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banisheed · 1 year

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TIMING: Current LOCATION: A Latte To Love PARTIES: Siobhan and Wynne CONTENT: Discussions of cults, ritual sacrifices of flesh, body and animals SUMMARY: Siobhan wears a bone dress and Wynne experiences a case of mistaken identity that rings too close to home.

A dress made out of bones was a stupid, terrible and impractical idea…which was exactly why Siobhan needed to have one. When she’d heard that some wannabe fashion designer had put one together, she was off to steal it. When she realized that the dress was too large to fit in her duffle bag and too annoying to carry, she did what any sensible thief would do: she wore it. Thus began her current predicament: she was right in thinking the dress was impractical but she hadn’t considered just how much the ribcage of a rabbit stabing her asscheeks would hurt. She stumbled down the sidewalk, fatigue stinging the edges of her eyes. She could do this, she just needed a little liquid help. Help that would come in the form of the strongest coffee she could legally order, and maybe a pastry or two. She rattled her way through the doors of the closest coffee shop and up to the counter. “Strong,” she said, as though that was a way anyone ordered coffee. “Very strong. Lots of sugar. Do you do Irish coffee, actually?”

—

Modern fashion was strange and inexplicable, Wynne thought. Back at home, all clothes had been handmade and simple — cotton and plaid and wool. Not quite uniform, but still: there had been a throughline. Out here, though, people seemed to wear a wide array of fabrics, in combinations that dazzled and overwhelmed and most of the time, they were intrigued. They spared what cash they had left on clothing pieces they’d never dreamed of wearing. And sometimes, they thought they were going to get it: and then something like this happened. The patron that entered on this fateful day rattled with her dress and Wynne’s eyes widened. In recognition and surprise and a bit of horror too. It was almost as if they could feel lamb rib bones resting against their collarbones again. Their mouth opened, closed and opened once more. “No.” Wynne frowned at their own reply. “Um, no alcohol, I’m sorry. But we do strong.”

They stared at their hands for a moment, before punching in the order. They were too easily unsettled, they knew it — but this was too reminiscent. Not that they or the others had ever worn this many bones at once, but still. “Anything else?”

—

“What kind of an establishment doesn’t have alcohol? It’s nearly 8am, you should be serving it.” Siobhan shook her head; humanity was strange and limited by their arbitrary rules. “I will take strong. Make sure it is very strong. If I sense even a little weakness I will complain.” She was joking, just a little, but her expression remained serious. “And no milk, unless it’s sourced from a farm that treats its livestock and-or the land well. But I sincerely doubt it. So, no milk.” Coffee was not something Siobhan drank often, she had other beverages of choice. Though, with enough sugar, coffee became tolerable. She could manage with a little less if she paired it with something sweet. Which did remind her…

“Aye, can I also get a…” Siobhan whipped her hand out to point, freeing one of the bones on her sleeve. It clattered against the counter and rolled to the other side. “Sorry,” she smiled, “can you get that bone for me?”

—

Of all the lessons Wynne had learned in this so-called real world, dealing with entitled customers was one of the most annoying yet helpful ones. “I know, right?,” they agreed, even if their heart was far from in it. “I’ve told my manager we should get into it.” They nodded at all the requests, swallowing comments on cattle and mass-production of animal products (what a horrible thing!), as Wynne felt like their mind was still playing catch up with the bone attire.

Not that there was much time to do so, with one of the white-yellow things falling from the dress. Poorly constructed, Wynne gathered. What a waste. They watched the thing clatter on and on before ducking behind the counter to lay their fingers on it, bringing it up. For a moment, it laid on the palm of their hand as Wynne observed its familiarity. “Did you know that femurs are beneficial for spontaneity?” They let it roll to the tips of their fingers, extending it and flushing, slightly. “Keep that safe.”

—

“Then why has your manager not implemented an alcoholic menu?” Siobhan questioned with a harsh seriousness. “I believe you are being disrespected at your position; your manager clearly doesn’t respect your opinions and you should stab them.” She paused. “Sorry, I mean speak to them.” She did not mean that nor did she really care for the plight of minimum wage earning employees, but any change that would get her whiskey at 8am was a victory. If one poor barista had to be sacrificed to get it, then she would sacrifice the damn barista. It was that sort of ambition that had gotten her far in life and also exactly nowhere.

“I don’t need help with spontaneity,” Siobhan said, then paused again, hand frozen steadily in the air. A silent beat passed through the air, the lazy sounds of the morning muffled between the glass of the shop and the distance to the counter. “How did you know that was a femur?” Humans weren’t so good with their bones and certainly not animal bones—femurs turned to humeri, ulnae to radiuses. She took the femur from their hands, smiling brilliantly. “What’s this?” she asked, pulling another bone off her dress and then another. “Can you tell what animal they’re from too?” This barista wasn’t a fae, she knew, but it didn’t mean that they couldn’t have ties to banshee culture somehow.

—

They were a bit taken aback by the other’s words, eyebrows creasing. As if going against the wills and wishes of a superior was something Wynne was keen on doing. Despite previous bouts of disobedience, they were still fond of following rules and bending to another’s will. “Oh. Well, maybe I will talk to him about it again.” Not that they had even talked about it in the first place. It seemed this world required a lot of white lies, especially when dealing with customers. They much disliked the insinuation that they were disrespected, however, and tried to let it go by wasting no words on it.

Wynne had expected that their comment on the bone might have been met with skepticism and confusion. They get skepticism, though the confusion was all theirs when the other smiled and dropped more bones on the counter. While taken aback, they also found themself intrigued, pulled to the familiarity of once-alive things. Remnants of a life lived. “Rabbit.” They cleared their voice, turned one of the bones over with the tip of their finger. “And this is a vertebrae.” A moment of thought, but they’re not sure what kind of vertebrae. They point at the other bone. “Scapula.” That was easy. Wynne remembered the initial question posed and circled back, not out of a wish to answer but rather politeness. “I was taught by my parents.”

—

There were a few explanations for humans that could decipher animal bones from a look: bone hobbyists, veterinarians, hunters (of actual animals) and people who had read the rare classic Animal Bone Identification for the Lazy Banshee. Though, seeing how the book only had one copy and laid unfinished in her grandmother’s study, it probably wasn’t that. And how many of those humans were taught by their own parents? Siobhan was intrigued. “Does your family scream a lot?” she asked. “Were you taught the old ways?” How long had it been since she’d spoken to a banshee or banshee-related-family-member-who-will-probably-be-used-for-ritual-sacrifice (a BRFMWWPBUFRS for short)? Too many years; she’d fallen out of touch with the euphemisms. Too tired to spare a moment for reflection, Siobhan pulled her glove off and revealed the thick scar line across her palm. “Did you give blood too?” Siobhan wasn’t one for politeness, she could be cordial if the whim struck her but, after decades of mingling with humanity, the whim didn’t strike her very often. “I’m surprised you’ve lived this long, you look to be…what? In your early 20s? Did they not take your life yet? Or are you…” Maybe they didn’t know; a few BRFMWWPBUFRS’s were raised with the knowledge of their necessary gift to their sisters or daughters, but most were not. Humans didn’t like knowing that they were going to die, after all.

“I’m sorry,” Siobhan shook her head, pulling her glove back on. She wasn’t a banshee anymore, not like she used to be. Rules and traditions and secrecy were no longer meant to be in her vocabulary. It was for that reason that she didn’t think to temper her thoughts. “Did you run away, is that it?”

—

They should have lied. It could have been easy to say that they were a student in the field of animal biology or something of the sort, but Wynne had somehow offered a nugget of truth and now there was question after question. They knew their eyes were growing wide, that the trepidation that spread through them must be noticeable — they just weren’t sure how to stop it from happening. The questions were simply too pointed, too fitting for the life they had tried to abandon for them not to have some kind of reaction.

Mouth opened and closed. They nodded, “I was taught the old ways. We screamed, sometimes.” How they had screamed! Of euphoria and rage and laughter, around bonfires and dressed in dead things or even in nothing at all. Wynne tended to forget that, that they had been loud once. Their eyes were glued to the scar on the other’s hand and they shook their head, as if to say no, not yet, I was meant to give my blood, all of it, but I refused. Something in them resisted answering out loud, as if doing that would be to acknowledge that there was something true here. They tried instead to focus on ringing up the other, but the idea of asking her to pay for her coffee seemed ludicrous now.

The scar disappeared from view, hidden by cloth. The bones still remained on the counter, though. Wynne laid them in the correct order through force of habit. “How do you know?” Their voice was quieter now. Defensive, in a way. “I don’t know you.” Their gaze leveled with the other, wide-eyed yet unwavering. They weren’t sure if they were talking to the other or themself. “So how could you possibly know? Are you here to collect?” But was this it, was this where it would happen? In the coffee shop Wynne hated and loved, at the beginning of a long shift? Surely not — it would be a lousy way to meet their reckoning. “I didn’t run away. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

—

The emotions that danced on the barista’s face were a shock to Siobhan just as much as it seemed her words were a surprise to them. She nodded as they went on: yes, the old ways. Yes, the screaming. And finally, yes, collection. Siobhan eyed the barista up and down, surveying the angle of their jaw and the curve of their ears. She’d been expecting a banshee, but what did she really know about Regis? She knew Regis had run away from Saol Eile and nothing more; she was issued a command and servants didn’t ask for clarification. Siobhan’s smile sharped, a knife’s edge on either side. “I was gone before you were born but I will return again, with you, to serve Death as our birthright dictates.” Siobhan held her hands out, palms up, smiling frigidly; there was no space in her to hold warmth for an insolent, ungrateful and selfish idiot.

Her gaze moved to the swing door at the end of the counter and then to the counter itself. Should she jump over or run to the side? Siobhan stared up at the barista. “Look at how you debase yourself here. You are worth more than this. You abandoned your duty to Fate and Death and still, even a coward like you is better than all these animals. You have a place in this world. You ought to serve it.” Her hands snapped into fists as a tremor erupted across her body; a flare of anger. Regis didn’t know how good they had it. Siobhan’s penance didn’t include playing pretend at a human job with soft, unmarred skin and freshly baked goods. She lived in damp alleys. She endured the phantom pain of old punishments. She had to live with an ugliness that could never be uprooted. But together--tethered by cosmic forces beyond them--they’d been granted an opportunity for atonement.

She leaned across the counter, betraying desperation. “Take your place as the prodigal child then,” she pleaded softly. “Be received again among our family. We can reach absolution together, child.” Perfection stood just one false marble countertop away. If the barista wouldn’t come willingly, SIobhan would make them. “Come home.”

—

Wynne’s mind returned to that state it was often in: attempting to play catch up. As if life moved just a little too fast for them. As if they weren’t supposed to be here — which might be true enough. They should be ashes and bones, drained and immortalized in oil paint like all those before them. Or if not that, they should be further west or south, not in the same state, stuck in a place that had appealed to them for reasons that seemed unjustifiable now. They felt their hands fall slack to their sides, the cash register and all others in the store forgotten. Their heart climbed up in their throat.

Rationality was hard to come by as Wynne imagined this stately woman taking hold of them. They were only a few hours away from the lake. And there had been stories of deserters returning, hollow-eyed and starving — but Wynne was doing fine, no demon had come knocking, no end-of-the-world had occurred. The lake still stood. They shook their head, uncharacteristically adamant. “It’s too late. How can I serve my purpose now, when the time has passed? I rejected it. I won’t go back. There’s no use.” The blue moon had occurred and here they were, still breathing. Maybe there was a hint of regret in their tone, as this half-life so often felt hard to live: but it was being lived. Better the uncertainty of what was to come than the certainty of being dead.

And yet here was the word absolution, that promised word. A biblical word, that the elders sometimes spat on and sometimes dangled over their heads. God would never grant them as much, but Gythraul might, if they did what was asked. Wynne was quiet for a moment, before their voice betrayed them. “So they’re alive?” Their tone small, eyes inquisitive, perhaps hopeful — there was no way that they’d be received kindly, but if they were alive, they might be okay. “They’re okay? My family?”

—

“There is always time,” Siobhan smiled; she was doing her best to remain friendly. If she thought too long, too much, about Regis she would remember how much the idea of Regis made her skin crawl. All the things she had ever wanted, all the things she had broken herself for were things Regis had abandoned. And why? Didn’t Regis want perfection? Didn’t Regis want love? Home was the only place for people like them to be. Siobhan had been cast out, Regis had left. “For people like us--children of powerful forces--there is always a space for us at our home. We can go there, you and me, we can become whole again and serve our higher purpose. Isn’t that what you want?” Siobhan reached out again, eager to take the barista’s hands in her; the woman of Soal Eile often had, screaming in unison. “Don’t you seek atonement? Don’t you want to be in the place where you belong? With the people who understand you? These humans…they don’t know what it’s like to be us. They don’t know how wonderful life can be--how our bodies can be used to serve Fate. They don’t understand us, they never will. Come home.”

The barista’s worries gave Siobhan pause. Regis didn’t seem like the type to be concerned about the family they abandoned; why abandon them at all then? “I don’t know,” Siobhan sighed. “I assume…” She swallowed hopelessly at the lump that had formed in her throat. When she had betrayed Fate, her mother’s reputation was on the line. Daughters were nothing but extensions of their mothers, after all. And she had made the only decision a sensible mother could make: punish the daughter. “I don’t know, honestly. I would think…I would guess that they are…we won’t really know unless you…” Siobhan let the answer hang in the air like a guillotine. “I was told to bring you back, I can assume that they wouldn’t have bothered with that at all if your family wasn’t alive and waiting.” Siobhan’s head hung low; an honesty escaped her lips. “My mother..when I…” Her body caved in on itself and she shrunk, imagining the lanky girl that she used to be. “I was insolent; disobedient. The punishment was for me, not for her, and she cleaned herself of my sins. She is alive. She is well. So is my family. Perhaps yours is too? We look out for our kind, don’t we?”

—

They had once been good at keeping their face slack, at removing all emotions from it. Wynne had sat front-row at rituals, decorated with bones and flowers and leaves, looking tranquil as ever. Emotion had not betrayed them then, but that was when they had still easily buried it. Now it raised through their body, painting their face with confusion. They did not touch the other’s hands, staring at them instead. “The betrayer’s moon has come and gone, it’s too late.” It was too late to think of returning, to think of atonement, to consider that there was still a home to return to. Wynne swallowed. “You lie.” The words are uttered in a defiance they’d not often shown their elders, back home. Was this woman like them? Someone so wise, so well-read when it came to scripture, fluent in Welsh and all things gythraul? If so, why hadn’t Wynne ever met them? “What is there for me? Not life. Sacrifice? You want me to return home just to live with my impending death? There’s no atonement. It’s too late.” It would be a decade before the next human sacrifice. A new child had already been chosen. Wynne had held Gawain’s hands plenty of times, sat in the knowledge they both shared: that their sole purpose was to live long enough to die. “I don’t belong there.”

But how could Wynne be immune to all of this? The promise of home, the image of their parents and brother still alive and willing to welcome them with wide arms? Their breathing was shallow, their stomach tense. “What do you mean, you don’t know? You must know if they’re all dead or not. You have to —” Their mouth closed before desperation could make their words tumblr out in quick succession. There was truth in the other’s words: there was no way to know unless Wynne went back to the lake and saw for themself. They hadn’t, for months. “Who told you to bring me back?” It had to have been one of the elders. Their head shook, their eyes wide as the other seemed to betray emotion herself. Wynne wanted to cry, felt it gather in their throat. How they missed this sense of kinship and community the other spoke of. “You’re not like me. It’s different. No matter why you were cast out, and I’m sorry that you went through that, but it’s not the same.” Their bottom lip trembled. “When have they ever looked out for me? You’re lying.”

—

Siobhan had no idea what a ‘betrayer’s moon’ was, but all banshee lineages were a little different. Hers was millennia old and they had strange words for a number of things, even as they tried to modernize themselves. “You would know if I was lying—I would get hives.” Siobhan rolled her eyes, losing her patience for Regis’ antics; she ought to reach across the table and drag them back home. Yet, as the barista went on, Siobhan’s fists stopped trembling with rage. Impending death? The thought tickled her mind. Again, she looked over at the barista, eyeing them from the top of their head to the end of their apron. “Ah…” The recognition burst in her eyes, wide with the reality that laid before her. “So you are a BRFMWWPBUFRS then? I didn’t want to assume but…” Of course, the acronym when spoken sounded like jumbled nonsense and so Siobhan realized she should clarify. “They planned on killing you for someone else’s awakening?” It was true that all banshees were women. It was more true that not all banshees gave birth to daughters. What became of the other children? The idea nauseated Siobhan and as she stared at Regis, she realized just how young they were. Her family believed strongly that the children should never be taken, that was why you had fathers and friends. Not all families thought the same. What good was a BRFMWWPBUFRS except for the ‘ritual sacrifice’ part of that acronym?

The reality of their life was grim but what did it matter to Siobhan? She dreamed of this day; fantasized the sensation of her wings against her back again. She told herself that the cost didn’t matter, she would return and become whole again. Regis was so young. But who cared? Regis had life yet to live. But why should that stop her? Everyone had their role to fulfill. “You have a duty to Death.” Regis would serve theirs by dying, giving way to the world’s next banshee. Siobhan didn’t care that they looked to be in their early 20s at best. It didn’t bother her that they had feared their fate so much that they ran away. “Yes, normally people like you are expected to live more of a life and have a family but if your death needs to come early then it should and that…” Siobhan’s voice cracked. She swallowed. The barista was right, she had been lying. She said any cost was well worth it. “I won’t take you back.” But she couldn’t justify this. “Not unless your family can reach some agreement. You’re too young and it’s not right to take the child. It was my mother who instructed me to come for you, Regis, though she gave me no details. Yes, I am not like you. I am a woman. I screamed. But I have no intention of sending you to an early grave for a question that can be easily answered by patricide or getting your sister—or niece or cousin or what have you—to make a friend. Really, there’s no reason you, specifically, have to die.”

—

The way the woman held herself so casually and yet so tight with anger made Wynne hesitant, but their confusion won over time and time again. It was as if from the moment they’d run off and started asking questions, it had become second nature. To question everything. “A what?” It’s not really curiosity any more, but rather desperate confusion. Something wasn’t matching up, was it? “No, not for an awakening — we don’t subscribe to ideas of enlightenment, or any of that. I was to die in order …” They took a deep, shaky breath in, closing their eyes for a moment. They forbade their mind to go to these places most days, years of repression having made Wynne into a skilled escape artist when it came to their own feelings. “Because gythraul demanded it, because we needed to appease It.” It was impossible to say, it seemed, that it would have been for the betterment of their community — either the other knew and could see through their selfish lies, or they didn’t and Wynne could keep their evilness to themself. They swallowed. “Because it was time.” The betrayer’s moon had been close, the night of their abandonment. A waxing moon bright in the sky. It had been hungry and Wynne had been too.

