening to rise to the surface.
It's replaced by a laugh, instead.
He's more surprised than anyone. You stare at him for a second as he tosses his head back and wipes his hand over his face, trailing the ice cold water drops down his skin. He can feel your eyes burning holes into the side of his head, but he doesn't even care, because this is the most daring thing he's ever done and he feels so free. He feels like an actual teenager.
It's weird.
Finally, he drops his hand. His fists splat against the surface, splashing you. You squeal, snapping from your trance long enough to splash him back.
“We're not having a water fight,” he says, walking backwards. “That's just cheesy.”
“Awk, come on,” you scoff, splashing him again. “Why can't we just let ourselves be cheesy once in a while? It's freeing.”
Yoongi rolls his eyes, but splashes you anyway. It's the start of a fight, a battle where Yoongi ends up dunked under the water three times, and you end up curled around the trunk of a tree on the river bank, kicking your foot at Yoongi any time he tries to grab for you. The two of you are laughing so hard, no pauses, no care in the world, and Yoongi is sure he's going to wake his uncle up and get a scolding for this, but he doesn't even care.
God, it feels good to just not give a fuck.
Finally, though, the night closes. Not even the moon can illuminate the grass, and the two of you finally decide it's time to pack up and head home.
Yoongi falls on his back on the river bank. You follow close behind him, and it's not even a big deal that you're only in a bra and underwear and he's only in a pair of soaked black boxers. You stare up at the stars, his hand on his stomach, your hand trailing through your tangled hair, and everything seems so right.
Yoongi didn't realise just how tense he was until he was calm again.
“My mum's going to kill me, you know,” you say.
Yoongi snatches at a dragonfly. “Oh.”
“But I had fun, so it doesn't matter.”
“Yeah.”
You spare him a glance. “You don't talk much, do you?”
“Not really.” Yoongi looks over at you. “But I had fun today. More fun than I've had in . . . in a very, very long time.”
You grin, and suddenly Yoongi isn't even worried about what could be lurking in the darkness. “I'm happy to hear that.”
You look back up at the stars, even though you have a curfew that you're clearly breaching, even though you're both soaked and will probably get some sort of cold from sitting out in the grass all night. Yoongi joins you, biting his lower lip to hide the smile wanting to force it's way to the surface.
Suddenly, he knows exactly what he wants to write about.
----
Yoongi really shouldn't be this nervous. This is his best friend. Namjoon, who has read his work on countless occasions, who has given him nothing but complete honesty from the very beginning.
And yet somehow, this feels different.
The two of them are sat in Yoongi's room this evening, an uncommon affair considering Yoongi has indulged himself fully in his studies these past few months; despite his mother finally letting him bring friends over whenever he wants, Yoongi keeps the front door locked and his curtains drawn, just to keep distractions at an all time low.
Today he makes an exception.
Namjoon sits on the spinning chair. Yoongi is cross-legged on his bed, eyeing the taller man because that's all he can think to do, besides tossing himself out the window. He doesn't even know where the nerves have come from, but they only double in size when he looks up to see Namjoon raising an eyebrow at the sheet of paper that has been giving Yoongi grief for days.
Yoongi leans forward. “So....”
“Bro...”
Yoongi flinches back. “Is it bad?”
“It's a bit. . .” Namjoon tilts his head as he searches for the correct word. Finally, he gives up and looks at Yoongi with a raised brow. “You really feel like this?”
Yoongi snatches the paper back. “It doesn't mean anything.”
“And you think I'm stupid. Great. Great. That's fantastic.”
“What are you on about?”
Namjoon gestures towards the page. “Yoongi, you were obviously writing about Y/N. I've barely even spoken to the girl and I can see that.”
Yoongi has the sudden urge to laugh.
But he doesn't laugh. He should be laughing. He wants to laugh, because maybe a laugh will make his denial a little more believable.
Instead he just stares. He feels his fingers curling round the page a little tighter. He really isn't doing a very good job of being subtle.
His voice is a little too high when he says, “You're crazy.” He coughs, standing up and marching to the other side of the room, just because he needs to move before Namjoon's eyes burn a hole in his face. He focuses his attention on the mirror nailed to the back of his wardrobe door and starts fixing his already styled hair. “I don't even know Y/N that well, anyway. How would I even be able to write an entire song about her?”
“You know her well enough,” says Namjoon. “You two are always talking in class.”
“We don't talk.”
“Are you forgetting that I literally sit right behind you?”
Yoongi hollows out his cheeks, dragging a strand of hair down his nose; it's getting long. He wonders if you like it long, or if you'll perhaps prefer him with a shorter style. “There's nothing in there that indicates it's about Y/N. It's just some bullshit I made up to get something on paper.”
Namjoon hums. Yoongi closes his eyes – that's the noise Namjoon does when he's about to prove somebody wrong, and Yoongi doesn't really want to be left embarrassed in his own god damn home.
“What about the line where you talk about how cute it is when this random person stumbles?”
Yoongi fluffs up his hair some more.
“Or the line where you go on about how you admire their personality, even though it's literally the complete opposite of your own?”
Yoongi pulls on his lower lip, inspects his teeth.
“Oh! How about the line where you describe this person making you feel alive for the first time in years?” Namjoon hums. “You didn't tell me you two went out together.”
Something snaps. Yoongi spins round and jumps onto the bed, snatching the page off the desk on his way past. He shoves it towards Namjoon.
“Fuck, is it really that obvious? What line gave it away?” He groans, trailing his hands through his hair. “I can't read this out in front of everyone if she's gonna know it's about her, Namjoon.”
Namjoon takes the sheet and gently places it on the bedside table. “It was a good song.”
“I don't care-”
“What are you so worried about anyway? It's obvious she likes you back.”
Yoongi blinks. “Fuck off.”
Namjoon's eyes widen. “I'm serious!”
But he isn't. He can't be serious. Kim Namjoon, the most serious, honest man Yoongi has ever met, is lying right to his face.
“Right,” Yoongi exclaims, “so I'll just have to write something different then.”
Namjoon grabs his wrist. “Don't you dare.”
“I'm not handing that in. There's no way.”
“But it's good! You'll get the highest grade in the fucking class with that, bro!”
Yoongi scoffs. “Yeah, I'll pass on a good grade if it means sparing my dignity.”
Namjoon gasps, flinching away as if Yoongi's skin has burned him. “I never thought I'd hear you say something like that. This is gonna go down in history.”
Yoongi rolls his eyes, and then he's making his way towards the bedside table, and then he's picking up the sheet of paper.