Something seemed to settle. Like the ashes after a bonfire, falling on the center yard of the commune, the rest after rage. Wynne wasn’t sure whether it was a good or bad change and so held onto their breaths tightly. They wished to open their mouth, to exclaim that they did not want to die yet, that it was cruel and unfair that it was demanded of them — that the world still turned and they still breathed and no creature had risen from the cracks of the earth or descended from the sky to take them. But they’d learned not to petition for their own needs long ago and so they only did it quietly. And then things did settle, the woman reaching a conclusion that made Wynne’s breath slip from their mouth. “You’re not making sense. If they sent you, then you ought to know that it can only be me, that it should have happened already.” They shake their head, breathing in and pushing a hand against their collarbone to center themself. Wynne was distantly growing aware that perhaps not everything they had been taught was based in truth, or at least that there was more to it: but what their life had led up to was true, wasn’t it? “It is always a child! It has been that way for three hundred years. There is no agreement: there’s just me, alive, gone from them.” They shake their head again, look up with wide, fixed eyes. “I won’t go back.” The bridge was burned. Its ashes had settled.

—

Fainche Dolan had a theory about the world: all lives were tangential to each other, creating a dizzying pattern of never-ending curves and long dark lines. She swore that she could see it in the sky some days but most days she was lost along its winding trails, searching for the lives that were meant to meet hers. Siobhan never took anything her grandmother said seriously. Her mother asserted that Fainche wasn’t right in the head, whatever that meant. Siobhan had grown up watching the woman flagellate herself over dinner, the constant whip crack and tearing of flesh found a rhythm over the steady beat of forks against shitty paper plates. Fainche was troubled, yes, but she was also right. No one experience was wholly unique. All of it was tangential. Siobhan could see it now and with only a little embarrassment that she hadn’t noticed it sooner.

Siobhan didn’t know a Gythraul and the children didn’t always die and an awakening was a concept so deeply related to the core of being a banshee that to deny it wasn’t just foolish, it meant that the person she was talking to wasn’t talking about the same thing. And, of course, their way of living was much, much older than 300 years. This person wasn’t Regis, but they were something so terribly similar that even now, even after she had cleared the fog of confusion from her own mind, they were still making sense. Siobhan laughed. Her head tilted up to the ceiling and she clutched her stomach, rattling all the bones on her dress. She exploded with laughter, she barked with it. She made the glass tremble around her and didn’t care. When she was done, she swiped at a tear that had formed in the corner of her eye. “You were going to die to appease someone named Gythraul!” Siobhan clutched the end of the edge of the counter. “Gythraul! What a stupid name. Doesn’t that just mean devil? The name’s not even original. That’s so embarrassing for you.” Siobhan shook her head, taking the bones off the counter. “Can you imagine if you died for some cretin named Gythraul? I think I would sooner perish from the humiliation of ever worshiping a Gythraul.”

Siobhan, now with the bones in her hand, shook them quickly in the air. “Look, if I know anything about groups of people that worship entities that call themselves the devil, or some such nonsense, it doesn’t matter who dies. No one is that special. So you can…” She waved the bones around some more. “…rest easy knowing that your life doesn’t matter at all and that you’re going to die having worked as a barista in a coffee shop that doesn’t even serve alcohol at 8am. I’m sure Gythraul just ate someone else, or whatever happens there. Oh! Is that why you were asking about your family? Yes, maybe Gythraul ate them.” She’d meant all that as a reassurance, as the easy smile and bright tone of voice was meant to convey.

—

The other laughed, the entire shop shaking with her disrespect and Wynne wasn’t sure what shook them more: the threat of being dragged home or the way the other spat on Gythraul so easily. Back at home, such behavior would be met with repercussions the Protherians didn’t speak of but all knew about. There was no questioning the lack of name, the lack of details, the way there was no proof that any of this was necessary. To ask was to cause dissent and to cause dissent amongst a society that functioned so well with its hands clasped together? Well, that simply made no sense. And if one were to cross that line, they never would again.

“It’s not Its name, it’s Its title,” Wynne said, their voice more strong now. They might have run from the demon’s demands, but that did not mean they had abandoned all their respect in the same move. It still remained to be a powerful being that had granted fortune to their family over the centuries, after all. They stared at the other and her ignorance, the way she put it so blatantly and proudly on display. Another heathen, like so many others — but one Wynne found easier to condemn.

It would be so easy to lose themself in judgment, though. To revert to the old ways and to look down on all those who thought the Protherians fools. To spit on them and their naivete. But Wynne’s customer seemed knowledgeable, somehow. “What do you know, of communities that worship demons? Of sacrifice?” Their legs felt shaky, their fingers itching with the need for more knowledge and the equally strong fear of receiving it. They knew that there were repercussions for their abandonment – there simply had to be – but what they were was a truth Wynne had avoided. And yet here was a stranger, alluding that their family might have paid the price. How realistic a thought. Wynne forgot, momentarily, that their family had been content to watch them die too as their fingers were closing around the fake marble counter. “Who are you?” A beat. “I need to know. For the order.” A half-truth.

—

“Oh, it’s a title,” Siobhan laughed again, stifling the sound with her hand. “That’s even worse. Did your people bestow it upon Gythraul or did Gythraul do it? Because in one scenario that’s cute--” she emphasized the word sharp sweetness, equal parts patronizing and delighted. “--and in the other it’s just sad.” Siobhan picked at a piece of lint that had gotten stuck between two of the bones on her dress, stuffing the ones she was holding into her convenient dress pocket. As the barista went on, it occurred to the banshee that her conversation partner wasn’t thrilled. She couldn’t tell what emotion it was: fear masquerading as anger, ignorance playing into the hands of stubbornness. Could someone who abandoned a demon still hold its name in reverence? Siobhan cocked her head to the side, eyeing the barista.

Her lips curled upwards. “Of sacrifice, I know everything--” It was a hard statement to make as a fact, but Siobhan thought of it as the truth. She had been birthed into sacrifice, forged by it, watched it given over and over again. Every breath she took was a sacrifice she made; every word came with a cost to her. She had already been broken into shards and offered out bit by bit. What remained was not a woman, not a person, but an instrument belonging to higher powers. What did she know of sacrifice? It was a cruelty to be asked. Siobhan tore her gloves off, showing the thick scars across both of her palms once more. Slowly, she turned them over to reveal the scars that ribboned the back of her hands; the webbing across her knuckles, the carving of another’s initials on her right hand, the rivers of scars that ran without purpose and the valleys of once-perfect skin that were hidden between them. “There are ways to sacrifice a life that don’t involve death; there are avenues of worship that you cannot fathom. Every so often, a group of people like you emerges, worshiping some person or demon or idea. Sometimes the thing you fear is real, sometimes it isn’t. Eventually you fall away, the world forgets you and the thing you held with such reverence. Or your demon gets bored. But what I am? What I worship? It is always here. It will always be here. You’re not special.”

Siobhan squeezed her hands into fists. “Siobhan. Spelt like--” Siobhan’s fingers unfurled. “You know what? Just spell it however you want.”

—

They fought hard to keep their cheeks from flushing with indignation and shame. Wynne could make no sense of it, their shame in leaving the commune and how it went hand in hand with their need to defend it. “It’s just Welsh. It’s just what we call It. Its true name is only reserved for a few to know, that’s just common sense.” They would have known it, on that fateful day they escaped. It would have been their job to summon It by name, speak those secret syllables to let It know the hour was there. And then the knife would have come down and they’d have bled and never even seen it.

Their head shook in response to the others’ answer. “No, I mean — you said it wouldn’t matter to a demon, who dies? What do you mean, I’m not special?” Wynne was unable to hide their desperation, their stomach growing as tight as ever. They weren’t supposed to heed the opinions of others in regards to all of this, but the woman seemed far from ignorant. And they had always stood in the shoes of a follower, someone who took the words of their elders as truth. There had been so few guiding hands these past months. Besides, this mattered, if it was true. If they weren’t special, if their death could have been replaced by any other young or even old body … it was something their mind had played with before, the question of why them. They had asked it and met the repercussions and then never asked again. More importantly, and perhaps more harrowingly: neither had their parents. Wynne’s thoughts circled around that thought as they stared at the scars on the other’s hands. “What do you worship?” This was asked more quietly, with a trepidation. “Why would it demand this?” Even if this kind of sacrifice didn’t demand death, why did it have to exist in the first place? Wynne was tired of the thought of bleeding for another. In their naive mind, the fatigue extended to the marred skin of a customer. Even if she scared them.

Wynne took a paper cup, not bothering to ask if the other wished to have the coffee for here or to takeaway. Takeaway it would be. They wrote down Siân before starting the process of grinding beans. “I know how it’s spelled.”

—

Siobhan stared at the hypocritical creature in front of her--the compromised morals, the twisted loyalties. Why run away if they were still going to defend their little community? She watched them cling to whatever respectability they could. She saw something of herself there: how she still held her head high, spoke of fae like she belonged among them. Her body flared. She looked away. “Do you think a demon really cares who dies for it? Do you? If a train is rushing forward, does it matter who you’ve tied to its tracks? If a hungry lion needs to eat, do you think it cares what body its teeth sink into? Would a demon really care? What makes you so special? What stars were you born under that someone else could not see as well?” Siobhan faced them again. “No one is special in the gaze of Death. No one is special under the order of Fate. We are all the same, in the end. Just bodies.” Siobhan knew; she’d made this mistake before. She’d believed someone could be special--she believed Fate would acquiesce. She was wrong. This barista was wrong now. To be special was blasphemy.

“I worship Fate, Death, nature, the turn of the world and my place in it. A nebulous concept. To assign an understanding to Fate or Death would be a disservice; those forces do not act with intention. They command. They take. I give.” Siobhan pulled her gloves back on. “Fate demands nothing, Death demands nothing; to demand is to possess desire, of which they do not. These are actions taken to assure that I am serving as faithfully as I can. In truth, I can be devout without ever spilling my blood--but I can give more like this. Fate and Death exist without me, I am not so special that they require my sacrifice specifically. I am nothing but a servant to them. It is my place to be.” Her hands fell to her sides. “Or I was. I will be, again, one day. Properly.” She looked up. “Is my coffee done?”

—

Wynne felt something twist and pull in their stomach. These were just observations spoken by a stranger, ones they should disregard and not even ask after — but they scratched an itch they had been trying to ignore for months, if not years. They had purged themself of their questioning nature, bending curiosity into something more palatable. The elders could be cruel in their guidance, when met with too much skepticism. “I was born after a betrayer’s moon, that’s what marked me and –” The sentence died on their tongue. Wynne placed the cardboard cup under the espresso machine, working on the big coffee the other had requested in what by now seemed another day. If this stranger’s words were true and there was nothing about their flesh, their being, their life that was special then someone else was dead, now. Then it made sense, why the earth hadn’t ripped in two or goat’s hooves hadn’t followed them down here or there was no word of a massacre up at the lake. They found no words to answer, all energy spent on keeping their hands from trembling.

The customer’s beliefs hit close to home too, the way she spoke of the turn of the world and how people stood outside its ways. But their religion had always been marked by desire and demand. Corwyn Prothero had demanded something and so gythraul had demanded something in return and on and on the cycle went. They were just a chip in a game. “What is it called, what you believe in?” It was the only response Wynne could come up with. Their head felt light. “I hope you can return to it.” Another thing said distantly, as if it echoed. They weren’t sure if they meant it. Maybe they were all better off without any of this, like the rest of the world seemed to be. “Almost.” The smells of freshly brewed coffee were filling the air, the machine churning on.

They pulled the cup from underneath it, placing a lid on top and sliding it towards the other. It took a moment before they realized they weren’t quite done yet. “Cash or card?”

—

“Do you believe that your birth charts the course of your life?” Siobhan asked as though she didn’t believe the same principle. Her birth, during a war to a banshee, marked the course of her life so inextricably that the roadway of it haunted her. She knew what she was, what she was to become and what essence prescribed her meaning. She was not a woman, not a coffee drinker, she was the same as the girl who had been born under the stars in 1917; she was a tool of Death and a follower of Fate. Never once did her life deter from its goal, and eventually, she would return to it as though she had never left.

“I said already; I worship Fate,” Siobhan answered plainly. “Death. Their core essences and their unchanged presence. I worship the natural world and its proceedings. Not a name; not a face. Just this that already rules our lives.” The weight of it pressed against her shoulders; it dug in and made a home in her flesh. For so long, she had been banished from her people, but to them that was only a droplet in the span of their lives. She would go back. She would forget this encounter, as she would anything that happened in this unimportant town. “To live under the rule of a higher power is our calling, isn’t it? What do our lives matter anymore?” Siobhan stared at the barista, waiting for something that never came.

Across the counter, Siobhan slid the femur they had identified earlier. “For spontaneity,” she laughed before she grabbed her coffee and wiggled out of the shop--her dress was hard to move in, after all. She had to go one leg after the other and looked more like a crab than a humanoid.

She trusted that the barista understood that it wasn’t a matter of cash or the card she clearly had in her pocket, but the things that needed to be done to cling to an identity that faded with each passing day.

#i love marin and i love wynne #all hail gythraul #petition for wynne to be the new gythraul signatures here pls #1 like = 1 wynne as the new cult leader #(thank you marin 4 this fun time)#skeleton of a rabbit #writing #s1 #c: wynne

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yehet-me-up · 3 years

Text

Reboot

Pairing: Jongdae/Chen x reader (female)

Word Count: 26,971 😬 read it in a mobile web browser if it crashes!

Rating: (PG13) for swearing + sexy vibes (nothing more explicit than a kiss on the page though)

Summary: Chen’s Electronics is a mystery, both how the store came to be and the man running it. When you start working as a receptionist for the enigma that is Kim Jongdae, you’re determined to be the one who unravels the mystery. You’re prepared for anything, except for falling in love with Jongdae himself.

Part eight of the Exodus Mall series (Can be read independently, but you’ll get some extra backstory if you read the other parts first!)

A/N: I’m SO delighted that Jongdae is getting his IRL happily ever after and I’m so excited to wrap up his fictional counterpart’s story today, so he can have his ending as well 💕

March 15th, 1997

Capitol Hill is in full swing, the promise of spring drawing the sleeping city from its winter hibernation. The silver dress you wear is far shorter than you're used to, but the denim jacket is big enough to properly cover your ass, which is something at least. In your platform boots, borrowed from your roommate Liz, you're almost tall enough to see over the busy street to Cal Anderson Park up ahead.

'Come on,' Liz says with an excited glint in her eye. 'The club's just on the far side of Boylston.'

You nod distantly, eyes wide as you try to take in all the people around you. After spending the last two years buried in a book in the UW library or at internships or in class it feels startling to realize how much youthful, passionate energy beats at the heart of the city so close to where you've been existing. Not that you never go out, but now that you’re approaching the end of your master’s degree you feel like a diver finally reaching the surface to draw breath. You’re ready to celebrate.

A door opens to your right and music surrounds you. An impassioned man sings about an even flow, accompanied by an aggressive drummer and what you can tell is skilled guitar playing. The people on the sidewalk beside you press in, screaming and cheering and trying to shove their way into a club. A faded sign above announces it as Moe's Bar.

Your roommate's hand finds yours and she pulls you out through an opening in the crowd.

Once you’re free again you laugh and brush your hair behind your ears. Dozens of other clubs and bars and late-night restaurants you pass are the same. Men with mohawks in every color of the rainbow. Women in combat boots with plaid jackets tied at their waists. A group of teenagers skateboard down Broadway, hollering into the night as they fly by, the clack of their wheels muffled by the lingering rain dampening the streets.

Everyone seems taken by the revelry. It would be so easy - to disappear into the thriving mass of people celebrating music and community and being alive. Now, with graduation so close you can finally taste it, you surrender to the sensation. Tilting your head back you look at the round full moon above, peeking out through the clouds, and give a joyful, if tentative, howl.

This makes your roommate turn and squeeze your hand. Liz smiles with pride. 'Now that's the spirit!' she says with a fist pump and howl of her own.

The nightclub is unassuming, especially amongst the neon and metal venues you passed to get here. Two simple brass lamps spotlight the enormous carved wooden doors. Bass thumps from within, the slight rattling of the doors is the only indication that life exists within. Shari’s reads the hanging sign.

Liz practically glows under the lights, a North star leading you into a whole new world.

After so many years of keeping your nose to the grindstone - success gained through effort rather than extraordinary intelligence; advanced classes, extra college courses during the summer, every extracurricular you could pack in before you cracked, a high school diploma by sixteen, bachelors by twenty and MBA by twenty two - you would follow her anywhere as long as it didn't involve studying or a business suit.

She guides you through the heavy wood door into a small entry room. A large man with so many piercings he'd have a terrible time at the security scanners at the airport checks your IDs. It's stayed in your wallet, practically untouched, since the official one came last year on your twenty-first birthday.

Finally inside the club you bite your lip to hide a wide, giddy smile of excitement. Bodies fill the dance floor, joyously swaying to the beat. A DJ booth rises from a far corner like Sauron’s tower in the Lord of the Rings. A man with dark hair that falls in his intense eyes runs the booth; a king commanding his loyal subjects.

Liz finds her group of friends from the mall she works at spread over two successive tables with circular cushioned benches behind them. Their names and faces blur together in the low lighting, but everyone is welcoming, offering you a smile or a shake of a hand. A cheerful blonde-haired man, who you swear says his name is Bacon, takes you and Liz’s coats and purses and adds them to an overflowing pile beside him.

Before you can even think of sitting down Liz guides you onto the dance floor. Normally you’re the one in control. The one with the plan. The group leader or the one who organized the debate team fundraiser/supply closet at work/networking mixer. But it’s… nice, not having to be the center of everything, keeping it together with your effort alone.

She gives you a teasing smile as if she can read your thoughts and you roll your eyes with a laugh. ‘No overthinking this!’ she commands with a raised brow as you find a good spot.

As if I have any other way of thinking. ‘I promise nothing!’ you shrug and smile at her.

Your movements are slow at first, awkward, and you laugh to yourself with amusement. Self-deprecation has never been your poison. Along with an unshakeable drive to make something of yourself you've always had a healthy sense of self-esteem. Who cares if you aren't the best dancer?

You get into the swing after the second song and shake your ass with delight at the energy in the room and the incredible job the DJ is doing loosening you up. He’s remixing “Semi-Charmed Life” with an older techno hit you don’t recognize.