Namjoon cries out, tries to grab his wrist but Yoongi is quicker, and Yoongi is determined, and Yoongi is embarrassed that he ever let himself get so wrapped up in his own emotions that he actually wrote something like that.
He spent two hours trying to put his feelings into words. In two seconds, the candle flame has demolished everything.
----
Yoongi has never been so tired in his entire life.
Now, Yoongi has lived a very productive life. A fairly long life, too, considering he's very nearly reaching his nineteenth year. Throughout that long existence, he has been properly energized perhaps a total number of four times. He's used to exhaustion.
But today's exhaustion is really just taking the piss.
He is genuinely willing to fall asleep on the desk, which is dangerous both because of the risk of getting caught, and the fact that two of his best friends sit directly behind him and will not hesitate to write inappropriate things on his forehead, or the back of his neck, or whatever lick of skin they can find peeking out of Yoongi's black hoodie.
So he stays upright, even though it costs him a great deal of energy that his coffee is not currently refilling.
He takes another sip and hopes for the best.
“Gooooooood morning!”
Yoongi ignores the immediate flutter in his stomach.
“Morning.”
You place your bag on the table and start laying your books out. “How are you this morning?”
“Good.”
“You don't sound good.” You slap a hand to Yoongi's forehead. A bit of his coffee sloshes over the side of his cup. “You haven't got a temperature.” You lean down and meet his eyes. “Just tired?”
“Exhausted,” Yoongi grunts, nudging you away.
You giggle, finally taking a seat. “Well, at least you don't have to worry about your music homework any more – that's one less thing to stress about.”
“I wasn't stressing.”
“You've been stressed out for the past two weeks.”
Yoongi shrugs.
You roll your eyes, leaning your head on your hand. You're staring right at him. Yoongi wants to look away, but his eyes find yours and they struggle to leave, which is becoming an embarrassingly common occurrence recently.
“What?” he asks.
You nod towards his bag. “Can I read it?”
“Read what?”
“Your homework!”
“Uh, no.”
“Why not?”
“Because you might copy it.”
You stare at him. Yoongi hides his smile behind the rim of his cup.
You slap his arm. “I'm serious. I want to see what you finally came up with.”
Yoongi rolls his eyes, but it's with a fondness he can't really disguise at this point – to be honest, he doesn't see a point in trying to hide it any more. You've cracked his shell. Those walls he's been building since first year are crumbling down, and no amount of denial is going to hide it.
So, he reaches into his open bag and pulls out the sheet of paper that is the reasoning behind his deterioration this morning; the words scribbled on that page kept him up until three am, and even now he's not pleased with how they turned out.
He just needed something. After scrapping his original idea, he was put right back to square one – he needed an idea, he needed inspiration, he needed to find a muse, but that muse never came. Any time he thought of the word love, the only image that popped into his head was you in that river a few nights ago, the water glistening against flesh he shouldn't have seen because you two were just friends, only friends, and friends aren't meant to see those body parts.
You take the page from him and start reading. Yoongi notices the way you absently chew on the sleeve of your hoodie as your eyes trace the page. He might have thought that was gross on anyone else, but he smiles when he sees you doing it.
Fuck. He's whipped.
He's watching you read, and he's waiting for your reaction, but he regrets this immediately when your face slowly starts to fall. Your eyes go first, moving from side to side a little faster, as if you can't wait to reach the end of the page. Then your grip tightens. Then your sleeve drops from your mouth and you're holding it with two hands.
Then, you inhale and hand it back to him.
He slowly takes it back, not once taking his eyes off you. You've gone from saying good morning and teasing him, to suddenly not even wanting to look in his direction. You instead keep your eyes on the desk, where your thumbs are fighting one another beneath the sleeves of your hoodie.
Yoongi risks leaning forward. “Did you like it?”
You nod. It's a little too quick to be believable. “I can see why everyone thinks you're amazing at Modern Arts.” You laugh, but it's forced. “Miss Seymour's gonna love it, Yoongi. Good job.”
He tries to smile. He tries to believe you. He tries to ignore your sudden silence, which is so strange to him because usually he's the one wanting you to be quiet. He's the one who deduces his responses to nothing more than one word answers or grunts, or even a nod of the head if he's feeling particularly tired that day.
But now you've gone quiet and Yoongi doesn't really like that.
He leans back in his seat. He can't really say anything, can he? What can he say, besides asking you what was wrong with his homework. Did you not like it? Sure, it's the worst thing he's ever written, but it means something completely different when a person he wants to impress thinks the same.
Miss Seymour walks in shortly after that, and the lesson begins.
She gathers up the homework, picking a few people at random to come up to the front and read theirs out. Yoongi gets slightly annoyed when his name isn't called – usually he hates being called to read, but for the love of god, if he'd have known he was just going to hand in some lyrics without needing to spit them out to the whole class, he might have kept his original draft.
Oh well. Too late now.
However, amongst those people reading, Miss Seymour chooses you.
You grab your page and stride up to the front with a confidence Yoongi isn't sure he will ever see you without. From the very first day he laid eyes on you, you've had that aura – that atmosphere that just says I don't really give a fuck what you say. Yoongi craves it, but he likes it much better on you.
You stand at the front. People start reading. Yoongi keeps his eyes on you.
And then it's your turn.
You don't inhale, don't awkwardly laugh, don't even look at the crowd as you start reading from the page, and despite the confidence that is so present in the way you stand, Yoongi can't help but take notice of the grip you have on the sheet of paper, the way your voice trembles just that little bit at the beginning.
The beginning, where you describe stumbling into class.
The beginning, where you describe sitting beside this mystery person.
The middle, where you talk about useless conversations consisting of one word answers, grunts, the occasional nod of the head.
The middle, where you say you thought it was all for nothing until one night under the stars. There was a river, and so few clothes, and laughter that you'd never heard before because it was coming from this special individual and you'd realised with a start that you hadn't heard them really laugh before.
And then the end, where you talk about how weird it is that you've fallen for someone like that.
Like that.
You don't specify. You don't really need to.
Yoongi feels like he's going to be ill. His stomach twists, and his fingers grip the edge of the table, and if he pays really, really close attention he can hear Hoseok and Namjoon squealing in the row behind him. But also, if he listens close, he can hear his heartbeat thundering in his chest as he remembers the way the page shrivelled up in his hand last night, the words he'd written about you no longer meaning anything because they no longer exist.
After you've finished your reading, you ask Miss Seymour if you can be excused. It's in such a quiet voice. Yoongi has to lean forward to hear it, but Miss Seymour nods and tells you how fantastic you've done before you smile and leave the room.
Namjoon taps Yoongi on the shoulder. “Bet you feel like a dick now, huh?”
Yoongi closes his eyes, his heart erratic.
----
He finds you in the garden after class.
He has another class he has to get to, but he doesn't care. He walks right past the door of the sociology room and straight into the garden, where he can see your bright yellow hoodie hidden amongst the bushes.
He knows this is stupid. He should leave you alone. He's messed up enough for one day, and the fact that he's willing to risk fucking it up even more makes him want to punch himself in the face – but the idea of leaving you like this makes him want to punch himself even more.
Yoongi sits down beside you. The old wooden bench creaks beneath his weight, and he has the sudden urge to get up and just stand, but that would look awkward, so he doesn't.
He stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks up at the sky.
“Looks like it might start raining soon.”
You look up at the greying clouds. Your shoulder brushes against his when you lean back, and neither of you move. It's pleasant, almost, but there's a tension between you that no amount of physical contact will be able to conquer. Yoongi just has to suck it up and realise – sooner rather than later – that words and apologies are the only thing that can make this right again.
“I think you got the highest grade in the class, you know,” Yoongi continues. “Miss Seymour really liked your lyrics.”
“Good. That's. . . . really good, yeah.”
Yoongi glances at you. “What inspired you to write that?” God, why is he even asking? It was so obvious. You meant for him to catch on, meant for him to understand what you were trying to say, and yet he sits beside you now and acts oblivious.
You close your eyes. “Nothing.”
“Really?”
“I just wrote about love. Like I was told to do.”
“Yeah.” Yoongi turns his body towards you. “But you were going on at me about needing some inspiration. So, what inspired you?”
“Again, nothing.”
“You're lying.”
“You've gotten awfully chatty in the last fifteen minutes, haven't you?”
Yoongi bites his lip. “You know, the lyrics I showed you in class weren't the first ones I wrote. I had. . . I had another draft that was a lot better than that one.”
“So why didn't you hand it in?”
“Because I thought it would be too obvious.” He gestures between you. “If I'd have known we were doing this, I would have kept it the way it was.”
You stiffen. Yoongi can see the confusion in your face. You open your mouth to say something, to perhaps ask a question, but you close it and instead choose to just look over at him.
Yoongi shrugs as if you'd spoken. “It was a lot more honest. It was. . . a bit more meaningful than what I handed in.”
“Can I read it?”
“No.” He closes his eyes. “No, you can't. I burnt it.”
You pause. “Oh.”
“It was about you.”
“Oh.”
“Was. . . Was yours about me?” He sounds like a five year old. He sounds like a bloody five year old!
You look down at your hands, bundled up in the material of your sleeves, fingers just peeking out over the top. “Yes,” you mumble.
Yoongi's heart skips a beat, even though it really shouldn't, because he knew. He'd sat in class and listened to your retelling of that night under the stars; he wasn't an idiot. He'd written about the exact same thing, for crying out loud.
Nonetheless, his heart thunders because you've just confirmed it. There is no doubt any more. There is no but what if...
Yoongi nods. “Oh.”
You giggle. The noise startles him, and he glances over to see you awkwardly shielding your mouth from view. Yoongi raises a brow, and before he can think better of it, he's reaching forward and plucking your hand back to your side.
It lays in between you both. Yoongi places his hand on the top of it, twists your fingers together. You both just stare at the point of contact, and Yoongi doesn't know if you want anything more, or if this is finally making you realise that Yoongi really isn't the guy for you.
Because he isn't.
“This is so fucked up, you know,” he whispers.
You tilt your head. “What?”
“You shouldn't like me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I'm . . . like this.” He gestures to himself. “And you're like that. Us being together . . . . Life doesn't work that way for people like us.”
You go quiet. Yoongi doesn't look at you.
Not until you lay your head on his shoulder.
His breath leaves him in a single moment. His fingers tighten round your own. As if the blood from his brain has been completely drained, he lets his head drop on top of yours, and it is there, sitting with you in the garden, that he takes a deep breath, and he starts to realise that maybe not everything is so bad.
Maybe there's a bit more to life than what the future holds.
Maybe Yoongi should spend a little bit more time focusing on who he is now, rather than wasting away with the idea of being something bigger.
----
“So, I don't actually like Modern Arts all that much.”
Yoongi scoffs. It's too early for words right now.
You're laying on his chest this morning, playing mindlessly with the buttons on his cookie pyjama top. He rubs your shoulder with one hand, the other plays with your hair.
“You don't sound surprised,” you continue, but you don't sound surprised that he doesn't sound surprised.
“I'm not,” he replies. “You're not exactly a very stationary individual, love.”
“But I tried this time.” You look up, resting your chin on his sternum. “I quite liked sitting beside you. That was honestly the only reason I was dragging myself out of bed every morning.”
Yoongi presses a kiss to your nose. “I appreciate the company.”
You grunt and go back to playing with his shirt buttons. Yoongi goes back to messing with your hair.
“So what made you come to this painful decision?” he asks.
“I just. . . tried it, and I didn't like it.” You shrug. “Miss Seymour will understand, right? I think she only likes me because I'm going out with her star pupil.”
“I thought you were going out with me.”
“Ha ha.” You look up at him again. “When did you start getting so sarcastic?”
Yoongi simply grins. You poke his gums, just like you always do. He pretends to bite your finger, just like he always does.
You both laugh, and it's the most beautiful noise Yoongi has ever heard in his life. He's created music that has left grown adults in tears. He's listened to orchestras play live. He's listened to the tunes of a piano his entire life, and yet none of that can beat the sound of your laughter ringing in his ear at seven am on a Monday morning.
He should probably be getting ready for school. He really can't be bothered, though.
“What course are you gonna try out next?” Yoongi asks once the laughter has settled.
“Might give English a go. Fall in love with whoever I sit with in that class. Move on. Repeat.”
Yoongi pinches your hips. “Don't even joke.”
You kiss his chin. “Sorry. I had to.”
“Did you, though?”
Your kisses trail up to his lips, and Yoongi hums at the contact. You pull away, grin and say, “Yes,” before you sit up and start getting ready for the day.
Yoongi sighs, watching you pull your spare pair of jeans on – you always leave a set of clothes in Yoongi's wardrobe, just in case you accidentally end up staying the night. This is happening more and more often recently, but neither of you are addressing the issue, because neither of you mind.
“I'll go to one more Modern Arts class today,” you say, struggling to keep upright with only one foot on the ground. “Then I'll talk to Miss Seymour about transferring.”
“Sounds good,” says Yoongi. “Do you want me to stay with you after class?”
You raise a brow. “Do you not want to go to lunch with your friends? It'll only take a few minutes, Yoongi.”
“Exactly. But then you won't be in my class any more. I need to spend as much time with you as possible.”