Before long Jongin, Liz’s crush and co-worker from the KOKO exercise studio, captures her attention and you end up dancing with Baekhyun (tragically not actually named Bacon) and a girl who calls herself Hitchcock. You recognize each other from a seminar last school year at UW and take a long break to catch each other up on your lives over shots at the table.

She tells you about her dual jobs at Microsoft and the movie theater at the Exodus Mall. You fill her in on your thesis project and she offers to look over your resume as you plan to apply to a similar track at the tech giant after you graduate.

When Liz said she was forcing you from your obsessive, ahem dedicated, studying for your research paper you didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t all of this. Reconnecting with a friend. A potential foot in the door at your dream job. Dancing so much that your back gets slick with sweat. Laughing with Liz so hard your stomach aches as Baekhyun attempts to breakdance, nearly falling backwards into no less than four people.

As if the night couldn’t get any better, something else catches your eye. Someone else - the DJ steps down from the booth on a break.

His black pants, white shirt, and tie would be overly formal and out of place in the nightclub, but his pushed-up sleeves reveal muscled forearms. The neon yellow sunglasses and loose piano pattern of the tie he wears make him look sexy, in an off-duty retro businessman kind of way. His face reveals none of his emotions as he slips off his shades, tucking them in his jacket pocket. But the corners of his lips tilt up with amusement as he scans the room.

Clearly he’s impressed with the atmosphere he’s created here tonight. As he should be, you think. You imagine for a moment what it would be like if he noticed you. If this was a meet-cute or the start of something. But his focus is on the bar now, not lingering on you or anyone else in the club. Dating for you was a rocky road and absolutely nothing like the way it looked in the John Hughes movies that were your guilty pleasure growing up.

Between your parents' support and your own innate thirst for success, you always felt like an outsider in terms of relationships. Extroverted and empathetic enough to make and maintain friendships, but boys were tougher. You could never figure out dating to your satisfaction in high school and you left when most of your peers were just finishing up Sophomore year.

In college there was hope. Studious and hardworking men with glasses and a love of Emily Dickinson and black coffee. Law school-bound guys who rowed crew and whose confidence was just on the right side of attractive instead of insufferable. John Cusack types with easy smiles and crates of vinyl they carefully collected, who performed at the Comedy Underground in hopes of ‘being discovered.’

It was both thrilling and irritating. You went after dating with almost as much determination as you did your school and career, set on experiencing everything possible.

But the English major wanted someone in a pastel dress and tights, who volunteered at an animal shelter and didn’t eviscerate him at Scrabble. The future lawyer was looking for his future trophy wife, to stand beside him at fancy dinners and fraternity mixers. And the Lloyd Dobler wannabe needed a muse, a beautiful and ethereal woman to be his object of longing, to laugh at his jokes and pass through life without worry about the future.

Not that you were jealous, or even bitter. Just because you weren’t what they were looking for wasn’t anything personal and you never took it like it was. The women they wanted existed and were wonderful in all their own ways. But it grated at you, how you always felt like a square peg in a round hole. Never being the right fit.

All your life you’d gotten used to knowing, and getting, what you wanted. It was insanely frustrating to not have found anything that stuck. Failure in any form made you frown, but thankfully romantic mishaps always took a backseat to school, friends, and your future, so it was easy to ignore. Until now.

The DJ passes close enough to you and Liz that you can see the echoes of dark circles under his eyes and the rich brown of his hair in the passing neon lights. For some reason that same intuition, that same hunger and drive that had propelled you to awards and scholarships and countless other successes, tells you to follow him. Whatever it is about him, your body and your desire react before your mind and conscious rational thought.

'I'll be back,' you yell to your roommate over the music. She nods and gives you a thumbs up as she's drawn into Jongin’s embrace once more.

Like a missile you weave through the crowd, target in sight. You watch as the DJ leans against the end of the bar, carefully positioning himself so he's at the end with no one behind him. You wonder if it's out of a dislike of people sneaking up on him or if he's a predator, sizing up the crowd.

With a casual hand he orders a drink from the bartender and surveys the crowd coolly. Too high on life to care too much, you take the seat two over from him, carefully avoiding eye contact, feigning nonchalance. ‘Self-possessed,’ that’s how your fifth grade teacher described you. Independent and old beyond your years. It always thrilled you, the praise and respect of adults. You wanted to earn more of it, to be seen as capable and mature.

But something about the man beside you makes you feel younger. Raw and playful in a way you’re not sure you’ve ever been before.

Admiring the cut of his jaw, you imagine kissing it. His hands on the bar are graceful, strong, befitting his profession. You want him and you want him to want you. The thought makes you inhale a deep breath, not even sure what that would mean. Adrenaline and delight fill your mind and you briefly fantasize about him holding you close on the dance floor like Jongin does to Liz. His hands on your hips and his mouth teasing your neck.

The bartender reappears on your side of the bar, his bald head gleaming in the lights of the club, and you snap back into reality. The flames tattooed across his knuckles shine as he slides a drink down the length of the bar, towards the DJ. An impulsive, reckless daring you've only ever felt before at debate tournaments makes you reach out and catch the glass of dark liquid before it can reach its desired recipient.

In one smooth motion you lift it to your lips and turn to meet the DJ's deep brown eyes. With a smirk you raise the glass. In two gulps you down the drink, the bourbon burning its way down your throat, reminding you how good it feels to be free, to be alive.

To challenge someone who feels like a decent opponent.

He watches you, his eyes flaring with surprise before fading back to indifference. He looks like a tiger in a cage at the zoo, pacing in front of a glass divider. His fingers tap impatiently on the lacquered bartop and he tilts his head, watching as you lick the moisture from your lip, savoring the taste. You wonder if he'd be just as heady and strong on your tongue.

You have the feeling that with the slightest pressure in the right place and the glass would shatter, unleashing the beast within. The thought makes you clench your thighs together, a heat filling you that has nothing to do with the people pressing in on you trying to get the attention of the bartender.

The DJ seems just as self-contained as you are. A voice inside you whispers of unstoppable forces meeting immovable objects and you wonder which of you would cave first.

Before you can say anything, before you can even wipe the satisfied smile off your lips or ask his name or offer to pay for the drink, he drops a bill to the counter and slides off the stool. He pushes into the crowd, disappearing as if he'd never been there. As if he hardly noticed you.

But you didn't miss the interest, the arousal, the animal within him rising to your challenge. He slinks back up to the DJ booth and resumes his position of power, thirst unquenched.

You don't know his name, or anything about him. Aside from the fact that the way he looks at you feels so wrong it's right, and that his hands are the first ones you've ever wanted wrapped around your waist so badly you can feel it beating in your palms.

But you know one thing, as you rejoin your roommate on the dance floor, whatever has started between you and the enigmatic DJ isn't finished.

May 21st, 1997

You straighten your blazer, looking in the mirror to make sure your outfit is perfect. It’s not your first interview this week and it certainly won’t be the last, but it is the one you’re the most curious about.

The position as a receptionist and accountant for an electronics repair store isn’t exactly how you pictured your first job after getting your MBA, but the pay and the opportunity to work alongside the enigmatic tech genius Kim Jongdae is a chance you can’t pass up.

All that’s left is the graduation ceremony in June and then you’re free. Your final exams are done, your thesis is defended, and you’ve completed a thorough and perhaps slightly obsessive spreadsheet documenting all your connections who might have an in at your most desired companies. Now knee-deep in the process of interviewing for jobs it strikes you all of a sudden that this is what you’ve been working for… almost all your life.

The lighting in the bathroom of the mall is stark and a moment of uncertainty makes your knees weak.

Since your test results in elementary school came back top of the class it’s been the same refrain. Get good grades. Impress your teachers. Study and diversify your interests and push harder every year and eventually it will all pay off, right? You’re damn proud of what you’ve done, but now, here in the after, all you can think as you watch your own reflection is - now what?

Frowning, you wonder how many other applicants there are for this job. Anyone in the tech circle in Seattle knows about Jongdae. Rumors abound that he was set to be the next Bill Gates when an investment deal went south. Or that he was kicked out of Harvard for embarrassing his professors with his superior smarts. Someone in your Econ seminar once told you she’d heard that he was contracted by the NSA to spy on foreign hackers.

Whatever his history, he currently runs a computer and electronics repair store in a very unassuming mall in Capitol Hill. You want to stand out, and what better way to do so than the track down the mystery of Kim Jongdae, the prodigy turned hermit. You infuse your veins with confidence, knowing you can handle anything thrown at you. Or so you think.

The mall is quiet and peaceful in the mid-morning on a Wednesday. A couple of tables in the food court are filled with older men and women playing cards and board games. A group of moms walks past you talking about a storytime at the bookstore in the mall.

The slow and steady hum of activity in here is a far cry from where you thought you’d be working. Professors encouraged you to head to IBM or Oracle. With your skills, business sense, and intuitive ability to pick up each new trend in technology they told you that you would have your choice of opportunities.

But while you’re no stranger to hard work and a competitive work environment, the idea of clawing your way to the top of yet another group of high achievers just sounds… awful.

You long to travel, to finally see some of the exotic and culturally rich places you’ve stuck photos of to your fridge. You want to be able to actually go out on the weekends and see your friends. Whatever your future holds you want to finally enjoy your life outside of school and work, even if it’s only for a year.

You could always recognize the friends who were interning at Amazon because they looked like they’d come off a week of no sleep. Many of your fellow MBA graduates were flocking there, as the company finally went public earlier this month. But something just felt - off to you. Like a canary in a coal mine.

Purpose, fulfillment, financial security, and a challenging work environment? Yes.

Burnout, no free time, and living and breathing for ‘the company’? No, thank you.

At the salary Jongdae had advertised you could easily continue to afford the apartment you shared with your two roommates and work on paying off the remaining student loans your scholarships hadn’t covered. And you could hide away a small amount of your check every month for the trip to Amsterdam you’ve been planning for years.

The gentle music in the wide, bright lobby of the mall makes you sigh in relief. This job is a win-win and you’re more determined than ever to get it.

You finally see the shop. If you weren’t looking for it, you’d have missed it between the black and neon purple exterior of KMS Music and the narrow security office tucked behind the lively pizza restaurant. There’s a line winding its way in front of the music store and you assume it’s for an album release. Until you realize that the line is leading straight where you’re going and stop in your tracks.

Chen's Electronics. The mall is full of colors and bright shop fronts. But this is almost bleak in comparison, as though it's resisted the outright displays of joy and liveliness that seem to be at the heart of the mall. The sign is red neon against a black and steel facade. A simple poster hangs in one of the two wide windows that frame the door.

We do: - Hard Drive Repair - Internet Connectivity Issues - Computer virus protection - Turntables, record players, and other portable home audio systems - Radios - POS/credit card system repair (For stores in the Exodus Mall only)

We do not: - Sell computers or computer parts. Don't ask.

You raise a brow at the last note. The harsh exterior of the store and the brusque tone definitely match with what you've heard of Chen's Electronics - that the man who runs it is a computer genius, but that his bedside manner leaves much to be desired. Perhaps that's why the job posting emphasized 'superior customer service skills.'

The line you join grows, others coming in behind you, and you wonder if Jongdae told everyone the same 10am time frame or if he staggered interviews throughout the day. As you wait the line slowly dwindles. A woman leaves crying a few minutes later, and you watch her go with surprise and attempt to peek into the store. You’re still too far back to see in, so you’re left to wait and wonder.

Finally you’re next, waiting just outside the store. A printed piece of paper is taped to the door. CLOSED FOR INTERVIEWS it says in big, bolded letters.

The tall man who was ahead of you in line isn’t visible at either of the two work stations set up inside the shop. There must be a back room of some kind. You take the moment to check out the space. The store is organized chaos. Rows of shelves line each of the two walls, full of equipment - computers in various states of disassembly, old transistor radios, a VHS player, a few turntables, and endless coiled stacks of cords interspersed.

The walls above them and the two walls behind the work stations, on either side of the hallway leading to the back, are blank. No advertisements or personalized touches to make the business seem welcoming. Just bland, empty beige walls. One desk has only a computer, keyboard, and mouse. The other is full of parts and tools that extend over the desk to not one, but two shelving units behind it. Like Jongdae was in the middle of a project and the interviews are a rude interruption.

A muffled angry shout comes from the back, behind the gray curtain hung up over the entrance to the rear of the store. The tall man moves it aside with a sneer as he charges across the floor. With a voice practically a growl he shoves open the door and you jolt back to avoid being hit.

He looks you up and down and shakes his head. ‘Good luck. You’ll need it.’

After a last straightening of your jacket you swallow and push through the door. It's quiet inside, almost reverent, as the door closes behind you. The fluorescent lighting overhead isn't the most welcoming and the tan carpet is terribly dated. No one comes to meet you. The man on the other side must be waiting, like a dragon in his lair.

Your hand closes over the strap of your purse and you hesitate at the curtain, not wanting to move forward without being invited. 'Hello?'

Footsteps come down the short hallway and a hand appears, moving the curtain out of the way to reveal a man. Your jaw almost drops. Oh, shit. It's not at all who you were expecting the famed Jongdae to be - a studious man with glasses and a bad tie.

No, this man is handsome in an aggressive way. His black hair is styled back in a neat wave. His high cheekbones and strong brows hold no humor or friendliness. Only the catlike upturn of his lips stands in rebellious contrast to his unwelcoming face.

This isn't the first time you've seen this face either, you realize, and it's like being run over by a train. He seems to connect the dots at the same moment and his eyes widen, eyebrows raising. It’s the DJ from the bar. The drink. The - oh, god.

He presses his mouth together, smothering his surprise and sitting down harshly in the chair at the crowded desk in the main room. 'What are you doing here?' He keeps his voice tightly contained, not minding in the least that the other potential job candidates are surely watching you both right now.

You give yourself a small shake and remember you're not here to hit on him. You're here for a job. 'I have an interview.'

Best case is ignoring the whole thing. It didn’t happen. Not here in the light of day. His poker face might be good, but yours is better. You keep your breathing even and hope that the racing of your heart isn’t making your cheeks red.

He tilts his head to the side, pressing his lips together in amusement. ‘Alright then.’ Turning to the side he stands and holds the curtain open, allowing you to pass by him into the small office behind.

Holding his focus, you pull out the chair in front of the desk and sit down. You place the resume and references on the table between you and fold your hands on your lap, waiting.

Jongdae takes his place opposite you as he slides the papers across the desk. His eyes dart faster than you can imagine anyone reading. He doesn’t seem flustered, but the tips of his ears are just slightly pink, his nose flaring a bit too much, and you realize he’s just as caught off guard as you are.

Finally, he finishes. 'I… don't think this is going to work.' He looks up, his hand resting on your paperwork on the desk. His face gives away nothing, but his eyes are wild and full of emotion you can’t decipher.

'Why is that?' You keep your voice steady, determined. He’s not going to dismiss you so quickly. Realizing the DJ and the tech wunderkind are one in the same has only heightened your desire to show him you’re the best person for the job.

Jongdae stares at you. This time, there's heat in his expression. You feel his eyes move over you, not taking in the professional attire, but clearly remembering the dress you wore from the club instead. 'I think you know why,' he says under his breath.

Clearing your throat you lean forward, drawn to him by some force you can't define. Like something is shoving you towards this job. 'I don't know what you mean. The posting was for an office manager and bookkeeper. I'm qualified in both and I have plenty of experience. Are you really going to decide I’m not a good fit without even asking me a single question?'

He groans and runs a hand through his hair, his composure faltering for an instant. 'Why do you want this position? You know nothing about me.'

He states it like a fact, not an opening for discussion, but you jump on it anyway. 'I know plenty.'

Satisfaction blooms in your chest when he narrows his eyes, raising a brow. 'I do my research, Mr. Kim. I’m top of my class at UW and I didn’t get there by accident. With such a small team I could get a far broader experience than I could being just another cog in the machine at Microsoft. I might not know you personally, but your reputation precedes you. I plan to excel in the tech industry. And to do that, I need to work with the best. Simple as that.'

'And I'm the best?' He leans back in his chair. Resting his elbow on the armrest, he drags a finger across his lips in appraisal.

His quick responses remind you of the competitive tennis you played growing up. The way it felt to thrive when paired with an equal opponent, someone who could match your speed and precision. Someone who gave as good as they got. How it made you better, sharpened your skills and reflexes up against someone who you couldn’t easily defeat.

'Are you trying to tell me you're not?' You cross your arms and look around, feigning surprise and curiosity. 'If you tell me who is, I'll happily go apply to be their office manager.'

He almost laughs in amusement. You can feel it. But he covers it as a cough instead and tilts his head to the side, sizing you up. 'And you know what this job entails?'

You repeat it easily from memory. 'Being the face of the business. Greeting walk-in customers. Helping them figure out if what they need is something we do. Conferring with you about pricing. Scheduling service appointments over the phone. Processing payments. Ordering supplies. Occasional advertising assistance. Other assorted duties as needed.'

'That about sums it up.'

In the charged silence you hear the muffled noises of the mall - children squealing with delight, orders being called out at the pizza restaurant next door, people talking - but it's all separated. You wonder if the distance is intentional. Many stores have roll up gates or at least have their doors propped open to draw in customers. But not Jongdae. It’s almost as though he’s actively trying to keep visitors out.

You favor boldness and decide to push him, what have you got to lose? 'So, when do I start?' Leaning forward, you give him a relaxed smile. ‘Unless you’d like to terrorize a few more applicants before you choose me? I’m happy to wait, Mr. Kim. But you can’t scare me away. And you don’t intimidate me.’

With equal decisiveness he cracks a lopsided grin and shakes his head, with both amusement and resignation. 'How's now for you?'

You give a passing thought to the other jobs, the ones you’d already interviewed for and the ones on your schedule over the coming days. They all go up in a whiff of smoke as you extend your hand across the table to shake Jongdae’s hand.

‘Now is perfect.’ His palm is warm against yours and you do your best not to react to the contact, but you can’t help the soft sigh that escapes you.

Jongdae withdraws his hand quickly, and you note with pleasure that he seems a bit shaken as he stands. ‘I’ll be right back. You can leave your things here.’ He motions to the coat hooks on the wall by the door and the tall, thin bookshelf with a few cubby slots.

Aside from a black scarf and a few extra office supplies on two of the shelves the rest of the space is empty. You wonder what he isn't saying. 'What made you want help, all of a sudden?’ He pauses and turns back to you. ‘From what I can tell you've been in business for a few years. Why now?'

He sighs. 'I'm too busy to keep doing this by myself.'

'Ah. And you hate that, don't you?'

The ghost of a smile graces his lips. 'Yes.'