“I live down the street.”
Yoongi raises a hand. “No arguments.”
You roll your eyes. The sun glares down on your skin. It makes your hair look a little shinier. It makes your smile look a little brighter. It makes Yoongi want to grab you and pull you back under the covers with him.
But he doesn't. He rolls out of bed and joins you in the task of getting dressed. The two of you talk about school and your days plans, and then you decide you're going to come back to his place afterwards, and Yoongi has to stop himself from giggling because you don't even have to ask any more – you just decide you're coming over, and that's it.
He loves it. He loves you.
He thinks back to a few months prior when he was sitting in his room, fretting over a piece of paper that seemed to be the bane of his existence at the time. He remembers wondering what Miss Seymour even saw in the topic of love – back then, it was so stupid to him. It was unfair. He's young, and he's still learning how to control his feelings, and he's still learning how to understand them – and even now, months into this relationship, he still struggles to understand it sometimes.
But now, as he gets dressed beside you, he wonders what took him so long to get those lyrics out. Right now, his feelings seem so obvious. Right now, he can't quite pinpoint why he ever thought love was a bad thing.
#bts writing#sfwbangtan#yoongi fanfic#yoongi x reader#bts fluff#bts angst#fluff#angst#yoongi fluff#yoongi angst#suga x reader#suga fluff#suga fanfic#suga angst#bts fanfic#kpop fanfic#my writing#bangtan fanfic#yoongi imagine#suga scenario#yoongi scenario#min yoongi fanfic#min yoongi fic#min yoongi scenario#min yoongi imagine#min yoongi#bts fic#bangtan fic
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Can you write something along the lines of Peter being super obsessive over the reader and he sneaks into her room and hides in her closet every day after school, constantly takes pictures of her and has Polaroid’s of her all over his room, she eventually talks to him in class and they agree to do a project together, she insists that they should do it at his place and she comes too early and sees the pictures in his room? ~ what happens after that is up to you ;) -🎱 (can this be my signature?)
Can you tell I didn’t edit this one as much? Also, I think I’m getting into the swing of things? Enjoy
Okay, so there’s one thing that bothers me. Whenever Peter sneaks into your room, he’s wearing his Spider-Man suit—enough to get caught in broad daylight scaling an apartment building by a bystander—or even worse a villain. Do you know how many villains could peep this and start coming after you?? Anyway
When it comes to you, Peter has a one-track mind.
It’s always ‘Do physics homework—Check the camera to see what Y/N is doing; Cook dinner—Check Y/N’s social media and see if she posted anything new.’ 24/7 until something urgent pops up that requires his undivided attention i.e. trying not to die
And the way Peter ends up in your closet is gradual.
At first he happened to swing by as you were on your way home, and he trailed you
Then he swung by when no one happened to be home. Curiosity got the best of him, and before he knew it, he was putting Karen on mute and sliding open your window before dropping down in your room
One thing he loves is that right off the bat your room smells like you
Staring at the knickknacks in your room, noting whether or not your room and desk is orderly, all of it gives him a better gauge of your personality that he’s not able to see when he’s listening to you and your friends talk during lunch or in class
And then it happens again and again, until one day, his Spidey senses start tingling and he can hear you unlocking the front door and heading up to your room. On the spur of the moment, he hid in your closet. Stupid, if you were the type of person to hang up your clothes as soon as you got home. But for hours until you finally fell asleep, he was forced to sit in your cramped closet watching you in your natural habitat. It was truly a wonderful experience…
It made him feel stupid for not thinking of it before. So, every now and then he would treat himself into sneaking into your room. On particular days where he hardly saw you because you either called in sick, ditched class, or had a field trip with another class.
If you were already home, he’d wait and sneak in when you left the room, or if he was feeling particularly brazen, when you had your back turned and earphones in listening to your music at full blast, he would just slide your window open, climb on the ceiling, and gently sneak into your closet.
If you ever wonder where the sudden breeze came from, that’s Peter.
And it continues until every day after school, Peter beats you home by minutes, sneaking into your closet, getting his daily dose of you.
He’s gotten himself a routine, where he would accomplish all of his work at school before the final bell, head to your place and make himself comfortable on your closet floor, leave when you go to grab dinner and go eat dinner himself with May, and then head out for patrols, before coming back home to catch a bit of shut eye
That’s what? Only like 3-4 hours he gets to spend with you every day? Regardless it’s not enough
Peter does record you though. At first through his phone, and then through surveillance cameras he’s placed around your room; One in the smoke detector and then a listening bug in your light switch
It would be small minor things like you talking to yourself, telling yourself a joke, humming to yourself while you browsed the web, watching you rage quit at video games, and even watching you struggle with homework which frustrates Peter to no end.
Listening to you get upset over not being able to solve a problem makes him want to tear his hair out. If he could just pluck the pencil from your hand right quick and show you how it’s done…All he needed was a minute
Another thing that also irked him? You losing points on homework because you left a section blank or didn’t turn it in at all. During those times, Peter just wishes he could turn homework in on your behalf and not get caught. He’d do it in a heartbeat if teachers couldn’t recognize your handwriting and the assignment had no way of getting back to you
When it’s late, and he’s all snuggled in bed, Peter likes to watch the videos and fantasize about would it would be like if he was next to you. How you two would interact, and etc. He feels closer to you whenever he does this.
Sometimes he likes to fall asleep to the sound of your shallow breathing when you’re asleep
Every now and then Peter likes to ease into bed beside you after hard fights that leave him bruised and exhausted
It’s easy to pick your habits and routines like this. eating habits, bathroom habits, what music you tend to steer towards, what content you like to watch the most on the internet; All of your likes and dislikes, favorite food, color, drink, what’s on your wish list right, what’s even got you stressed right—which breaks his heart because he’s not sure what he can do to help
But Peter has this collection, right? Of odd pictures that he snaps of you every chance he gets.
He has a collage of them—11 or so—on the wall against his bed. Easy to hide with a perfectly propped pillow if May were to ever walk in his room while he’s away. He hangs the ones that are both artistic and articulates your personality the best. It’s his little masterpiece.
Let’s say he gets beaten up too badly in a fight and he’s forced to stay home while you recover. Those pictures keep him going
But then there’s the scrapbook Peter has (in his desk drawer). Tons of Polaroid snaps—dated and describing what you’re doing—in addition to nonsensical diary entries beside them about how you made him feel in that moment or what he’d love to do to you, or maybe even a little poem
It’s mainly filled with fun memories Peter wasn’t really a part of. Pictures of you hugging your best friend and goofing off during a field trip, you winning a small award and going on stage to receive it, you participating in extracurriculars e.g. track and field
And then there are the nonsensical ones like your face before you’re about to devour your favorite food, or your aloof expression while you sit outside during study hall, or your deeply focused expression while you cram in gym class before a test you have next period.