Jongdae disappears through the curtain. You follow him after putting your coat on a hook and your purse in one of the spotless cubbies. The rest of the space contains a few filing cabinets, stacks of boxes, and a small safe resting on a narrow table.

When you appear back into the hallway you see a door to the left that must lead out the back. And on the opposite side is an archway with a kitchen sink, a microwave, a small fridge, and a few cupboards inside, along with a small circular table. The table has only one chair. You smile to yourself. Clearly he's accustomed to doing everything by himself.

When you emerge the other applicants are dispersing as he peels the taped sign off the door, balling it up in his hands.

Jongdae gets you set up on the computer at the other desk. It’s a relatively simple customer management software and payment system, both of which you pick up in no time. He runs you through the pricing list, pulling a laminated form from the top drawer. His filing system for customer accounts is simple and alphabetized.

Neither of you speak about that night again, but oh, do you feel it - the electricity between you when he stands too close or you meet his eyes.

Until lunch he alternates between training you and assisting customers who come in every so often. It's all straightforward, nothing you haven't managed before, and by the afternoon you're already scheduling appointments in the large old-school appointment book he keeps open to the current week.

Despite the passion and intensity in the music he plays, he keeps an even keel throughout his day job. It's almost as if you went to sleep last night and somehow woke up as someone who's worked here for years. Before closing at 5:30 he remembers other things and hands you a packet on the way out. Tax forms, an employment agreement listing the salary and benefits, and a non-disclosure form. Most of it is standard, but you wonder what kind of secrets he needs to protect at an electronics store.

You gather your things and wait outside while he closes down the shop, turning off the lights as he goes. It’s still quite sunny outside and with a shock you realize that there’s nothing waiting for you, now that the work day is done. No papers to write or projects to finish or internship to head to. The idea makes you feel unexpectedly buoyant, and when Jongdae steps out to lock the doors you give him an easy smile.

He returns it, giving you a small one of his own in response. ‘So, I normally take Tuesdays off and keep the shop closed. Wednesdays are normally pretty slow. How does Thursday through Monday sound to you? I know today is Wednesday, so if you wanted to take tomorrow off instead that’s fine with me.’

‘I’m happy to come in tomorrow.’ You want to wince at the eagerness in your voice, but instead you stand firm, holding your purse in front of you with both hands.

Jongdae slides his hands into the pockets of his jacket and nods, looking at you for a long moment before speaking. ‘Sounds great, I’ll see you then.’

You nod at him too, turning back towards the department store to head out to your car. After a beat you look behind you and see he’s still watching. His gaze is unfocused on the floor before he shakes his head, seeming to come back to himself. He heads the opposite direction, towards the movie theater. In a few seconds he’s disappeared behind the pizza place, out of sight.

Jongdae takes the longer route home today. His apartment overlooking Lake Union is the one he grew up in, his grandfather’s place. When he passed away a year ago he left it to Jongdae and it never occurred to him to move. He walks along the water, breathing in the early summer air, wanting to laugh at himself. How long has it been since he let himself be impulsive? To act on instinct. To want something.

He’d settled into a routine these past few years, since everything changed after graduation. Working at the store. Reading. Playing Go and chess with his grandfather and the other older men that lived in the building. They’d go fishing out on the peninsula or to the local symphonies that his grandfather loved. Routine had saved him when his world fell apart once, but now, with his grandfather’s absence, he’s not sure how to pick up the pieces anymore.

The seagulls on the pier are loud today, hungrily gobbling up the bread and Ivar’s french fries tossed to them by the kids gathered around. They giggle and laugh, running to their parents for more offerings. Jongdae frowns for a moment, the sadness that he doesn’t often acknowledge creeping into his heart.

His parents were gone before he really even had a chance to know them. His father to lung cancer, from the awful smoking habit he picked up in the Navy. His mother moved back to Korea to be with her family, unable to cope being in the city without her husband. Jongdae didn’t blame her, but the distance grew and they drifted apart as he became an adult himself.

Jongdae’s father’s father settled here after World War Two, along with a few of his friends. From what he remembers there wasn’t a discussion about it after the funeral - if he’d stay or go back to Korea with his mother. One day when he was young he knew his father had passed. His mother left. And with two duffle bags slung over his shoulders and little Jongdae in his arms his grandfather had moved him into the apartment with the pretty view of the water.

And that’s the way it was, ever since.

In school his friends might have joked that Jongdae was an old man himself. Doing the New York Times crossword puzzle on Sundays, getting his hair cut at the same hole-in-the-wall barber shop in Chinatown as his grandfather, and hanging out with more octogenarians than people his own age. But he loved his grandfather and the two of them were so close that he never stopped to question whether he should change to fit in with the rest of his classmates.

The only aberration came when he started DJ-ing at eighteen. The crowd he fell in with and the partying he did was short lived; they crashed and burned, went up in flames. Everything else faded as quickly as it had come, but the club scene was his escape and it stayed with him.

These days it feels like the only time he recognizes himself, now that his grandfather is gone, too. Until you walked into his store today, that is. You looked him dead in the eyes, unafraid. Just like the night all those weeks ago in the club when you came up to him, flirted with him and challenged him.

He doesn’t know how to move on with his life.

He doesn’t know what’s next.

But wanting you, inviting you into his life, is going to change everything. He knows it in his bones and for once change excites him, instead of frightens him.

June 18th, 1997

For an achingly slow two hours on Thursday the only sounds in the shop are your typing and Jongdae’s tools hitting the metallic insides of the radio he’s fixing. You should be processing yesterday's supply orders. Or cleaning up the books to get everything ready for the days' billing before you make a run to the bank.

But instead you watch in your periphery the way the muscle in Jongdae’s jaw moves when he's focusing. How his brows pull together and his lower lip sticks out slightly, making him look as though he's perpetually pouting. You wonder if you would have gotten along with him in school. If he was always so... uptight. Or if he was freer, looser. Not that you’re the picture of ease yourself, but he seems to almost vibrate with tension.

You watch as he turns back to the computer, his fingers fly across the keyboard and you admire the absolute focus he shows toward the screen in front of him. The past few days he’s handled repairs and projects for businessmen and women, families, and two gentlemen in suits that screamed ‘government’ to you. He could be repairing a nuclear warhead in front of you and you imagine his expression would remain the same.

His standard white button-up shirt bunches around his biceps while he works. A mischievous part of you wonders what it would take to make his robotic exterior crack again. What it would take for him to show joy or anger or arousal. Emotion from him is a precious, rare thing and you want to grab them when they do show, holding them tightly as proof they exist.

You jolt, realizing the unintended destination your thoughts have arrived at. Arousal. Where did that come from? With a cough and a shake of your head you refocus on the financial statements in front of you.

If you hadn't seen him that night at the club you'd have wondered if he ever enjoyed himself. He wasn't smiling that night, but the music and the dancing and the palpable energy seemed to soften the hard lines of his face. You want to see more of that Jongdae, the one that feels so much closer to who he really is, underneath it all.

However he started in this business, in the tech scene, he works away at it as though it's his sole purpose in life. He's clearly talented enough to fix anything, code anything. You’d asked him last week how he knows what to do, as you looked into a complicated mess of wires sticking out of a broken CPU as though it were gibberish.

All he’d said, in a gruff voice, was that his grandfather liked to tinker and take things apart before putting them back together, to see how they worked, and that he’d picked up the habit.

'Why do you work by yourself?' The sound of your voice is much louder than intended, breaking the hush in the store. You want to swallow the words, unsure why you didn't stop them from escaping. Instead you bite the skin on the inside of your cheek and watch as he lifts his head to look at you.

Jongdae raises a brow. 'As opposed to?'

You stop typing and lean back in your chair. 'You could have worked for anyone, I bet. After you graduated college. I’ve heard a few of the rumors about you. It sounds like you could have done anything you wanted. What made you want to start your own business?'

He mirrors your pose. 'What makes you think I went to college?'

You blink. For so long your parents' idea of a prosperous life - good grades, extracurriculars, graduate from a top college, get a lucrative, secure job - had been so ingrained that it surprises you to imagine that someone like him didn't go to school. 'You didn't?'

He smiles, the dimple appearing briefly in his cheek. 'Alright, fine. Yes, I did. I went to M.I.T. and I, uhm, graduated at seventeen.'

'Seventeen?' The competitive drive that buried itself in your bones early on wants to prove itself to him, awed by the size of his intellect.

'With my PhD.' He winces. Just for a moment, but you catch it.

'Oh,' you say with a stunned laugh.

He goes back to work with a quick shake of his head and a sigh. 'Yeah, that right there is why I don't tell people.'

You’re surprised by his assumption that you’d view it as a bad or repulsive fact. 'It's amazing. You should be proud of it. Why would you want to keep that a secret?'

His lip pouts again and irrationally you think about what it would be like to kiss him. 'Because now you'll look at me differently. Like I'm some kind of freak of nature.'

'I don't think it makes you a freak.' Your answer is immediate and emphatic.

'Oh really?' He gives you a side-glance, keeping his tone neutral.

'No, it makes you a genius. And intelligence is never a bad thing. Quite the opposite, in fact.' It does nothing to help the attraction you feel for him. Rather than dousing the flames, it pours gasoline on them.

'Tell that to -' he stops himself, pressing his lips together. The bitterness in his voice makes you jerk back in your seat. ‘Nevermind. It was a long time ago. Forget I said anything.’

But you can fill in the gaps, no stranger to the judgement of others. 'Clearly you need better friends.'

He blinks, vulnerability filling his eyes. 'Like you?' His expression softens and he gives you a half-smile.

You blush, realizing what it must look like that you’re so passionate about defending him. 'Sorry, I didn't - all I mean is that it’s attractive.’ You curse yourself and cough delicately, trying to appear impartial. ‘An attractive quality. I just got my master’s and I thought I was advanced for my age. So I just meant to say… I get it. And you’re not a freak.’

The moment stretches out between you, the air in the space seeming to pause. The muted, reverent silence fills the distance once more. But this time it’s charged, tense. Waiting. He breathes in deeply, the shirt he wears stretching across his chest and yet again you long to touch him. For a beat his gaze drops to your lips and he swallows, opening his mouth to speak.

But he’s interrupted by the door opening. The ding of the motion sensor makes you both jolt, turning to see who it is. An older woman comes in carrying a heavy looking bag. She coughs and leans against the door to rest.

Jongdae bolts up from his desk, clearing his throat. 'Here, let me help with that.'

He bows to her with a warm smile, holding his hands out to take the bag. She nods and Jongdae slings the bag over his shoulder, wincing when it collides with his back. With a gentle arm around her back he helps her into the chair opposite his desk.

'Thank you, young man,' the woman says with a smile.

'Not at all,' Jongdae says, resuming his post on the stool. 'How can I help you today?'

You're certain your mouth has fallen open. To difficult customers he's brief, almost condescending, and for the nice ones he’s reserved and polite, but nothing like this. For over an hour he patiently connects the woman's computer to his power strip and walks her through how to use it.

Again and again he shows her the links and how to work the web browser. Installs a complimentary virus protection program. Makes sure she can find the Solitaire application she loves. And only charges her $20.

But after she leaves the next customer is a businessman dressed in what looks to be a very expensive suit. Jongdae spends the laughably short visit practically sneering at the man. And he charges him at least twice what it says on the pricing list he gave you.

As soon as the door closes you release the laugh you’ve been holding in. 'You know, for someone who runs a business, you seem hell bent on driving some of your customers away.'

He shakes his head, hair falling in his eyes. 'He was a moron. You don't buy the Rolls Royce of computers if you don't know how to drive it.'

'So the only exception here is kind old ladies?'

Jongdae barks out a laugh, meeting your gaze and looking younger than you’ve ever seen him. 'Exactly.'

June 28th, 1997

Moments after you walk out the door for lunch during a bustling Saturday it pings again, announcing yet another customer. This one is probably his scheduled twelve o’clock appointment, Jongade thinks as he looks distractedly at his watch.

He turns to greet them and his entire body recoils. 'What do you want?' Jongdae practically hisses, but he keeps his tone even with all his might.

Since you’ve taken over scheduling Jongdae hardly looks at his calendar anymore. If he’d known Julian Danforth was seeking his help he would have told him to fuck off. Unfortunately Jongdae’s hesitation in talking about his past means you could have no possible idea how much the man standing before him used to matter.

Julian strolls in with a computer in his arms and a smugness on his mouth that Jongdae wants to punch off. His sunglasses are perched on the top of his head and his khaki shorts have neatly pressed lines, clearly not done by the man himself, who drips with privilege.

He'd thought these feelings were long buried, but they roar in Jongdae’s chest. The friendships and the future he almost had are now scattered behind him like a trail of carnage, all the fault of this man. The burn of sadness and embarrassment that fills Jongdae’s stomach was supposed to be gone, relinquished to ashes. But seeing one of his former best friends again Jongdae feels like he's ten years old, stuck in a class with far older students. Young, inexperienced, an outcast.

‘Good afternoon to you as well, old friend.’ Ignoring the daggers Jongdae is staring at him, Julian steps forward, setting the computer down on the desk. 'Like I told the woman on the phone I'm having a problem with some computer virus.'

He says it like it’s a slimy, living thing that had crawled into his machine. Displeasure colors his expression; annoyed at the mere thought that his money and status don’t render him immune from such commonplace problems. ‘You know I don’t trust anyone else with my system.’

After what you did I should smash your computer open. Jongdae doesn't speak as plugs the machine into the power strip he rigged to his desk, not willing to risk what he’ll say.

It's a far more expensive model of computer than most of his clients bring in. Those who purchase such a high end version fall into two camps - enthusiasts like himself who know what they're getting, or the rich and famous who buy them as status symbols and have no clue how to work them. Julian, unfortunately, falls into the latter category.

The computer starts up and Jongdae’s mind goes into work mode, tuning out Julian. The virus has rendered it unusable, only a blur of symbols and lines of code flit across the screen. None of the normal exit keys brings up the desktop. Jongdae purses his lips and slides in the floppy disk he keeps beside his own monitor, an anti-virus he designed.

He leans into muscle memory as he runs through the start up and sets the program to do its job. With any luck the idiot just found some simple malware from some incredibly obvious email spam or downloaded a bug on a porn site. In all social and business sense Julian is a shark; he'd never have fallen for such an obvious scam in real life. But when it came to computers and technology he was hopeless, and thus Jongdae had come into his life years ago.

'How long have you been set up here?' Julian asks with a dismissive glance at the machines and equipment stacked on the shelves.

'Why do you care?' The question comes out harsher than he intends, but the emotion isn't entirely unearned.

Once upon a time he and Julian met in Seattle, after Jongdae was fresh out of M.I.T. and Julian had flunked out of yet another University. They were determined to build a business together. If he had more energy Jongdae would wear this store and his reputation proudly, built from no family connections or money, just his own intelligence and drive. After how thoroughly Julian severed Jongdae’s life he should rub his success in Julian’s face with pride.

Instead he ignores him, determined to move on.

The program finishes its run in rapid time, as though it knows how quickly Jongdae wants this moment to end. The virus dissipates and the desktop loads like normal. He's tempted for a second to indulge his curiosity to see what Julian has been up to. Last he knew Julian had gone to work at his father’s investment bank, dreams of standing on his own cowed by the reality of the world outside of his comfortable bubble. Without Jongdae there’s no way the business and the program held up to scrutiny.

For a second Jongdae stares at the screen, remembering how good it had felt to have found his people. Tech nerds, hungry to build something that would change the world. Julian, who wanted to cast off his father’s legacy and strike out on his own. Julian’s girlfriend Marissa and her soft heart, who wanted to help people. Their friend Albert, with the plan.

Once he knew them so well he hardly knew where he ended and they began. But now, all these years later, they’re strangers.

Jongdae looks up and watches Julian as he absently admires the collection of turntables on the wall behind the desk. He knows Julian well enough to know this might be an act of contrition, his way of bridging the gap he created to reach out the olive branch of friendship once more. But Jongdae’s curiosity already killed the cat once, spectacularly, and he has no desire to repeat the mistake.

He unplugs the machine and watches the screen go dark, shoving it with both hands across the polished wood surface towards Julian. 'There. It's fixed.'

For customers who are far more polite and far less acquainted with Jongdae he might have explained what caused the virus or recommended an anti-virus software or even shared best practices to avoid getting one in the future. But, for Julian, he'll do what he was hired for and nothing more.

Julian stands and clears his throat uncomfortably. 'How much do I owe you?' A hint of guilt as he pulls out his wallet.

The motion reminds Jongdae of vacations to Marissa's family home in the San Juans or partying with Julian, Albert, and the rest of them in Capitol Hill. When they turned on him it was like the sun went out. He managed to take his pride and his love of music and DJing and escape. Once Jongae rebuilt his life the doors to the past firmly closed.

Anger finally peeks through as he waves a dismissive arm at Julian. 'I don't want your money. Not spending a second longer in your company will be all the payment I need.' He stands as well. Their business today is done and he lets his memories of the past fall before him like ashes.

An awkward beat passes between them and finally Julian breaks eye contact. With a nod to the ground he pushes out the door and disappears, carrying his computer.

He breathes out a sigh of relief, folds his arms, annoyed at how his position and his continued presence here in Seattle occasionally brings him into contact with people like Julian. He should have moved, he thinks. Gone to Singapore or Berlin or London or New York. But for some reason, he stayed.

Through the front window he watches you laugh with your friends in the food court and smiles to himself, thinking of how you call him Scrooge. It should unnerve him, how quickly seeing you or speaking to you or simply thinking you makes his day better, more hopeful; chases away the shadows that linger in his mind when he's left alone for too long. No, left alone isn't the right word. When he isolates himself.

Jongdae doesn’t really know you, not yet. But already he wants to make all of your dreams come true, he wants to make them real.

The thought is so sentimental and kind and soft that it brings him up short. He bites the inside of his lip and tries to fight the warm feeling in his chest as he watches you laugh. But as he resumes his work he acknowledges that maybe there was a reason he stayed in Seattle, after all.

The mall is packed during lunch; it’s one of the only days you and your roommates and Hitchcock all work together so you’ve christened it Saturday girl’s lunch time. But Baekhyun and Chanyeol of course crash in, as they always seem to. Loud and raucous and happy. Others from their wide circle of friends drop by to grab slices or to make plans for tonight.

Baekhyun sticks two straws in his nose and makes what are probably very scientifically inaccurate walrus noises. As you laugh so hard you almost snort you can’t help but feel like something is missing. Someone is missing. You look back to the shop, drawn to Jongdae as always.

He works away, resuming his repairs after chasing another customer away with his attitude. You sigh, watching the blonde preppy man carry away his enormous computer, muttering to himself. You rest your foot on the edge of your chair and drop your chin to your knee. From this angle, surrounded by the stark design of the store and the fluorescent lights from above, Jongdae looks like he’s trapped inside of a screen himself.

You bite your lip, debating. He’s made it clear that whatever happened between you at the club isn’t something he will discuss, or repeat. But friendship? Community? You work together five days a week and it wouldn’t kill him to get out of his enclosure once in a while. It’s done you good this month, to be out and about with people. Like you can finally breathe for the first time in a long time. And you decide that it’s high time Jongdae do the same.

Liz and Jane, your roommates, call you ‘determined.’ But they say it in a way that clearly means ‘like a homing missile,’ when you want something. Your nature has served you well; you can cut through the bullshit and figure people out almost instantly. It’s helped you both professionally and personally. Allowed you to know immediately which friendships would last, which ones were worth the effort.

Maybe it’s how Jongdae looks like an island, all alone in the shop. Maybe it’s the large Coke that infused you with far too much caffeine. Maybe it’s your insatiable curiosity. But you can’t keep watching him from afar, not when there’s something you can do about it.

‘I’ll be right back.’ Pulling on your denim jacket, you march over to the store. You lean inside the glass door, holding it open with your shoulder. ‘Hey, you.’

Jongdae looks up at you, confusion tugging his brows together, making him befuddled in the cutest way. You tell yourself to stop thinking of him like that, even if you want to.

He blinks and refocuses on you. ‘Back already?’

‘No, but we’ve got more than enough pizza. Why don’t you join us?’ You grin, making a show of looking around the empty office. ‘It’s finally slowed down, and you deserve a break.’

‘I’m on a deadline with this.’ He gestures to the modem that is scattered around him.

You fold your arms and lean against the door. ‘You can fix that in twenty minutes. I know you.’ He opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it. ‘And before you throw another excuse you should know I’m very persuasive when I want to be. I don’t think you have another option.’

Jongdae barks out a laugh, dropping the tools in his hand to the desk with a thud. ‘Determined to drag me from my lair, huh?’ He holds your gaze, his expression filling with something akin to heat. Finally he gives you a rueful smile. ‘You’re not going to give up on this, are you?’

You meet his eyes and raise a brow, smiling with satisfaction. ‘Nope. Absolutely not.’

The certainty on his face turns into sadness, so fast you can’t be sure it was really there. Then he closes off and he’s quiet, more so than normal. ‘It doesn’t come easily to me.’

Wondering what could have changed so quickly you step forward, letting the door close behind you. ‘What, pizza?’

It shakes you how desperately you want to know. To peel back his skull and see inside his brain, just to understand what makes him tick. His history and where his future is headed. That small voice inside you whispers that once you figure it out, it still won’t make you care less about him.

‘Friends.’ He says it on a gasp. Looking at the floor fixedly, avoiding your eyes, he seems haunted.

The silence surrounds you both and he finally meets your focus again, chewing on the inside of his cheek. The pieces start to come together. He’s intelligent, preternaturally so, and so advanced in school you can’t imagine he’s had much experience with people his own age. And now that he’s in his mid-twenties he’s built himself a fortress. Close enough to the rest of the world, but distinctly separate.

Irrationally you want to reach across the space and wrap his hands in yours. Tug him into your growing group of friends and fix the ache in your chest his expression gives you. Not sympathy and certainly not pity, but some sensation that’s like butterflies in your stomach. But- he’s your boss. You’re not his keeper and you don’t think whatever dangerous emotion lives in you is what would help him.

He’s not yours and you don’t have the right to push, much that you want to.

‘Ah,’ you say. ‘I see. Well, more often than not we have Saturday pizza out there. The offer always stands. I’ll leave you be if you want to be alone, but just -’ you swallow and give him a tentative smile. ‘Just know that we’d be happy to have you join us. I’d be. Uhm. Happy if you joined us.’ It comes out in a rush and you groan.

With a shake of your head, an uncharacteristic gesture of uncertainty and embarrassment, you wave at him and push back out the door into the noise of the mall.

It’s a shame you don’t turn back. Or no, he thinks, it’s better this way. Jongdae feels far too much for you to keep it contained behind his normally stony expression.

You seem like the kind of person who would take that moment of openness and pull on it, until he unravels in front of you. Fear tells him you would take everything and when you're gone he'd be even more alone than before, now that he knows what it's like with you here.

Looking out through the glass he watches you rejoin the lively group. Always he’s felt like a science experiment, or some kind of circus exhibit when he was growing up. If he didn’t have his grandfather’s steady support and gentle guidance he surely would have become even more isolated.

With a shake of his head, he attempts to refocus on the project at hand. For some reason it doesn't fill him up like he wants it to, his usual joy and satisfaction is missing when he picks up the screwdriver once more. This is where he thrives. Computers and the internet and coding.

To other people it's a labyrinth, impossible to figure out. A world and a language they can speak and learn with effort and intention and study. But to him it's always been as easy as breathing.

His grandfather took his skills from the military and parlayed them into a business as a prolific handyman. It was the world they shared. A place where Jongdae’s creativity and his intelligence could soar. Anything he wanted to build or make, he could. Coding a rudimentary game to pass the time after school, when he could hear the neighborhood kids playing soccer outside.

It took him many wonderful places that he wouldn't have been able to reach if he was, for lack of a better word, normal. As a child and even in school it was so easy to hide behind his grades and his projects and the pride and hope of the adults around him. But now, at twenty five, there’s nothing to keep him hidden anymore.

When lunch is over you return and join him with a nod. He hopes you don't regret asking. He nearly hopes you'll try again. Maybe next Saturday.

For how confident he feels in some spaces - DJing at Shari's, here in his ‘lair’ - at the thought of joining a group of friends he feels again like a nervous thirteen year old sitting in his first college course. Like everyone around him knew how to do things he couldn’t comprehend.

He keeps his thoughts and his feelings to himself; he’s already shared more than he planned. But you draw him back into conversation easily enough, asking about the afternoons orders to be picked up. You don't shy away from him or give him an angry offended air. Inexplicably you still look at him warmly, openly, and he wants more than he's dared to let himself want in a very, very long time.

July 11th, 1997

He doesn't normally leave the office at lunch, preferring to eat his meals in his back office alone, but today Jongdae braves the food court.

It’s a Friday not a Saturday, but it’s a start. He makes brief, yet friendly, conversation with Chanyeol at the pizza place. The taller man smiles at Jongdae, easily, as though he doesn’t second guess the action. He asks if Jongdae had caught the Mariner's game over the weekend and they talk about how Griffey might finally lead Seattle to a World Series this year.

For once he doesn't feel like going back to the office and burying his head in his work. Jongdae awkwardly pulls out a chair in the cluster of tables between the bookstore and the record store. As he takes a bite of his pizza he hears a familiar laugh. Turning around he sees you through the glass of the bookstore.

You speak to the woman who owns Greyhame Books, standing beside someone he thinks is possibly called Jane. It all seems so… easy for you. Tucking your hair behind your ear you lean against the counter, discussing the stack of books in front of you with your friends.

Jongdae gives a rare laugh to no one but himself.

When he imagined hiring an accountant and administrator for his flourishing business he thought he'd get someone older. A person with experience and a similar level of wanting to be left alone. They could ignore him and he could ignore them, delegating filing and payments and customer questions and not have to think about them again.

An employee was supposed to reclaim the silence and peace that his work used to bring. Technology is so much simpler and predictable than humans and he’d really prefer to cut other people out of the equation entirely.

But you are the opposite of simple, and you absolutely aren’t someone he can ignore. From the moment he recognized you he knew he had to hire you. With your intensity and your impressive resume and the way your mouth pulls to the side when you’re trying not to smirk.

He doesn't regret it. But he feels raw in a way he hasn't allowed himself to in years. Jongdae doesn't let people get close. Not anymore.

'Hey, Jongdae!'

With a pizza slice halfway to his mouth Jongdae spots Junmyeon approaching, waving, a large Starbucks drink in hand. He wants to turn away and hide in his pizza. He isn't good at this - making friends. For months Junmyeon has asked him to join in their monthly networking events here at the mall, or asked him to get a drink at Flanagan’s after work to chat. Jongdae’s all out of excuses.

He imagines his life as a circuit board. There’s his life now - pieces and wires scattered around him - and there’s the life he could have. If he’s brave and if he tries. He imagines the pieces fitting together and what they might build. He wonders if you might fit in, if you’d want him or let him.

His knee is jiggling and he’s nervous, but he takes a deep breath and waves back. ‘Hey Jun! Want to join me for a bit?’ Jun’s expression is surprised - the man doesn’t know how to keep back any of his emotions. ‘If you have time, I mean. No pressure.’ He stutters, pulse racing and cheeks reddening.

Jun grins and sits down opposite him. ‘Absolutely. About time! I thought you’d turn me down forever,’ he laughs. ‘Thanks again for helping me with that broken radio last month. You’re a pro. So, how’s business?’ He sips his coffee and waits patiently.

They can talk about business, something so easy? Jongdae wants to laugh with relief. Maybe he can do this after all.

Junmyeon is amused.

After ten minutes of talking shop with Jongdae he watches as you and Jane leave the bookstore next to their lunch spot. He’s owned a business two doors down from Jongdae for years, but he’s never seen him smile before. When you pass by it’s like someone flipped on a light switch. Jongdae has always been somewhat quiet, somewhat serious, except when he DJs. Now he sits straighter, his face softens, and his eyes fixate on yours like a magnet.

The two of you claim the other seats at the table, showing off the books you purchased. In between sips of his coffee Junmyeon balances his own flirtation with Jane and observing - okay, spying - on you and Jongdae.

He’s warmed by not just the caffeinated beverage. There’s a soft energy here- It’s a warm summer day and he’s discussing books, one of his all-time favorite topics. His mind whispers the words ‘double date’ and he smiles to himself for a moment before blinking.

“Are you alright?” Jane asks, gently resting her hand on Junmyeon’s wrist on the table.

He blushes and gives her a reassuring nod and asks if she’s read the Octavia Butler book on top of her stack yet. It’s an attempt at distraction and he knows it. But thankfully Jane’s eyes crinkle in the corners when she talks about the author, not pausing or seeming to notice the way he was fantasizing for a beat.

Across from him you and Jongdae are arguing about the merits of Isaac Asmiov. Jongdae is more articulate, more animated, more alive than he’s ever seen him. Gesturing emphatically and saying something about how robots are friends, not foes as you interrupt him by reminding him about Terminator. Neither of you seem to acknowledge the attraction between you. It’s been months since you started working at Chen’s, if Junmyeon remembers correctly.

In his periphery he sees Temptation, the chocolate store, and thinks of how Yixing and his girlfriend met on the job. One of his favorite poems mentions how love mirrors the lover; that everyone falls in love in a way akin to their personality. Yixing, passionate and insatiable and spontaneous, fell for Lavender in minutes and days. He saw what he wanted and after a slight pause to make sure it’s what Lav really wanted, he made the move.

Jongdae is nothing if not the complete opposite. Calculating and reserved and inscrutable.

His potential new friend is falling, if the lingering looks he gives you and the way he’s almost touched your shoulder not once but twice are any indication. But it’s a mystery to Junmyeon if, or when, Jongdae will ever make a move. You aren’t the same kind of romantic as Yixing’s girlfriend, someone playful and open with your emotions. You’re driven and witty and warm in your own way. Clearly you care for Jongdae, but in a quieter sense.

Junmyeon imagines this will be a marathon of love, not a sprint.

Eventually lunch hours end for all of you. There’s clients to see and paperwork to do and as he waves to you and Jane he wonders what will become of you and Jongdae. If you’ll stay as co-workers, always flirting and secretly wondering what might be. Or if either of you will push the other into action. The chess board is laid out, pieces waiting to be moved. It might just be his imagination, but Junmyeon hopes that one of you gets the game going.

He does also, perhaps, focus on you and Jongdae as a way to ignore how his own heart beats a bit faster around Jane. How he can’t stop staring at her dimple when she smiles or the head tilt she gives him when she’s really listening. Like he’s the only person in the world. No, he absolutely doesn’t think about Jane’s feet i n his lap as they both read on the couch in his living room. He doesn’t wonder what it would be like to kiss her or hold her hand. Absolutely not.

Instead he invites Jongdae to the monthly Settlers of Catan night he has with Minseok and some other folks from the mall. Much safer territory than wondering about his own love story and if still waters truly do run deep where he and Jane are concerned.

August 11th, 1997

On a surprisingly rainy yet unsurprisingly dead Monday morning Jongdae forces you away from your insistent attempts to organize his paperwork to the market a few streets over. The quiet bakery on the hill above Pike Place has a view of the misty Sound beyond. He sits close beside you, carefully keeping his knees away, lest he bump yours and you do the same, perhaps letting them linger a moment each time they collide.

It’s nice here, you notice suddenly, as you take the first sip of your coffee. The smell of dark roast and fresh almond scones. The breeze coming in through the open door. The soothing, distant sound of jazz from the overhead speaker. The pleasant warm lighting, far different than the aggressively bland fluorescent kind he chose for Chen's. Everything puts you at ease, wraps around you the way you wish Jongdae’s arms would.

'This place reminds me of Amsterdam.' You smile, looking down into your cappuccino to avoid Jongdae’s eyes.

‘Have you ever been?’ he asks, voice softer than it normally is.

With a shake of your head you trace the edge of the teal and white ceramic cup in front of you. ‘No, but I’ve seen pictures. I used to love photo books growing up. Atlases and travel guides. It’s always been my favorite section of the library.’

He hums for a moment, considering. 'If you could go anywhere in the world, is that where you'd choose?'

Tucking your hair behind your ears you bite your lip to avoid grinning at him. He’s making you remember long-forgotten parts of yourself. Before school and work became the end point, the be-all end-all that your life was funnelled towards. Back when you imagined exploring every country on the planet. Taking photos and making memories. A long time ago, in the days before you realized how expensive it is to actually be a wanderlust-filled adventurer.

Finally you look at him. Something in his irises makes you swallow; an endless, nameless emotion that lives in him you can never seem to place. Elusive and frustrating and tempting all at once.

‘Yes,’ you admit. Voice dry and heart racing you look back to your coffee in avoidance. ‘It’s my dream to travel there. I’m a bit obsessed with it, really.’

'You? Obsessed?' Jongdae smirks, a boyish grin you want to cover with your own mouth.

You roll your eyes, tracing the handle of your mug. 'Hush. It's such a beautiful city with all the canals and the architecture and history, and the food is to die for. Every quaint European city fantasy in one. What about you, have you done much traveling?'

He shakes his head. ‘Not personally. But - my grandfather went everywhere in Europe, after the war.’ His admission is so quiet you almost miss it. But it’s as if your soul is waiting for every crack in the door to Jongdae you can find, and you don’t pass up the opportunity. ‘What was he like?’

It happens sometimes, when you’re working together. The times there’s no customers around and the mall gets empty and you can’t help but be aware of him. Against your skin and with your hands, eyes feasting on him when the rest of you is forbidden from doing so. In the moments when he isn’t putting on airs of being the tech mogul or the reclusive jerk or the awkward, secretly friendly nerd around Jun or Minseok.

Those times when Jongdae meets your eyes and you see the real him, beneath it all. Wanting and alone and scared. Your breath catches in your throat just as it does now and you long to ask him plainly if he feels the way you do. Being honest with your words and not just your jokes or looks out the corner of your eyes when you catch him watching you too.

But those feel too fragile, too dangerous to utter. So instead you ask him about his family, someone close enough to Jo ngdae’s heart to glimpse the core of him; like a sun during an eclipse you can only look for a moment, lest you get burned.

'My grandfather?’ Brows furrow, the corners of his cat-like lips tilting down for a moment. You nod gently, cupping your drink for something to occupy your hands.

Jongdae looks out at the water for a moment, his mouth tugging to the side as he ponders. ‘You know when you finally solve a puzzle you’ve been working on for ages? Hours of struggling to find the right combination and finally it’s all laid out, perfectly in alignment.’

You nod, trying not to smile and ruin the moment, but softened by him nonetheless. ‘Yeah, I know what you mean.’

When his gaze lands on your hands he pauses, like he’s wondering if the two of you might fit in a similar way. But it’s gone before you can grasp onto the moment. Sadness colors his features then. Not the aching kind that gnaws away like a feral monster, leaving nothing in its wake, but the beautiful, bittersweet sadness of a love greater than grief.

His voice is thick when he next speaks. ‘My grandfather was that person for me. We just - fit. He understood me better than my parents did. More than any of my classmates or the few people I’ve ever gone out with. We didn’t even need to speak.’ Jongdae pauses and taps his fingers on the counter.

You give in and reach for his hand, not to hold it - not yet. But to cover it with your own for a moment of understanding, of comfort.

He smiles at you, the crease between his brows disappearing for a moment. ‘He was fifty one years older than me and he was my best friend.’

‘I’ll bet you miss him quite a lot?’ You realize how incredibly inadequate the sentiment is and shake your head, moving to withdraw your hand. ‘Sorry - that’s - of course you miss him.’

But Jongdae doesn’t let you retreat. With his free hand he holds yours in place. Warmth floods your body from the connection point and you’re unable to take your eyes off him. ‘It’s alright, I know what you mean.’ He traces your thumb with a barely there motion, seemingly without intending to. ‘Thank you.’

‘For what?’ You ask, a bit breathless and unable to mind.

‘For always asking. For always listening.’ He says it simply, as though it’s a novel concept. Perhaps, given what you know of his life, who he is, not many people dare to ask. Or bother to listen.

Soon paperwork and customers and regular life draw you back to Chen’s Electronics. He doesn’t mention the way you reached for him and you don’t either. But when you go to leave that afternoon Jongdae holds out your jean jacket for you to slip on. And when you thank him he gives you the soft, secret grin you’ve learned he saves only for you.

On the way home you think that Amsterdam might be the most beautiful city you can imagine, but that it pales in comparison to a hole-in-the-wall cafe in Seattle, as long as Jongdae is seated beside you.

September 9th, 1997

The summer turns into fall and one Monday evening, seemingly without his noticing, Jongdae realizes that his appointment book is full to bursting.

On Tuesday night he's playing Settlers of Catan with Minseok, Bookworm, Kyungsoo, and Junmyeon. They meet up in the food court after the mall closes at nine, second Tuesday of every month.

Wednesday he has lunch with Jun and some other business owners in the mall for their monthly networking/commiserating 'sesh' as Yixing calls it. That afternoon he's promised to help Minseok install the new upgrades to his store's database software that 'make him want to rip out his hair' in exchange for a few coveted LPs Jongdae's had his eyes on for a 70’s/grunge remix set at Shari's.