In general, Peter takes a lot of pictures of you; And they’re everywhere. All you have to do is look closely and you’ll find a photo under his desk by the foot of his chair, or a more risqué one poking out from under his nightstand—even phots sprinkled between the pile of dirty laundry he’s been throwing in the corner
It’d honestly be bad if May ever decided to spontaneously do spring cleaning in his room
It’d be bad if you came across these photos which—spoiler: you do.
Everything was going great with Peter watching from afar, and then you had to go and talk with him
Don’t get me wrong, Peter was so happy he thought he would puke.
It had been in APES, and the class was doing a lab. Your friend who takes the class with you and had called in sick, so you decided to partner up with Peter, I mean he did sit directly to the left of you
His heart stopped, of course, he was praising the heavens that his voice didn’t crack, everything was great. His day was blessed, and he actually spent time talking with you which rolled smoothly between you to.
There was a report due on Monday, so you two decided y’all would both knock it out today after school at his place.
Big, fucking, mistake.
Peter was so high on cloud nine, that he forgot about his little hobby littered around his room—the same room which you two planned to do the assignment in since May had her weird project occupying the majority of the surfaces in the living room which she explicitly told him not to move
It didn’t dawn on him until you asked to use his bathroom, and he walked into his room.
He picked up a shirt, sniffed, and was ready to toss it into the hamper until two photos fluttered out.
And then magically he realizes that he had his scrapbook out with the recently developed 6-7 photos scattered on his desk.
He heard you exit the bathroom and his heart stops.
“Peter, you in here?”
His eyes dart between the door and the scrapbook comically
He could’ve webbed the door shut, climbed out the window, and then crawl in through the bathroom and say something like he needed to go retrieve something from May’s room—which he should’ve did, but instead there you are smiling at him in the doorway casually greeting him before your eyes flicker to all of the Polaroid's and decide to pick one up
“Y/N wait!”
Your brain takes a full minute to fully process what you’re seeing
Let’s say it’s a picture of you changing in your bedroom
When you look Peter in the eyes and see his panicked expression, it tells you everything you need to know.
You should’ve left after the first picture, but you needed to confirm, so you started picking up the nearest pictures, shuffling through them.
You grabbing coffee with MJ, you going shopping with your mom, you trying on dresses and browsing in a local department store, even you propped lazily against your friend’s car while you wait for them to lock their front door.
“Where did you get these?!”
“I—I can explain!”
You try to make a run for it, but Parker’s quicker than you, stronger than you; He pins you against the wall easily, both of your wrists clasped tightly in one hand.
He’s breathing heavily as though a panic attack was soon about to set in
“I can explain…” is all he says, staring into your eyes wildly
Feedback?
#yandere headcanons#yandere marvel#yandere peter parker x reader#yandere spiderman x reader#yandere peter parker#yandere spiderman
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Rize’s Foreshadowing
For the sake of your self-righteousness,
how many people have shed blood?
How many people have suffocated within the sea?
Rize’s appearance and the imagery of a sea of corpses is actually a direct reference and was foreshadowed by a poem attached to this artwork published in 10/26/2016 over a year ago. The poem is translated here by Michi if you want to read it. [x].
Some of the events in this poem have pretty exact parallels to what happened in canon either around this, precluding this, or paralleling this scene even so I’ll be going over that too.
The last moment of judgement.
Where all lies will be uncovered,
where all sins will be judged.
The first and most obvious considering the religious connotations of the temple that Kaneki is in, and the fact that Rize calls Kaneki a murderer, and visibly tuts him. He’s here to be judged, and as usual the voice of judgement in his head has taken the impersonal form of Rize once more.
The first thing that you get disappointed at is anger,
and once you’ve grown tired of getting angry, it will try to kill you.
This I’m not totally sure of but it does sound a great deal like the kenference where we saw Kaneki’s raucous chaotic and disorderly bickering with what was essentially his self. The entire scene is an extended metaphor anyway for the many different conflicting reasons that Kaneki is trying to guide himself with, and also the disappointment he feels at himself for failing. Hence this.
A God that will not hesitate to murder for the sake of atonementis just the same as all of you.
There’s been repeated emphasis lately on how Kaneki is a person underneath his many roles. Not only from Kimi, or Furuta who equates the other Oggai as just being another Kaneki, but also from Tsukiyama who sees the man within the dragon.
There are also divine connotations with Kaneki being trapped a temple. Which makes sense considering the track record that Kaneki is on, he’s had associations to Norse Gods before, and even Christ who is considered both a man and a god. He’s also basically worshiped by a collection of followers who call him names like “Nameless King” while he stands above them from on high.
And next time, for sure, will be a sole fig leaf,
concealing itself without leaving a trace.
Carrying that out until it becomes vivid.
This scene with Kaneki in the water directly parallels the time with Arima, except at that time Kaneki was naked. The clothes he puts on afterwards however are an inverse to what he’s wearing now.
And only in that moment where blood spills, you softly laugh.
Most likely a reference to Furuta who at the moment Knaeki became dragon, acted rather clownishly at the success of his own plan. If we are making references to the last time Kaneki saw Rize though, “I heard the sound of someone laughing” could also be what this line is referencing.
An ark is being swayed like a coffin.
This one is obvious because we’ve had a chapter named Ark only a few chapters ago.
“It’s fine even if a cute person catches your eye!”
And then they went blind.
Kaneki also directly referenced catching Rize’s eye as the point where everything went wrong, and before this he’s caused damaged and blindness to his eyes several times before. He’s also alligned with Odin many times, who is blind in one eye.
God resents due to the vision that was lost.
For the sake of your self-righteousness,
how many people have shed blood?
How many people have suffocated within the sea?
Here’s the line that made me catch onto the parallels between this poem and canon. The imagery is rather literal here as the poem invokes people suffocating in the sea, and Kaneki is witness to people floating in the sea as corpses.
The buildings are gravestones floating in the sea.
The strained foundations creak and
one day, it just breaks with a snap too quick.
Once again it’s being literal, as those buildings are just above the sealine littered with corpses.
That was when you experienced* those boring numbers with those eyes.
That was when you overlap limbs with someone you love.
That was when you became tired and fell asleep.
This is what I assume is a reference not only to 125, but also the way that Kaneki awakes from what seems to be a sleep in this chapter, in almost the exact same pose he was sleeping in in 125.
It really did happen so suddenly.
So you sink into the ocean once again.
Then the suddenness at which it all went wrong for Kaneki to the point where he lost control of himself, and can barely catch up with or remember how he got into this current mental landscape.
Mankind will surely lose.
Our gradual burial at sea.
Since everyone I knew will die,
I cried until I dried up.
Soon, everyone became a pillar of salt.
And of course, that too dissolved into the sea.
As soon as they had brought them out, one of them said, “Flee for your lives! Don’t look back, and don’t stop anywhere in the plain!” (19:17)
“But Lot’s wife looked back, and she became a pillar of salt.” (19:26)
Abraham has a cousin named Lot who lives in Sodom and Gormmorrah. God also decides to destroy those places because of the bad people there, but Abraham suggests there must be good people there too so God offers to save his brother. Lot packs up and heads out, but two of his daughters cannot leave because they are married. God tells them to not look back, but Lot’s wife cannot resist looking back because her daughters are still there and she turns into a pillar of salt.
The character whose being referenced as Lot in this piece is clearly Rize.
(3)
The world should just end while I’m still aware.
The cradle shakes and self-destructed.
The sea filled with salt dried up.
With a hole in the throat, all the blood started to sing.
You then will no longer be able to stop laughing.
I think that the last person standing at the end of the world will certainly be the villain.
(End)
The last part I assume is a reference to the general nature of this scenario, where Furuta has authored it so both sides will come together to unite against a common villain in either him or Kaneki.
The last man standing will be the villain is probably a reference to Furuta’s own flippant nature about what would happen after Dragon was formed.
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1. Put your music player on shuffle. Give me the first 6 songs that pop up.
1. One more light - Linkin Park
2. Love story - Taylor Swift
3. Thunder - Imagine Dragons
4. New man - Ed Sheeran
5. A thousand miles - Vanessa Carlton
6. Treat you better - Shawn Mendes
2. If you could meet anyone on this earth, who would it be?
Rick Rypien, that’s for sure. If he was still on this earth, though...
3. Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 23, give me line 17:
“fuckin god, wis aboot aw ah could pick ootay the horrible sound. She collapses oantae the threadbare
couch.“ - Trainspotting. In English. I mean, “English”. haha
4. What do you think about most?
Overthinking things I can’t really do anything about.
5. What does your latest text message from someone else say?
My ex boyfriend from the USA: “nope not at all”
6. Do you sleep with or without clothes on?
With my clothes. It’s so COLD!
7. What’s your strangest talent?
I think my facial expressions. People say they like it haha.
8. Girls…. (finish the sentence); Boys…. (finish the sentence)
Girls are equal to boys. Boys are equal to girls.
9. Ever had a poem or song written about you?
Nah. I don’t think. I mean I can relate to a LOT of songs or poems, mostly about brokenhearted girls or depression, but that’s not directly about me.
10. When is the last time you played the air guitar?
When I got the guitar at the age of eight? I think? So it would beeee... about thirteen years ago now.
11. Do you have any strange phobias?
Spiders. Clowns. Heights. Tiny holes. Balloons. Slugs. Insect. Yes, nothing strange.
12. Ever stuck a foreign object up your nose?
WTF lol
13. What’s your religion?
SCIENCE.
14. If you are outside, what are you most likely doing?
Walking my dog ♥
15. Do you perfer to be behind the camera or in front of it?
Behind.
16. Simple but extremely complex. Favorite band?
Imagine Dragons, hands down.
17. What was the last lie you told?
“Sorry I didn’t reply, I fell asleep.” hahah
18. Do you believe in karma?
Of course!
19. What does your screen name mean?
blessthejets? It’s just my blog dedicated to the Winnipeg Jets. And it rhymes which I like hehe
20. What is your greatest weakness; your greatest strength?
Weakness - dogs. Any kinds of dogs. Strenght? Courage, I guess.
21. Who is your celebrity crush?
There’s million of them. But my favorite of all of them will always be Mr. Kurt Cobain.
22. Have you ever gone skinny dipping?
Naaa. I’d love to though.
23. How do you vent your anger?
I don’t really get angry very often. When I do, I try avoid people because I don’t want to hurt them by saying something inappropriate.
24. Do you have a collection of anything?
Yup. Ice hockey stuff. Cards, scarves, jerseys etc.
Do you perfer talking on the phone or video chatting online?
mhmm.. probably talking face to face.
26. Are you happy with the person you’ve become?
I’m suffering with serious mental health issues. So I’m trying to be a better person every day. So far so good.
27. What’s a sound you hate; sound you love?
Hate - morning alarm haha. Love - my dog barking out of excitement when I get home.
28. What’s your biggest “what if”?
What if I realize I didn’t live my life as I wanted? And now it’s too soon to do that?...
29. Do you believe in ghosts? How about aliens?
YES. YES.
30. Stick your right arm out; what do you touch first? Do the same with your left arm.
Right - Coca cola zero. Left - nothing.
31. Smell the air. What do you smell?
Um. Air
32. What’s the worst place you have ever been to?
Psychiatrics at Prague, Bohnice.
33. Choose: East Coast or West Coast?
Of where?
34. Most attractive singer of your opposite gender?
KURT COBAIN!
35. To you, what is the meaning of life?
FOR ME - it’s definitely dogs. Shelter dogs. Helping shelter dogs, teaching people to adopt and not to support backyard breeders.
36. Define: Art.
Everything.
37. Do you believe in luck?
Yes.
38. What’s the weather like right now?
End of the February. Sunny but god damn COLD.
39. What time is it?
12:33 pm
40. Do you drive? If so, have you ever crashed?
No I don’t drive. Because I don’t want to get in a car crash :P
41. What was the last book you read?
Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh.
42. Do you like the smell of gasoline?
Yash!
43. Do you have any nicknames?
Yeah. My name is Adéla. I get called Dee, Dede, Adel, Ady, Addie. Also a giraffe. haha
44. What was the last movie you saw?
The Gift. It was well wrapped..
45. What’s the worst injury you’ve ever had?
I don’t know if it’s considered as an injury. But probably when I overdosed with pills on purpose. Spent 13 hours in a coma, woke up in hospital, was transferred to psychiatrics.
46. Have you ever caught a butterfly?
Yes, when I was a little. Now they kind of scare me.
47. Do you have any obsessions right now?
Ice hockey, dogs, travelling, dogs, ice hockey, Swedes, blondes, dogs.
48. What’s your ?
What’s my what?
49. Ever had a rumor spread about you?
Yes. But no fucks were given during any of those times.
50. Do you believe in magic?
Yes. Harry Potter for the win.
51. Do you tend to hold grudges against people who have done you wrong?
Just for a while. I always try to give a second chance. And the third. And fourth. Until I’m fucked up again.