Thursday night there’s a L.A. Confidential screening at the theater that Baekhyun talked him into, after their argument about whether or not Russel Crowe could actually act or if he was just handsome.

Saturdays are pizza and raucous laughter to break up the busy weekends full of work and clients and deadlines, followed by long nights of DJ-ing and circling you as if you are a sun, drawing him in with the pull of your gravity. He’s merely a comet attracted by the force you give off and he’s not even upset at the realization.

Sehun, Jongin, and Yixing practically bribed him into joining their 'Sunday morning brunch and biceps' workout group, saying that they need a fourth and everyone else is normally sleeping off their hangovers or works the opening shift.

It’s other people’s names all over his schedule, but what he feels is you. Everywhere, all over him. He knows it’s you. Not intentionally, perhaps. But you opened a door for him with your ease and generosity. One Saturday pizza lunch and somehow he’s gotten to know more people in two months at the mall than he had in the years before combined.

You’d wave him off if he mentioned it or thanked you. With that adorable tilt of your head you would smirk and tell him that all he has to do is give people a chance. That they don’t bite.

Irrationally he wants to do things for you - not just as a friend but in the romantic sense - like buy you flowers or have you by his side at Thursday movie screenings or take you to Amsterdam, just to watch you bloom among the flowers. But that would be… crazy, right? He sits in his favorite armchair unable to focus on the book in front of him and runs agitated hands through his hair.

He’s not your boyfriend or your partner. He’s your boss or your co-worker and possibly your friend. Why does he think of holding your hand and walking along the canals of some foreign city every time you look in his direction?

Why does the once-comforting quiet of his apartment feel more and more empty when you’re not laying on the couch across from him, reading and teasing him? Why does he wake up and wish that someone besides himself filled his bed? Someone with your expressions and your joy and your stubborn insistence.

He briefly makes a mental note to ask Yixing how he ended up dating Lavender before suddenly tossing the book to the floor, standing with a groan.

‘What a ridiculous idea!’ he yells aloud to the empty apartment. Jongdae paces circles in the carpet of his living room and wonders if part of being in love is going slightly insane, if everyone who manages to do so finds the madness enjoyable or if love is simply folie à deux?

He looks at his calendar, spread open on his grandfather’s old, wooden desk and tries to comprehend how his life could be so different one year to the next. Like he’s grasping at straws or wisps of air. Aside from work and his grandfather and music, what did he have before? The occasional alumni event or guest lecture at his alma maters?

For a minute his chest feels too full to breathe, unable to let in anything more. Panic tugs at him for a second. It’s too much, all at once - too many people and too many events. Too many opportunities to mess up and these people? He can’t sever his life completely like he did from Julian and his friends. They're so connected to this space he's made his business in. What will happen when he inevitably falls out of favor with them?

He imagines himself shunned and the idea hurts worse than before. Back then he had chosen isolation; to have it thrust unwillingly upon him, unasked, is too much to comprehend.

Once he walked naively into friendship, believing it was easy and that it would last. That there was no rug that would be unceremoniously swept out from under him. But people change, faster than he can believe.

Jongdae sits on the floor, his pajama pants brushing his crossed legs, and forces himself to steady his breathing. These people are not his old friends at Microsoft, he reminds himself. Nor are they the kids in school who teased him, or his classmates in college who resented him or treated him like an annoyance.

Like he’s always practiced, he turns to facts to calm his mind. He’s safe - the apartment is his and he has plenty of money. Not just from his business but from his grandfather’s life insurance. If he wanted to leave - if he was forced to, he thinks he could do it. But something within him howls at the idea of leaving what he has now.

For the first time in ages he has ideas, plans, and dreams for what to do with his life. Now he has people he cares about, people who he trusts to be kind rather than fearing they’ll betray or leave him. You’re at the center of it, if you let him. Determination takes hold of him and doesn’t let go. After a few moments his panic subsides, washed away by the bright promise of a future he’s never dared to imagine before now. Before you.

September 13th, 1997

By the end of your second drink you contemplate being the one to risk it all and ask Jongdae out.

In the months you’ve worked together you stopped seeing him as a challenge and started viewing him instead as the push to your pull. The yang to your yin. The - you sip on your rum and coke and get lost in the tug of his brows and the set of his lips as he spins rather than finding another apt metaphor.

The first time you met him you knew there was something underneath his hard exterior, but you had no idea how correct you’d be proven. Somehow he walks the tightrope between being harsh and being softer than you thought possible. But rather than turn you off you find you’re drawn to his bewildering mix of wry humor, nerdy fixations, and raw emotion. It unlocks all the jagged parts of you that you try to keep so nicely pressed together.

For someone who has been deemed too much to handle finding a man who seems to do it with ease is staggering. He loves your bossy, charismatic nature and your ideas about new things to try at the store. He listens intently when you rattle off obscure facts about your favorite books and movies. He sees your dreams of traveling, of being part of community here, as a complement, not a detriment to your professional career.

A voice startles you. “So when are you going to jump his bones?” Baekhyun is the kind of puppy dog, glowing cheeks, wide-eyed endearing drunk you wish you could hate.

He waggles his brows at you and you snort, shoving him away with your shoulder. “I have zero idea what you’re talking about.”

You weave your way around the perimeter of the dance floor, trying and failing to not fixate on Jongdae with every step.

“Come on. Admit it. You’ve got a thing for the DJ.” His mouth tugs into a smug grin and you groan. “And word on the street is he wants you too.”

“He’s my boss.” The last of your drink burns your throat and you belly up to the bar to order another. “Get real.”

Always a hoe for gossip, Baekhyun leans one elbow against the bar and drops his chin into his hand to watch you. Rather than speak and risk your wrath again he merely looks between you and Jongdae, waiting.

You pride yourself on not giving into temptation for all of ten seconds and then blurt out - “What are you doing?”

Baekhyun presses his lips together to suppress a grin. He raises a finger and holds it up. “You’ll see.”

The bartender is tied up with a group at the far end so you sigh and turn, resting your back against the bar top. With folded arms you observe the club. “We’re about to be abducted by aliens? Jongin’s going to breakdance? Minseok and Bookworm are -”

He clicks his tongue. “So impatient. You two really are a match made in heaven.”

“Me and Jongdae?” If you weren’t already buzzed you’d deny it more. But the permission to speak openly about your feelings for the DJ is too tempting. “You think so?”

Before he can tease you again a motion up ahead catches your focus. Jongdae looks up without tilting his head. His eyes cut to the left, to the two overflowing booths that are filled with the usual crew from the Exodus Mall. With amusement you follow his eye line as he scans the dance floor, looking for something. He never breaks the movement of his hands, spinning the vinyl and working the controls.

Finally his focus lands on you and Baekhyun at the bar. Jongdae’s eyes widen and that unreadable expression settles on his features, no emotion escaping. Your heart picks up, cheeks heating with awareness. There’s nothing to do but hold his gaze for long seconds while the club pulses with life around you. Isolated and together, even across the room.

And then Baekhyun ruins it.

With a comically large wave he smiles at Jongdae. The motion breaks Jongdae’s focus and he rolls his eyes, shaking his head at his friend’s ridiculousness. A smile tugs at his lips and he gives you a look of commiseration and you laugh, reaching over to ruffle Baekhyun’s blonde hair.

The song changes and Jongdae finally looks away. A second later the bartender appears, asking you for your next order. Baekhyun waits patiently beside you, arms folded against the bar, his smugness a tangible thing in the air between you two.

You bite your lip and look at yourself in the mirror behind the bar, visible between the clear shelves of liqueurs and syrups. Could he feel the same way? Does Jongdae imagine holding you, kissing you, being with you the same way you do with him in your unguarded moments?

The two of you already do so much together - work five days a week. Meals alone or with friends. Nights here, separate but still united in the bubble of the dance club. It strikes you just how thin the line is between friends and coworkers and … something more. A four-letter sinful word that starts with L and implies dangerous things like hands touching hands followed by lips and skin and teeth. A different four-letter word full of softness and commitment that has no place being in your mind at the same time as Jongdae’s name.

A hand rests gently on your shoulder. “I told you,” Baek says sincerely. He disappears after waggling his damned eyebrows one more time and leaves you at the bar, wondering.

Half of you wants to confess to him out of genuine affection and desire for connection; you can’t escape the way he makes you long to be reckless and daring and bold and romantic in the kind of grand gesture sense that you’d have rolled your eyes at before you met him. The delicate balance makes your palms sweat and your glass shake slightly as you raise it to your lips. From nerves or excitement or a mix of the two.

You could make the first move, but the logical half of your mind wins out. Instead you swallow your drink in three gulps and head over to the DJ booth to talk to him and nothing more. Close enough to be comforted by his nearness but keeping your desire closeted behind your fear. Tonight that’s all you can manage.

Passing by Yixing and Lavender dancing is a reminder of all the good love can bring. Yixing’s hands holding her close, her arms folded around his neck and their foreheads together. Intimate words are shared that aren’t meant for your ears, even if you could hear them over the sound of the music.

But just beyond is Baekhyun and Hitch. She laughs and dances out of his way as he tries to tickle her. They’re obviously in love to anyone who watches, so why haven’t they admitted it and had a go at being together? Maybe it’s for the best, you wonder. If trying and failing and ruining what you have it worse than never trying at all.

Before you can wander too far down the road of doubt and consequences you remember how it felt to have Jongdae’s hand on top of yours. The thought of tomorrow and the days after disappear altogether when you feel Jongdae’s eyes on you once more, drawing you closer to him, whether he knows his effect on you or not. When you reach the booth you decide to stop thinking in general, and let yourself feel instead.

Saturday night and he's in his element. In the booth, far away from the rest of the crowd but still a part of it. Adrenaline in his veins. Music is Jongdae’s therapy. An alter ego much like the comic book characters he read about growing up. It's the skin he can put on when he's tired of being himself. A place where he can set down the baggage of his identity for a night and get lost in the beats.

He closes his eyes, savoring the pattern of the vinyl beneath his fingertips.

Suddenly, he feels you. Of course you're here. He's never free from you, he thinks with a rueful smile. First you invaded this place, his escape and his temple. Then you wormed your way into his business as though you always belonged there. Now you're occupying his senses the way you occupy his thoughts at all hours.

For a beat he admires you, standing at the bar rolling your eyes while Baekhyun waves dramatically. He drinks you in with a last look at your fabulous legs before reluctantly turning back to switching out one album for the next. Lately you’ve taken to joining him for a bit while he spins and he hopes that once again you’ll come up to the booth tonight.

He's not a patient man, or a subtle one. If he wanted to be rid of you, you'd be gone. Severed with the kind of brutal finality he showed to anyone from his time after M.I.T. There are no second chances as far as he's concerned. But still, you remain. Infuriating, exhilarating. Never far from his consciousness.

'You look like you're having a good time!'

Sooner than expected your voice breaks his trance and he lifts his eyes to look at you. His heart thumps painfully in his chest and he swallows harshly. He doesn't know how you do it - how you effortlessly change to match your surroundings.

One minute you're his office manager, polite and respectful and skilled. Already he sees the business taking shape, becoming more cohesive and smooth beneath your talented mind and heart. And your feisty insistence that he upgrade and finesse his marketing and finally finish putting together a website for Chen’s.

The next minute you're leaning over the edge of the booth, chest coming forward and revealing your neckline. The red is fitting on you. It brings out the natural flush in your cheeks and makes you look perpetually alive. He feels stagnant by comparison, a man of stone who remains unchanging while the world passes him by.

The tumble of hair across your shoulders and the delight in your eyes are so beautiful he wants to reach for you. To reach for more, be more than who he has been - afraid and alone. Bitterness lives in his heart, swatting away anyone who gets too close. But here you are, knocking once more on the door of his being.

He finds his voice, his hands thankfully moving on muscle memory as he drops in the next remix. 'It's good energy tonight,' he fumbles. 'I love this song.' You nod in agreement.

It’s easy, being with you. Together you talk about work and the music he plays and your group of friends. Chanyeol and Bijoux, who finally got together again after what seems like months of back and forth. Bets on how long Minseok will wait before he proposes to Bookworm, now that they’re an official item. Joking about Baekhyun and Hitch like always.

He shows off for you, just a little. Spins 'Scream' by Michael and Janet jackson with a bit more pizazz than usual. It strikes him as amusing how much he always hated being watched before this. Not that many people pay particular attention to him as a DJ, but he thinks he might like the way it feels to be watched by you.

He wants to watch you, too, for as long as you let him. He already can’t take his eyes off you. No matter how much that idea might terrify him. When he drops the next mix and the crowd cheers at ‘Tubthumping’ he gives you a rare broad smile and it's like being punched in the chest when you return it with an unexpectedly shy one of your own.

Jongdae almost invites you into the booth. He sees it as though it were one of the romantic comedies that are so popular right now. You would take your place in front of him. He'd get to rest his hand on top of yours, guiding your movements. Maybe as you got the hang of it he would slide them to hold your hips, keeping your back to his chest as his mouth finds your neck.

Liz invites you to dance and Jongdae wipes the probably awed look off his face with effort. He needs some cold water, immediately.

Friday September 19th

Jongdae is upset about something. It’s not so much that you now seem to be able to pick up his moods with ease, which is true, but the fact that he is nearly tearing his hair out. A piece of paper sits in front of him on the desk but it’s too far away for you to read.

By the time he groans for the fifth time you finally speak up. ‘Are you alright?’

His head jerks up and his eyes are tired when they meet yours. Not ‘it’s been a long week’ tired, but something sad in his expression that makes him look fragile and younger than his years.

For a moment he shakes his head. Then he picks up the paper and waves it in the air, opening and closing his mouth in rapid succession. The confusion on his normally self-assured face would be comical if it wasn’t such an obviously distressing situation. Finally he drops the paper and leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand along his jaw.

‘I just got word that they’re demolishing the apartment building I live in. I have to move by November 1st.’

Instantly you want to hug him or hold his hand. ‘Your grandfather’s apartment?’

Jongdae nods. ‘They’re tearing it down so they can put in some luxury condos. Yet another classic neighborhood about to be wiped out in the name of progress.’ He sighs, looking at the ceiling to compose himself. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be so-’

‘No, it’s -’ you start, unsure of your destination. ‘It’s an important place. And it’s your home. Don’t apologize for being pissed off about it.’

He nods, taken aback. ‘Exactly. It’s where I grew up. I’ve also never had to look for an apartment or move, either. So this will be dreadful.’

You bite the inside of your cheek. The offer to help practically leaps from your mouth and you hold it close for a moment, making sure you don’t rush into something that’s out of your depth. But as always your logic overrules your fear.

‘I could help, if you like?’ He’s just your boss slash co-worker. It’s innocent. It’s harmless, right? ‘I’ve moved so often with school and everything. I know my way around the city.’

In the ensuing pause Jongdae’s solemnity returns, his mouth and the lines of his face don’t give away any emotion. But, as always, he holds you in place with his expression. And his eyes have that fire within that he seems to only show to you. ‘That would be wonderful, thank you.’

You nod, case closed. Turning back to your computer you lie to yourself further, pretending not to notice how his voice lowered. As though he knew you weren’t just offering for help with his living situation. But something more raw and painful that he isn’t prepared to hold on his own just yet.

For how picky you thought you were about apartments, Jongdae has you beat by a mile. Student housing accustomed you to wonky flooring and cramped kitchens and the charming yet ancient windows on many older Seattle homes. But his grandfather’s gorgeous pre-war unit had made Jongdae’s tastes quite particular.

On Tuesdays and on weekends you pulled up listings and showed Jongdae around the city by way of it’s apartments, condos, and houses. He enjoyed the nature surrounding Greenlake, the affordable houses north of UW in Ravenna, and the vibe of Ballard and Fremont. But he ruled anything north of 520 out quickly as ‘too far from the store.’ The luxury of walking to work on nicer days was something he wasn’t willing to part with.

The same unfortunately ruled out a townhouse in Alki that you had salivated over, a block from the beach. Pioneer Square had some great lofts that would have been perfect for a music-lover like Jongdae, but he vetoed those as well. Along with all the trendy industrial lofts near the stadiums, claiming he hated all the construction going on nearby.

It should have been frustrating, to spend endless hours watching him nix perfectly wonderful places. In Queen Anne he hated the hills. Westlake he disliked the mall. Madrona, Leschi, Montlake, Magnolia, and Lake Union all came close but still he shook his head and said ‘thanks, but no thanks’ to landlord after landlord.

It should have driven you mad, but all it did was make you like him more.

Falling in love with Jongdae isn’t what you had planned. But from the first night you saw him at the club some part of you knew it was inevitable, the way the rain in autumn starts off as a light drizzle and before you know it becomes a torrential downpour, blanketing the city and saturating every exposed corner.

He always brought you coffee and insisted on buying breakfast or lunch. He always picked you up, right on time. Held doors and made sure he didn’t walk too fast and did the thing where his arm hovered over your back when the two of you were in crowded spaces. Not touching, but close enough you could feel him protecting you. On anyone else you would have absolutely hated that, but of course from him, you craved it.

Day after day you listened to music in his car as the two of you drove around little neighborhoods hoping to find something, complaining about how tight and ridiculous the parking situation always is. Joking about your friends or the news or the latest books you’re reading. They hardly felt like dates. No, they felt like something even more insidious. Like being in a relationship with him. Easy and warm and friendly and the kind of thing you could get used to.

But eventually it had to end, before it seemed like either of you were ready.

On a surprisingly warm Tuesday in October the two of you walk into a place that no one could object to. The building is in south Capitol Hill, close to Cal Anderson and only a fifteen or twenty minute walk from the mall. It’s designed in the classic Victorian style of the neighborhood, but was completed just three years ago. Small pane windows and a fireplace with a carved mantle and dark spires on the roof, all with brand new insulation and appliances.

Sunlight floods the corner unit on the top floor and you gasped as soon as the door opened. Jongdae stands beside you as the landlord goes over the details of the square footage and the building amenities, but neither of you are listening anymore.

‘What do you think?’ he asks softly. The five-story building sits on a slight hill and overlooks the rest of downtown, with a partial water view around the tall downtown skyscrapers.

‘I think it’s as close to perfect as you’re going to get.’

He moves closer and rests his palms on the window sill, looking around for a moment before turning his head to watch you. ‘Good.’

After a long pause Jongdae pushes off the windows and politely interrupts the landlord, who is currently opening every single cabinet in the kitchen and giving a detailed run down of his wife’s favorite tupperware, asking about the deposit. The way he phrased it along with the attentive way he waited for your approval makes you wonder if he wasn’t just picking this apartment for himself.

Imagining yourself there scares you. If he was seeking your opinion… surely he would be hoping you’d come over? Neither of you have spoken a word about the bizarre yet undeniable attraction you have, but that hardly forms the basis of a relationship. A boyfriend who wanted to be sure you liked his new place would be one thing, but your friend and co-worker who has never admitted to even liking you is quite another.

You lean against the edge of the window and run a finger along the ledge. A small part of you whispers that you’re supposed to be doing something else, eventually. You won’t work at Chen’s forever, but it wasn’t meant to be this hard to leave. It’s just a stop on the way to your final destination. So why do you want to get off the train altogether and make a home here?

Would it be so terrible, to be with him? It’s been a fantasy for so long that imagining real life with him makes you suck in a breath as though you’ve been punched in the gut. It could be a fresh start for you both. The end of one adventure and the beginning of a new one. You remind yourself that being in love doesn’t mean you can’t travel or change the world. Being with Jongdae would hopefully only encourage your dreams, not stifle them.

As they discuss deposit and applications and timelines for moving into the apartment you wander into the other rooms.

The bathroom has a large tub and dual sinks. You can only imagine what your expression must be like right now, given your swirling emotions, and avoid the mirror altogether. The second bedroom is more like a cozy office, narrow enough for a desk and a couch and perhaps some bookshelves. In the bedroom you hesitate at the doorway, reaching up to play with the pendant of your necklace.

Windows run along both sides, meeting in a corner. You think of plants lining the wide ledges and going to sleep with the setting westward sun and how short of a walk it would be to get breakfast from your favorite bagel shop that’s just a block away. It’s close to the mall and the club. It’s truly perfect.

As you watch cars pass and people walk by down below you space out, the image blurring and becoming Jongdae on a bed in this room, leaning back against the pillows with a book in his lap. Smiling at you and pulling you close since he knows you refuse to get up earlier than you have to on your days off.

Inexplicably you want to cry and you huff out a laugh, squeezing your eyes tightly only to find that they’re damp. It’s not anger that the vision inspires in you or even sadness. It’s frustration and amusement that war inside you as you think about how you fell in love with him without your consent. Rational thinking should have stopped this long ago, but all you can think as you stand there is how nice it is to be with him. And how you wouldn’t mind being with him for a long while.

The only thing that helps ease the tension in your chest is how he looks at you on the drive back to your place. You fill the time with discussions of moving trucks and hiring a company to help with the heavy lifting, but you’re both clearly distracted by other thoughts. He pulls his car up to your apartment and you try to avoid looking at him as you say goodbye, but he briefly rests his hand on your knee to get your attention.

Your hand stops in its motion to grab your bag and ends up nearly on top of his, but you make no movement to break the contact. ‘Thank you,’ he says softly. ‘I mean it.’ Jongdae turns his hand and holds yours, giving it a quick squeeze and looking like he never wants to let go.

October 12th, 1997

You’re eating cheesy bread at Barada with Hitch, but today she’s different - evasive and nervous in a strange way. 'So I - uhh. I have news,' she finally says. She sips her drink and looks at the table rather than at you. 'I don't know if I should tell you though.'

Pausing in your chewing you raise a brow. 'You can tell me anything, you know that.'

She awkwardly runs a hand along her neck. 'No I know. I just -' she huffs out a breath and blows her hair off her forehead..

'You and Baekhyun finally had sex and you're pregnant?' You smirk at her as she chokes on her soda. 'Come on, just spit it out.'

She waves and hand and very quickly says - 'There's a project manager position open in the gaming division. Some new big thing and they're looking for an upstart to head up operations.'

You frown and tear off another slide of bread, not understanding her odd behavior at all. 'Okay… and you're thinking what, thinking of applying?'

'No, you dork. I'm thinking you should apply.' She tilts her head like she assumed your reaction would be more immediate. 'You wanted me to keep an eye out for you, right? I didn't want to say anything since - '

'Since?' you ask, both afraid of what she'll say and dying to know. Terrified it will have to do with Jongdae and the swirling mess of feelings you have for him.

It’s her turn to be wry. 'Since you and Jongdae have been attached at the hip.'

'Really?' You stall, taking an enormous bite.

Hitch tosses a balled-up napkin at you. 'Yes. When I met you in college I thought 'there goes the most intense person I've ever met.’ And then I met Jongdae after he opened Chen’s and he gave you a run for your money.' She dusts off her hands. 'You both could be making millions someday. Taking over countries or saving the world or something. We all know it. I don't know, I didn’t want to mention this because together you guys seem happier. Softer? Something like that..'

'And you think me getting a job there would ruin that?' Her words mirror your fears exactly and your stomach drops.

'It's taken me years to get Jongdae to even look at me after I told him where I worked. He hates Microsoft. With good reason, from what you've implied. I'm sure you could make it work, but trust me when I say if you get swept up into that upper management spiral, we probably won't see you again.'

'I won't completely abandon you guys just because I get a new job.' But doubt whispers in your mind. The long hours and the endless meetings and the extra work to always be the best, to always be ahead. 'Okay fine, I see your point. I still have to try, right? I should at least apply.'

She rests her hand over yours where you have your napkin in a death grip on the table. 'You don't have to do anything, babe. We'll always be here for you even if you become a tech mogul overnight. But will it make you happy? Whatever comes next... do it for yourself, okay? Not just cause you think you should.'

You smile and hold her hand for a moment, wrinkling your nose. 'Thank you, Hitch. I needed that. What about you? You said you were going to apply for that transfer to the NYC office, are you still considering it?'

She blows out a deep breath and pulls her hand back, dropping her forehead to it for a moment. 'God, I don't know. My whole life is here. And I'd have to leave the theater.' She rests her chin on her palm and looks up at you with a dramatic frown. 'My friends are all here. My family. I love where I'm at, but I know that something eventually has to change.'

'Baekhyun?' You grin at her, wondering if the move might finally force them to admit their feelings.

Hitch straightens and looks across the food court to the movie theater. 'Yeah, something like that.' She gives you a dramatic waggle of her brow. 'Jongdae?'

You groan and fold your arms, sinking lower into your seat. Even your roommates ask about him now. Everyone can surely see how you light up around him. The way you gravitate towards the DJ booth on club nights like a moth to a flame. The way you draw him into conversations and brag about him. It should be forbidden territory, as untouchable and unreadable as he is. Not to mention he's your boss.

But worst of all he still hasn't said anything about it, nothing more than the occasional flirtatious comment or lingering look. Even after all your time together and the way he looked at you in the new apartment. For all you know he sees you as a very stubborn employee who happens to force your way into things.

You cover your face with your hands and sigh. 'Something like that.'

Hitchcock stands and takes your shared tray of dishes to the bus station with a throaty laugh. 'That's what I thought.'

November 1st, 1997

Jongdae is frantically packing up more of his bookshelf when the doorbell rings. He smiles on instinct. It's not something he can help anymore, not when he knows it's you on the other side. Right at nine in the morning, just when you promised the movers would be here. With a last look around his living room at the organized chaos he wipes his hands on his sweatpants and stands.

It surprised him how quickly you agreed to help with - well, everything, really.

When he told you about his move he didn’t expect anything would come of it. It's his problem, not yours. He didn't imagine for a moment you'd give the announcement more attention than a sympathetic word or two. But you stepped to his side. Put up with his grouchy persistence in believing that there's no place in the world, let alone in Seattle, that would be as amazing as this apartment. As it always seems with you, he found himself proven wrong.

You didn't let him wallow and guided him with your decisiveness through the checklist of everything he'd need to do. A few months ago he would have waved you off. Decided you were being bossy or nosy and turned down the help with a cold shoulder.

But now he wants you around for everything and the thought makes him pause with his hand on the doorknob.

He made sure you like his new apartment too because - when he isn't expecting it he imagines you there. Not just as his co-worker or employee or even as his friend. As someone more permanent. Lasting. It's not that he needs you to run his life for him, he's perfectly capable of doing things on his own. It's just that he loves how you barge your way into his world and refuse to let him be alone.

Jongdae doesn't know how yet, but he wants to show you how he feels in return. It's like trying to run with a blindfold on, but he desperately hopes that he can figure out how to care about you in the way you deserve. Bringing you coffee and asking about your day and giving you all the freedom you want at work are a start, but they barely scratch the surface of how much he feels for you.

He's got one idea. A big one. An insane one, that you'll probably call him nuts for suggesting. If he ever gets up the nerve someday.

The buzzer sounds again and he shakes himself out of it. Finally he pulls it open and is greeted by your smiling face in the morning gray light. Hair pulled back in a ponytail and dressed in a long black shirt and faded overalls. He leans against the doorframe, wondering if he's ever seen anything more beautiful than you on his doorstep.

'So, I have a surprise,' you start. With a free hand you nervously brush your hair behind your ear. It's so unlike you that he immediately wonders if something is wrong.

'What is it?'

Before you can answer, noise in the parking lot draws his focus. His front door faces the open-air walkway that leads to the stairs down to the parking lot. He expected a moving truck and several buff men in logoed shirts. Instead it's a scrappy group of your friends - his friends now, he supposes - looking tired but ready to help.

Junmyeon and Jane drink coffee and pull furniture dollys and heavy blankets out of a Uhaul truck. Liz and Jongin are leaning against the cab of Sehun's car and laugh at him as he and Yixing sleep peacefully in the backseat. Chanyeol and his girlfriend are paused on the landing below making out, a tape gun in each of their hands. Another car catches a break in the flow of traffic and pulls into one of the guest spaces. Minseok and Bookworm step out and yawn, tying sweatshirts around their waists.

Jongdae repeats his question. Or at least he tries to, but emotion catches his throat and all he can do is stare at you with a mix of surprise and what he's sure is a very naked expression of affection.

'How did you do this?' he asks when he can finally breathe again.

You tilt your head and grin at him, pride making you radiant even in the dull mist of the morning. 'Is this okay?' For a moment you look worried, tucking your hands in the pockets of your overalls and taking a step back.

'I know I said I'd hire the movers, but I thought this might be better? I didn't think everyone would be here, especially after the Halloween party last night. Soo and Sunshine are working, but I think - wait,' you turn and yell down to the group in the lot. 'Has anyone heard from Baek and Hitch?'

Chanyeol reluctantly pulls away from his girlfriend and replies. 'Yeah, he messaged me at the ass-crack of dawn. He said he and Hitch are fine, but they won't be able to make it until later.'

With a curious look you thank Chanyeol and turn back to Jongdae. 'Okay, so almost everyone came.'

'It's because you're incredible,' he agrees, heart warm and in awe of you. Stepping back, he shoves the door stop in with his foot to prop it open and gestures for you to come in.

He doesn't get two steps before your hand finds his bicep, stopping him. 'No, I'm just absolutely amazing at organizing things,' you laugh. ‘But they didn't just come for me Jongdae, they came because they're your friends. They wanted to help.'

The intensity in your voice makes him pause. Like you're trying to say far more than your words. He gets lost for a moment in your beautiful eyes and swallows harshly. His past, the negative parts, haven't come up much - his failed first business, the trail of broken friendships he's left behind him, the ensuing guard he's had up since - but you've paid far more attention than he realized.

He doesn't miss the meaning behind your words, or the look in your eyes; what you're asking of him. To trust you, to trust them. To release his death grip on the walls he keeps up to protect himself. But no matter how determined you are he knows he has to be the one to dismantle them. His heart is nervous and he instead focuses on your hand on his arm.

For a beat he wants to kiss you, then and there with almost all of his and your friends just outside. Instead he lets his actions speak when his mouth isn't able to and pulls you into a hug. You freeze for a moment, stiff with surprise. But after a moment it melts away and you hold him back, wrapping your arms around his waist. His head spins when you rest your forehead against his shoulder, unable to process the fact that you’re in his arms in reality, not just his dreams.

'You're the most amazing person,' he murmurs against your hair.

The sound of loud voices and thumping of boots on stairs make him pull back. You give him another smile, warmer and softer this time. Something that's private for him only. 'I know.'

He barks out a laugh as Sehun and Jongin come in through the doorway. 'Let's do this!' Sehun calls, clapping his hands together.

'We promise we won't steal anything,' Jongin jokes, looking around Jongdae's place with obvious fascination.

Bijoux organizes the packing party while Chanyeol grabs Jongdae's keys so he and Sehun can take the first load of boxes over to the new place while Junmyeon, Jongin, and Jongdae load up the bigger furniture pieces into the Uhaul. Jongdae lets out a rusty laugh as Junmyeon dubs them ‘the J squad.’ You work around them, collecting all the random trinkets and knicknacks that have escaped other boxes.

He closed Chen’s today to hopefully knock this entire project out in one swoop. Ripping it off like a Bandaid. After the first big load everyone splits up into teams. Sehun and Yixing pack and load the rest of the boxes and smaller items into the cars. Jongin, who is absolutely not trusted around breakable items, goes with Junmyeon to return the Uhaul to the rental shop and pick up lunch and drinks for everyone with the cash Jongdae insisted they take.

And Minseok leads everyone else on a cleaning checklist he’s created with military precision. It's been so long Jongdae doesn't even know if he has a damage deposit. His grandfather took excellent care of the place and he kept it up in his absence, so he hopes it's not too much work to tidy.

Yixing’s boombox keeps up a steady flow of music throughout the morning and lunch time. With everyone’s help, and of course with the added fuel from the pizza and beverages, things are just wrapping up at the old place. You stay behind with Jongdae to take a last look around and turn in the keys, forcing him to take a few photos in the space to remember it.

‘This is it, I guess,’ he says, holding out the key and laying it on the kitchen counter with a small metallic sound.

‘How do you feel?’ You lean your hip against the fridge and drink from a water bottle.

Sunset over Lake Union is his favorite time of day and it’s hard to stand the thought of missing out on a last one. It’s barely two in the afternoon and it’s hours until golden hour. Rather than lie he simply says the truth. ‘I wish I could see the sun go down one last time.’

You come and stand next to him, close enough he can smell the light scent of your perfume and see the flush of your chest from the day’s exertion. ‘We can wait.’

He thinks of everyone at his new place, unloading boxes. ‘But everyone-’

‘Jongdae,’ you start. ‘They’ll be fine. You know Sehun has probably fallen asleep on your couch already. Baek and Hitch and the openers from Barada will be heading over soon. Some people have to head out for closing shifts but it’s already been decided that we’re doing movie night and Chinese take out tonight at your new place.’

‘Oh really?’ He presses his lips together to try not to laugh.

‘I don’t think you have much of a choice,’ you tease. ‘Trust me, they’ll be fine for another few hours.’

‘Alright then,’ he says after a pause.

The two of you sit on the bare hardwood floors and talk until the sun finally sets, just before five pm. He doesn’t yell his feelings for you at full volume like he wishes he could. He doesn’t dance with you or kiss you slowly in the empty apartment, there’s far too many emotions in his heart today to try and cope with more. But after he locks up and leaves the keys behind he does take your hand to help you into the car. And he does hold it for far longer than necessary before pulling back to shut the door.

It’s not much, but like his new apartment it’s the start of something.

November 3rd, 1997

You’ve got to tell Jongdae now, but nerves eat away at you and your resolve lessens minute by minute. Since the move he’s been warmer, more open, and you don’t want to ruin that. But you can’t keep this from him any longer.

Applying at Microsoft was supposed to be a long shot, a shot in the dark, or some other kind of shot that never meant to lead anywhere. But still it’s one you took and one that ended up paying off way faster and more successfully than you’d planned. After two interviews last week you sit with a job offer on your answering machine back home and a choice to make.

They need your decision by tomorrow and as Monday winds into early afternoon your deadline approaches. You bite your lip and vacillate wildly between thoughts. On the one hand this could be a good thing - if you’re no longer working at the same place, there’s nothing stopping the two of you from being together, right?

But what if Jongdae can’t see past his hurt and freaks out, assuming you’re leaving him like everyone else has? Or worse, what if he never cared about you that way at all?

Your stomach drops at the thought of walking out of here into your dream job, but feeling empty, leaving behind someone who has come to mean so much to you.

Your roommates Liz and Jane, Hitch, hell even Baekhyun weaseled the truth out of you at Shari’s on Saturday. Stone cold sober and still you let out everything to him sitting in your group’s favorite booth. About how you might in fact love Jongdae and how badly you want this opportunity, how utterly terrifying and exhilarating change can be simultaneously.

None of them told you to choose one way or the other. They didn’t say ‘take the job’ or ‘turn down the job,’ they all said that the decision is one only you can make and that they’d support you no matter what you picked. And maybe each time you cried a little and all of them were good enough friends to just hug you and not mention it.

But all of them told you one thing that now sits lodged in your throat. Whatever else happens, you both deserve to know. Jongdae deserves the truth about what you’re considering, and you deserve to finally know once and for all how he feels about you and what he wants.

After he locks the doors and starts cleaning up, you rise, holding your hands behind your back so tightly your knuckles are most assuredly white. ‘Hey, can we talk for a minute?’

Jongdae nods. ‘Of course. I’ve got something I wanted to discuss with you as well, actually. But you go first.’ He folds his arms and leans against his desk, giving you that affectionate close-lipped smile of his. You desperately hope what you’re about to say doesn’t wipe it off his face.

Not one to beat around the bush you dive in. ‘I applied for another job.’ The words sound blunt and harsh. You swallow and try again, hating how his brow furrows in confusion. ‘Not because I don’t like it here. But Hitch told me about an opening and it sounded - sounds perfect for what I want to do in the long run. It’s on the new gaming system division… at Microsoft.’

He doesn’t say anything for a long pause. Instead of meeting your eyes his have dropped to the ground and you wish you could reach out and touch him. Anything to make sure he hears you, understands you. But a whisper of fear makes you keep quiet, worrying the connection you had wasn’t meant to last, if something so trivial could break it.

‘I thought you were happy here,’ he says finally.

You hold your hands out in front of you, palms up in a gesture of entreaty. ‘I do, Jongdae. It’s not that at all. I thought this might - be good for us. If we’re not working together, then -’

When he finally looks up his gaze is distant, his mouth a thin line. The shutters have fallen over his face. ‘By going to work at the one place I despise?’

Anger makes your skin hot and you fold your arms as well, in defiance. ‘But you talk to Hitch and Baekhyun? They haven’t turned into the devil incarnate yet.’

He gives a quick, harsh shrug. ‘I like them both, sure. But being friends is one thing. This is quite another.’

It’s almost a declaration, yet so far from how you dreamed this moment might go. ‘What are you saying, Jongdae?’ You need to hear it. After so many weeks of trying you need him to at least do you the courtesy of speaking it out loud.