52. What is your astrological sign?
Gemini.
53. Do you save money or spend it?
Trying to save. But usually just spend. :D
54. What’s the last thing you purchased?
A lunch at my lunch break at work.
55. Love or lust?
Both.
56. In a relationship?
No. Who would be with a psycho like me?
57. Are you a virgin?
No.
58. Can you touch your nose with your tongue?
I can.
59. Where were you yesterday?
At work and outside with my dog. Also at home.
60. Is there anything pink within 10 feet of you?
Yeah. My hand cream on my desk.
61. Are you wearing socks right now?
Yes. I’m AT WORK!
62. What’s your favorite animal?
Fox, dog.
63. What is your secret weapon to get someone to like you?
Hahaha haahha if I knew I would actually had a boyfriend by now.
64. Where is your best friend?
She moved from our street just a little bit away. She’s with her newborn babygirl and her husband so she does not really have much free time.
66. What is your heritage?
Czech and Bulgarian. But I prefer saying just Czech because my parents got divorced when I was three. I have never even been to Bulgary. I don’t really want to, anyway.
67. What were you doing last night at 12 AM?
Doing a birthday card for my coworker who has her birthday tomorrow.
68. What do you think is Satan’s last name?
I don’t know what’s his last name but I know his kid. It’s my dog.
70. Are you the kind of friend you would want to have as a friend?
Sometimes yes. I laugh a lot and I have a great sense of humor I think. I love to laugh. But on the other hand I suffer from depression. I’d probably want to help myself and get caught into this infinite circle.
71. You are walking down the street on your way to work. There is a dog drowning in the canal on the side of the street. Your boss has told you if you are late one more time you get fired. What do you do?
I help the dog and call my boss. If they tell me that I’m being fired anyway, I don’t care. I wouldn’t want to work for someone who doesn’t care about a dog’s life.
72. You are at the doctor’s office and she has just informed you that you have approximately one month to live.
Well... I’d say thanks? Or what am I supposed to do? I tried to kill myself three months ago so I don’t really know what’s going on with my life right about now.
a) Do you tell anyone/everyone you are going to die?
No.
b) What do you do with your remaining days?
I would try to find a new lovely home for my dog. Make sure he’s okay. I would probably just won’t talk to any of my friends. I wouldn’t want to talk to my family either. I would just be stuck inside my brain, my mind. Thinking about what it’s gonna be.
c) Would you be afraid?
No. Not at all.
73. You can only have one of these things: trust or love.
Trust. I have trust issues so... that would help me mentally a lot.
74. What’s a song that always makes you happy when you hear it?
All Star by Smash Mouth (;
75. What are the last four digits in your cell phone number?
4373 (:
76. In your opinion, what makes a great relationship?
Trust. Communication. Tolerance. Laughter. Dreams about future spent together.
77. How can I win your heart?
Make me laugh. And understand please that I have some issues I need to deal with. You don’t have to, but once you win my heart and we are dating, you would have to deal with it whether you want it or not. It’s not my fault. Please understand it.
78. Can insanity bring on more creativity?
Yes. And depression brings the most beautiful thoughts - ironically.
79. What is the single best decision you have made in your life so far?
Adopting my dog. We rescued each other.
80. What size shoes do you where?
39 in Europe, 6 in UK, 8 in US.
81. What would you want to be written on your tombstone?
"Offline” lol haha. No. Probably something like “I told you I was sick.”
82. What is your favorite word?
Probably “cencúl”. It means icicle in Slovakian.
83. Give me the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word: heart.
Broken.
84. What is a saying you say a lot?
Everything happens for a reason.
85. What’s the last song you listened to?
A world alone by Lorde from Pure Heroine.
86. Basic question: what’s your favorite color/colors?
Blueee
87. What is your current desktop picture?
WINNIPEG JETS. Both on my PC at work and my laptop at home.
88. If you could press a button and make anyone in the world instantaneously explode, who would it be?
I wouldn’t.
89. What would be a question you’d be afraid to tell the truth on?
I’m pretty open. I would answer anything. Truly.
90. One night you wake up because you heard a noise. You turn on the light to find that you are surrounded by MUMMIES. The mummies aren’t really doing anything, they’re just standing around your bed. What do you do?
Mummies don’t scare me. I would just ask them what to do to become like them.
91. You accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. They were good, and what’s even cooler is that they endow you with the super-power of your choice! What is that power?
Telekinesis. That way, shit will still get done when I’m having a lazy day.
92. You can re-live any point of time in your life. The time-span can only be a half-hour, though. What half-hour of your past would you like to experience again?
When I saw my dog for the first time. When we met. When we went for our first walk outside the shelter.
93. You can erase any horrible experience from your past. What will it be?
My very first relationship.
94. You have the opportunity to sleep with the music-celebrity of your choice. Who would it be?
Well, since Kurt Cobain is not here anymore, I would choose... Lorde. Or Avriel Kaplan. Or Daniel Platzman.
95) You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere. You have to depart right now. Where are you gonna go?
Gothenburg, Sweden.
96) Do you have any relatives in jail?
Not relatives. Just my very best friend.
97) Have you ever thrown up in the car?
Yes. But it wasn’t caused by the ride. It was caused by alcohol. And it wasn’t really in a car, I told the driver to stop, then I opened the door and threw up there. Hahahahah
98) Ever been on a plane?
Not yet.
99) If the whole world were listening to you right now, what would you say?
Step 1 - Breathe in
Step 2 - Breathe out
Step 3 - STOP! HAMMERTIME!
100) Give me your top 5 favorite blogs on Tumblr.
Nah I don’t have any.
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Please, just don't leave
*Also in AO3 under MichaelLarkin. Second chapter is prolly going up tomorrow. Also Nurse has a panic attack just fyi ends fluffy tho* "Are you kidding me?? We aRE NOT FINE!" Normally Derek would do anything for this level of attention from Dex. He spent most of his days directly provoking this kind of intensity from him, because nothing felt quite as good as being the cause of that flush crawling over Will's skin. It distracted Nurse and drove him partially out of his mind, because it was so easy to imagine that flush spreading for other reasons. Reasons involving Derek's bed, and unbuttoned flannel, and pushing a white shirt up to see how far that flush spreads and how many hickeys he could suck before Will was begging him to- "Nurse!" It was lucky thing his skin didn't burn like Will's did. It was much easier to hide what he was thinking(feeling) behind a chill exterior. "What?" Because pretending ignorance had to be better than the rejection he knew was coming. Maybe not today, (please not today) If he could just make it to summer break before Will found out. Then Will would have months of time to get over it. Months for the awkwardness to blow over. Nursey could act like this was just a crush. That it is was just a fleeting fascination, a d-man thing. Nothing Will specific. Nursey could pretend there was not a Will in his head that he imagined daily (hourly, constantly) that looked at him differently. That wanted to hold his hand in public. That wanted to share a bed in the attic next year, not keep the bunks. One that would miss Derek just as desperately over breaks. Nursey could do that, even if Derek couldn't. "What do you mean what?! What the hell was that practice? Where were you out there?!" Derek winced. Ah there was the problem. The reason why he would be found out. Ransom and Holster already looked at them (at him) too knowingly. He had seen them 'discreetly' working on a new slideshow. Probably titled 'when one d-man tries to remove the bro from the bromance' Derek's crush was affecting their chemistry on the ice. He was questioning everything. 'What if I look at him too long? What if we are too in sync? What if he realizes during a game? What if they other team realized? What if Dex realizes it and Derek loses Will forever? Because what if he leaves? What if he leaves! What if he leaves-' 'What's the worst thing that can happen?' Is such a stupid question, because him leaving is the answer. An unrequited crush sucks, but at least he's there. At least there's the slim chance, the hope, the light at the end of the tunnel. 'What if he leaves me?' Is the thought that sends Derek spiraling. The reason he sees a therapist twice a week now instead of once. His panic attacks. Abandonment issues are the label scrawled across the top of every file he has ever had. Below his name. One label that changing school districts and hair styles had never changed. Better to have one night stands and shallow friends then care, because what if they leave! What if they actually get to know every fucked up thing about you and leave. What if he leaves? "Nurse... Derek?" Shit. Shit shit shit. Not here not now. He had only had a panic attack I front of one team member before (Chowder) and that had been the moment he had realized his feelings for Will. Too drunk at a Haus party too hide it anymore. Chowder had been on nursey patrol and had found him in the fetal position in the basement trying every calming exercise he knew. The only thing that has calmed him down was telling Chowder the truth. He hates the look of pity Chowder sends him now whenever Dex is particularly harsh in his chirps. "Hey! Back off Nurse is just off today. We all have our off practices." But now he could probably kiss Chris Chow (if not for Farmer or more importantly Dex he might have had a crush on him instead). As he was quickly shuffled at of the locker room and was shocked to find himself back at his dorm. He had no memory of how he got here, but he dimly recognized his mom speaking to him in Urdu. And his maman speaking in French over the phone. Both trying to get his attention and both relieved sighs when he choked out an "I'm fine... it's chill." Over the relief from the phone another sigh came from his room. He turned over expecting to see Chowder's concerned eyes and fidgety hands, but instead one William Pointdexter rested in his reading chair. The same chair Dex chirped him for every time he came to pickk him up for lunch. "I never thought I would be relieved to hear the word 'chill' from you before." Will said half smiling. It was the softest chirp Dex had ever served him, and it came from the most obvious place: pity. He knew. Derek's breath immediately changed to panicked gasps, because he thought he knew what the worst thing to happen was, but God this was worse. Pity. From Dex. Neither Derek nor Nurse could stand it. There is no shield for pity. For disgust there is anger. For leaving there is sadness, but pity. Pity is the equivalent of saying 'I care, but not enough.' And Derek cared too much. Too much to see this. Too much to survive pity from Will when he wanted so much more. "Hey. Hey. Please no shhhh shhhh. Please I can't. I don't know what to say.... please Derek... I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep." Derek was shocked. Shocked enough to quiet his breathing. Distracted out of his panicked haze. Had William Pointdexter just admitted he loved him with- "That's it right. That's your favorite poem right?" And there it was, Derek's favorite blush. The shy one that only happened when you caught Dex off guard and paid Will a compliment. It never happened on ice, but sometimes after he just fixed the dryer for the millionth time, made a pie with bitty, or helped Chowder with his calculus homework. If you were quick enough to catch him, Will would respond like this. Flushed, head ducked, all aw shucks, it did things for Nursey, soft Dex. He responded to the question with a nod. Not ready to give up the moment. Not ready for the hope to die. "Your mom's said to let them talk you out of it, and I didn't know if I could believe Chowder or not, but I wanted to do something nice for you since this is my fault." "I don't want your pity." Because of course Dex would stomp on his dream. He had to fix things, especially if he broke them. Not because he cared but because Dex saw it as his duty in life. To fix everyone's problems, but not his own. Derek was not a window that had cracked after Dex had slammed it shut. He had been cracked for a long time, and he was going was not going to let Dex fix him out of some misplaced guilt over a crack he had only deepened, not caused. 'But what if Dex shattered you? Would you let him fix you then?' There was no need for Derek to answer that question. Even to himself. He knew the truth. If Derek shattered it would be because Will wasn't there to fix him. "It's not pity. I... I thought the poem would be enough. I'm not... WORDS. Nurse.. Derek. I'm not words. You are" and then William Pointdexter kissed him. In Derek's bed, wearing flannel and still flushing leaving Derek to realize that this wasn't a day dream he could finally find out exactly How Far Down That flush spreads. "Derek!!! What happened Derek?!?!" "Did he kiss him?!" "Are they kissing?!?" "I don't know Elena shush I'm trying to find out" William Pointdexter was kissing him while he was still on the phone with his Mothers. "Wow. I didn't know you blushed." And wasn't that a very good look on Will. Surprised.... and turned on.... maybe they both could go exploring. "Derek we would rather not be the how you say... chéri how do you say... oh 'cockblock' yes that. Merci chérie." "خوش آمدید" Derek desperately sought out his phone from where he had dropped it off the side of the bed. "Mom maman we kissed. I will call you both later. Love you!" Before hanging up the phone, and looking at Will. "I love you!" Rushed out love instead of like, because Derek was the opposite of chill at this moment. Wills shocked expression stalled him and as the silence lengthened, Derek deflated. He had ruined it. He just couldn't keep his mouth shut. God. He began curling into himself trying to at least keep his breathing even. Will didn't deserve another panic attack. Will hadn't done anything wrong. Derek had messed up, and he couldn't take a response from Will out of pity. He would rather Will say he didn't love him than lie out of pity. "Hey Derek please don't do that. I have never said that to someone before. I'm not ready... I thought the poem.. I mean.. That doesn't mean... the way I feel... it.. you matter to me. Just give me a little time okay?" And there was a new look. Better than all the others. Will was looking at him as if he was special and... loved... even if he couldn't say it yet. After all Derek was words. Will was action. And he knew that what Derek really needed was a long nap, a lot of Netflix, and being taken care of after the longest (best) day of his life. And Will loved to fix things.
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