‘You know how I feel about you.’ There’s hope in his eyes. But it’s so buried amongst hurt and suspicion it’s not even close to reassuring. ‘I want you to stay. Here.’ With me, he doesn’t say, but you feel it.

Nothing drives you more up the wall than being told what to do. His words fall against your own shield and the plea within goes unnoticed. ‘Would you really shut me off if I took this job? Does hating them mean more than wanting what’s best for me?’ You finally step forward, reaching a hand for his arm.

‘I’ve supported you in everything,’ you start, unable to stop now that you’ve started. ‘In finding community here. In your move. Even in the business, who was the one who pushed you to keep growing? I don’t intend to stop being there for you, but I need you to support me in this. Please.’

He just watches you, not saying a word. The clock on the wall ticks loudly in the silence. People outside the glass doors go about their day, shopping or getting an early dinner, unaware of the standoff taking place merely feet from them. You wonder what it would take to make his guard truly ever come down.

With how quickly it snapped back into place you feel tired all the way down to your bones. Maybe it will never be enough, even if you did stay here forever.

‘I’ll pay out your PTO in these next two weeks,’ he says softly. ‘No need to come back into the office. If that works for you?’ His last statement is thrown on as a hasty addendum. Like he’d realized how harsh it sounded and he wanted to dull the sting. It’s a sliver of kindness, a glimpse at the man he almost allowed himself to be. But it’s not enough.

‘Fine with me.’ You move past him, into the supply room to grab your purse and jacket, proud of the way your voice doesn’t waver. Pausing in the hallway you turn to look back at him, still frozen against his desk. ‘I’m leaving this job, I’m not leaving you.’

He turns to look at you, running a hand through his hair and messing up the ends. ‘It will go the same way, I know it. In the end you’ll disappear too.’

‘Jongdae, I’m trying. I need you to at least meet me halfway.’

You don’t wait for his reply, if one was ever even going to come. Instead you continue down the small hallway and push out the back door into the mall. It’s only once you’re in your car that you remember he mentioned something he wanted to discuss. You wonder what it was, and if you’ll ever find out.

Jongdae stares after you for long seconds after you’re gone. He doesn’t hold out hope that you’ll come back, not after the way he treated you. Instead he feels stuck in place, like if he holds his breath and doesn’t exhale then the last five minutes didn’t happen.

But his lungs burn and his chest aches, and when he finally sighs it comes out ragged. He fumbles for the switch and the store descends into darkness. Shafts of light still come through, angled in from the glass ceiling of the mall’s concourse. Jongdae stands just outside of it, protected. With no one to see he sinks into his desk chair and drops his head into his hands.

The tears that clog his throat are at first unexpected, but as the minutes drag on he finally gives into them. He should have known they were coming all along. Not just from the moment you walked into his life, but from the day his grandfather died. From the day his father passed and his mother became a ghost rather than a permanent, tangible figure.

From the day Julian took Jongdae’s designs and credited them as his own to the investors, cutting Jongdae out of not only the business they were building, but out of their group of friends as well.

Misery and hopelessness whisper against his skin and for long minutes he lets himself wallow. He knows it’s no one’s fault but his own that he ruined things with you. His grandfather taught him long ago that other’s actions are theirs, and that it’s what Jongdae does in response that is his responsibility. But he can’t deny that he indulges in thoughts of blaming the cruelty of life for making him so goddamn stubborn.

He swallows and leans back in his chair, feeling as though his body is made of hard, unyielding stone. Maybe it's better this way, he wonders, drumming his fingers on the wood desk before him. Perhaps he should let his worst fears dominate his life, believing that the risk is far greater than any potential reward that love or friendship could offer him.

Is it better to be alone, knowing that he’ll always be safe, free of anyone who might hurt him?

Jongdae groans. The voice inside him that whispers No sounds first like his grandfather, both encouraging and feisty at the thought of Jongdae giving up. Next it sounds like you. He knows you’d roll your eyes and call him grouchy, always thinking better of him than he does of himself. You’d tell him his bark is far worse than his bite and to get over himself already. At this thought, at any thought of you, really, he smiles.

Familiar voices make him look out into the mall. Sehun and Jongin walk by carrying sodas, rubbing their stomachs. He can imagine how they’re complaining about eating too much Barada pizza, as always.

They pass by quickly but the image stays with him, of their friendship. Jongdae thinks of Chanyeol and Kyungsoo’s, how opposite and yet how similar they are. Baekhyun and Hitch, who are always teasing each other but who he knows would do anything at the drop of a hat.

He’s held himself back the past few months. First a reluctant observer. Then a tentative participant. The endless exhaustion of being careful, keeping his distance, catches up to Jongdae as he sits in that chair. If it weren’t for you maybe he’d never be brave enough to try again after how hard it was growing up. But if he is to be the kind of person, the kind of partner you deserve, now is the time to make the attempt.

It’s up to Jongdae to be the one to try, to reach out. He can’t let others find him anymore. For the first time in a long time Jongdae stands up and goes looking for a friend.

Junmyeon still has an hour before his store closes and he looks up at Jongdae as he walks in through the door of Guardians. ‘Hey, JD! How’s it going?’ If he notices that Jongdae’s been crying, he’s kind enough to not mention it.

‘Are you busy?’ Jongdae’s throat is raw but Jun has a young son, surely tears won’t bother him.

‘Not really, I’m just organizing some shipments going out tomorrow,’ Junmyeon answers. He sets down his pencil and rests his hands on the counter. A crease forms between his brows the longer he watches Jongdae. ‘Is everything alright?’

He wants to do this right, but all he can find are inelegant words. Junmyeon is as close as he has to a best friend at the moment, and he hopes he doesn’t inconvenience him. ‘Not really.’

Jun tilts his head and gestures to the door, picking up Jongdae’s unspoken request and running with it, just like he’d hoped he would. ‘I can close up shop a bit early. Want to talk in my office?’

Jongdae runs a hand over his face and nods. Grateful and relieved he manages a small laugh. ‘That would be great, thanks.’

After Jun locks the doors and flips the sign to closed he motions for Jongdae to follow him. The back room of Guardians is much warmer that at Chen’s Electronics, in style rather than temperature. Jongdae sits on a beige sofa that’s even more comfortable than it looks. The walls are filled with framed photos and art prints and various other pieces that give the space an art gallery vibe.

With a sigh Junmyeon tidies up the mess of papers and crayons and various cups with kid lids. ‘Sorry, Sungmin loves to draw but we haven’t quite nailed the clean up yet.’

‘Don’t worry about it on my behalf,’ Jongdae says sincerely. ‘I’m just grateful you’re willing to listen.’

The space has a narrow hallway leading to a back door and a closet that’s probably full of supplies, much like Jongdae’s store. Jun takes the cups to a small sink in the mini-kitchen in the corner. His brow lifts in confusion. ‘Why wouldn’t I? We’re friends, right?’

Could it be that simple? No need to prove himself or do everything possible to impress Junmyeon, like he did with Julian. ‘Yeah, we are I suppose.’ He laughs and shakes his head. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to imply I don’t consider us friends, I just - well, have a few trust issues when it comes to that sort of thing.’

Junmyeon dries his hands on a dishtowel and blows his hair off his forehead with a huffed laugh. ‘We’ve all got a few issues, don’t we?’ He moves to the table and takes a seat, sliding a glass of water towards Jongdae and sipping from one of his own. ‘I’ve got the time. So quit stalling and tell me about yours.’

He sags into the couch and drinks from the glass. ‘Alright then.’

For once he doesn’t second guess himself or try to read the minutiae of Jun’s expressions to see if he’s annoying him or being too boring. Jongdae simply tells him the truth, trusting his friend to listen.

He mentions his family and how hard it hit him when his grandfather passed. How strange and yet unbothered he is by the lack of relationship with his mother. The way he was teased growing up and how he was probably the only person in his Master’s program going through puberty. The fact that the mall is the first place he’s ever had friends his own age since childhood.

It’s satisfying to see how pissed off Jun gets when he tells him about Julian and all the bullshit he put Jongdae through. For a while there Jongdae had convinced himself that he was the one in the wrong, that there’d been something he’d done to earn his exile. That it was a deserved punishment. But his friend’s muttered curses remind him that true friends don’t normally backstab each other for money and notoriety.

And finally, he talks of you.

How much he values you at work and how sassy and insistent you were about bringing him into ‘the fold’ of their friend group. The ways in which he wants to be with you and care for you and all his worries of whether or not he’ll be any good at it, given his lack of experience. Junmyeon is neither surprised by his feelings for you nor willing to let him wallow.

‘I even brought prom tickets,’ Jongdae finishes with a groan. He pulls them from the pocket of his jeans and lets his arm fall to the couch cushion. ‘Me. At a prom.’ He almost snorts.

But Junmyeon just purses his lips. ‘Is that really such a stretch?’

Jongdae hums a noise of contemplation. ‘No. I guess not. All our friends are doing it.’ But before Jun can continue he shakes his head. ‘But I’ve messed this all up, so it doesn’t matter either way.’

Loneliness aches in his bones, his hands tired of not holding yours. Wishing he was enough, somehow, to keep you here and keep you warm; enough to make you stay, to make you happy.

Junmyeon raises a brow. ‘I think you’re missing the point entirely my friend. She told you what she needs. All you have to do is listen. She’s asking you to trust her. This job is something she’s worked for and she’s not leaving you for it. She’s just leaving the job. If you want to know you have to ask.’

He sighs deeply. ‘You’re right. But what if it all goes wrong? What if I try and it’s all for nothing in the end?’

Jun dips his chin to his chest, looking at the ground lost in thought. ‘That’s fair. I know a little of that myself, Jongdae. But all you can do is try. There’s sadly no guarantees here. I think you want to make it work and from what I know of her, she wants you as well. It’s time to make the big gesture. Or any kind of gesture, really.’

He groans and smiles, knowing his friend’s fondness for ‘I think you’re right.’ He even has an idea, two in fact. One that’s lived in the back of his mind for weeks and one that’s brewing right now. ‘Will you help me?’

‘Absolutely my friend.’ Jun claps him on the shoulder, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

November 19th, 1997

It should have been wonderful news to you that it was a clean break at least. No mess, just walking out the door and leaving behind the man and the job in one fell swoop. But of course, it wasn’t.

Microsoft was delighted when you told them you could start ASAP, but honestly you did it to jump into work rather than spend your time missing Jongdae. Filling your schedule proves to be the easiest way to avoid thinking about what hurts. You still had your roommates and Hitch and everyone else to hang out with, even if you weren’t ready for any Saturday pizza lunches or Shari’s nights quite yet. Both brought you far too close to him to bear right now.

Liz and Jane and Hitch are wonderful and you’ve had not one but two sleepovers since ‘the Jongdae incident.’ If not for their friendship and constant presence you’re sure you would have walled up the hurt and hid it away, not one to normally speak about your pain openly. Not while it’s so fresh.

Distantly you hope that Jongdae is okay and that he has someone to talk to. If he’s even hurting.

For all you know he’s completely fine and unaffected by the entire thing. Maybe he’s already found a new office manager and has forgotten about you. But those are the kind of rude and painful thoughts that only come to you at three in the morning when you can’t sleep, when dreams of his hands and his voice and his smile keep you up.

Jongdae calls one Tuesday to ask you to swing by Chen’s to pick something up the next day and you’re suspicious. He wouldn’t say any more, just ‘please come by at six. I have something to give you and I’d like it to be in person.’

You put on your favorite black dress and blazer that make you feel both sexy and confident and head to the mall. If he’s just calling you to twist the knife in deeper, you’ve already decided to leave and not bother letting him hurt you more. But if he’s calling to reconcile… you shake your head, not willing to get your hopes up. Instead you park in your old space and fix your make up in the rearview mirror.

It delights you to see that your old desk is returned to its former state. Just the computer, keyboard, and mouse remain. No one’s personal possessions have taken over the space like yours used to. It shouldn’t make you so happy to see he hasn’t replaced you, but it does.

Jongdae sits at his desk. His hair is in its usual perfect wave but his white button down and slacks have been swapped today for a dark green sweater and tan chinos. He looks ridiculously handsome and you grit your teeth, wishing you could turn off your attraction to him with a switch inside your brain.

He looks up at your knock on the glass door. For a moment he simply stands, drinking you in. Then he moves, walking closer to unlock the door and let you in.

‘Hi. How are you?’

You blink and try not to laugh. ‘How am I? Jongdae, how do you think I am?’

‘Right, sorry.’ He shakes his head. Carefully he looks you up and down, not bothering to hide his own attraction to you in his hungry gaze. With a swallow he remembers himself and grabs a cardboard banker’s box from in front of his desk. ‘Here. I didn’t want to come by and drop it off. It felt wrong.’

The box holds all the random photos and personal belongings you’d left in your desk, in your haste to leave. Postcards from Amsterdam and family photos and lotions and your favorite scarf you’d been missing. He steps back, resting against the corner of his desk and folding his arms. When you take it he doesn’t say anything, which is not what you’d hoped by any means, but silence is definitely less painful than you’d feared.

‘Well, it’s been an adventure,’ you manage. You lean against your desk and move the box under one arm, holding out a hand to him to shake. Ready to be done with this officially.

He doesn’t move. You can feel words held on the tip of his tongue. Months and months later you know how to read his tells. The tightness in his jaw and the widening of his eyes and how his hand grips the fabric of his sweater. But seconds tick on and still he says nothing.

He should speak or you should leave. One of you should do something. Instead you’re frozen in time. Eventually your arm aches and you set the box down beside you. You could go first, but pride demands he be the one to confess, if there’s going to be any confessions tonight.

Neither of you caves; twin pillars of resolution, stubbornness, and desire. It’s a game the two of you could play for hours. The tension in the air pulls tighter than a violin. His gaze drops from your eyes to your lips, unabashedly. His lids grow heavy as he breathes deeply, close enough to smell your gardenia perfume, but just out of reach of being able to touch you.

So this is what it feels like to meet my match, you think, finally acknowledging just how deeply you want him. Enough nights had been spent imagining kissing him, being with him in far more intimate ways than just a holding of hands or a hug. You want more, but only if he wants you, too.

You'd always been told that you were too driven, too smart, too self-sufficient to attract a man. Even in your MBA program where ambition and intelligence were supposedly rewarded, it apparently made you too something to find a good man to date.

But now there’s one right in front of you, looking at you as if you’re the answer to Fermat’s Enigma; a rare and priceless gem he’d been hunting for all his life. But he doesn’t look at you as if you’re art to be admired, a prize to be won. The guard lifts steadily and when he looks at you now it’s as if you’re the kind of miracle he wants to sink his teeth, his tongue, and his fingers into.

Your cheeks grow warm and you’re sure you look just as amazed and turned on as he does. If you had to guess, you’d bet that the number of people who challenge him these days are few, and the number of people who attempt to see the man behind the curtain even fewer.

While everyone else in the world might just see a monolith of a man, a genius, a hardworking and brilliant anomaly, you see the passionate, warm heart that beats in his chest. You know that the tin man really does have feelings and needs, and your heart almost breaks when you realize he’s been searching for you just as fervently as you’ve been searching for someone like him.

The silence in the room is almost too fragile a thing to break. On one side of the moment is a spark of something, a chance to see if this connection is real and deep, or if this is just chemistry and biology combining into lust. If your mind has taken the small gestures of passion and kindness and friendship from him and built it up to be something more than the sum of its parts.

‘I’ve missed you,’ he breathes, voice catching in his throat. Releasing his folded arms he rests his palms on the edges of the desk.

‘I’ve missed you, too,’ you admit. Your hands curl in on themselves, trying to fight the way emotion and physical longing make it difficult to be in such a close proximity to him.

‘Okay, then.’ He breaks first, moving with purpose and striding to you in two steps, sliding his hands along your jaw with such softness that you gasp.

And then, finally, you feel his lips on yours. You grasp his hips, hands freed and aching to touch him, to feel his hard body press against yours with surprising heat.

You meet him with equal passion, working your lips against his steady assault on your composure. For a solid minute you’re in awe that you could feel this much, that his lips and his hands could undo you so rapidly. That they could rebuild you into someone who belongs to him in such a short space of time, after weeks of endless doubt.

He groans against your lips in what feels like similar shock and surrender. Who would have thought that he would cave to your touch just as you did to his? How could someone so grumpy and strong-willed also be so open and vulnerable to this tentative thing between you.

But as he drops a hand and brings it to rest securely on the small of your back you realize there’s a name for this feeling.

You could call it fate. You could call it destiny. You could call it that damned four-letter word or you could call it Darwinism for all you care as his teeth bite gently into your lower lip.

You just know that nothing has ever felt as good and right as his hands claiming you for his own and the smell and heat of him wrapping themselves around you and burrowing their way into your heart.

A whine works its way from your throat as he licks along the seam of your lips, seeking entrance. When you open your mouth to him, his tongue slides along your own and you almost lose your balance. With a giggle you could swear you’ve never made before in your life you let him guide you up onto the desk.

He steps between your legs instantly, gripping your hips and continuing his tasting of you. Heat and electricity race down your spine as you fist your hands in his hair, pulling him closer to you until there’s no separation.

Banging on the glass doors and whistles come from out in the mall and you freeze. Instead of jerking back in shock and alarm like you’d expect him to, Jongdae confounds you once again. He pulls back slowly, opening his eyes and lifting his hands to gently cup your face. It can’t have been more than fifteen minutes but in less than the time it takes to watch one episode of Friends he’s turned your world on its axis.

You and Jongdae smile at each other and both turn to wave at your group of friends, who are celebrating and clapping. Baekhyun eats from an enormous bag of popcorn, wearing his theater uniform. Jongin and Sehun take large handfuls and Hitch whoops with joy. Liz and Jane and Junmyeon are all smiling, and attempt to force some of the group away to give you privacy.

Jongdae’s hands flex on your waist. ‘I want to try. You’re everything I want, will you please give me the chance to be what you need?’ His voice is raspy and his lips are red and you can’t help but grin.

‘I just want you, okay?’ You fix his messed up hair with both hands and sigh with relief. ‘And for you to admit you like me.’

‘I far more than like you.’ Jongdae rolls his eyes and kisses you once more. ‘You just want me to say you’re right.’

With a laugh you ease yourself off your desk, standing close within his arms and bending to whisper in his ear. ‘I’m always right. I just love when you admit it.’

‘So,’ he starts with an amused quirk of an eyebrow. ‘Will you let me take you to dinner? Us, officially, on a date.’

Your chest feels as if it’s a balloon, expanding so rapidly it might burst. He looks so young and boyish and hopeful your heart feels like it turns to liquid gold. With a delighted grin you lean forward and press your lips to his again, unable to resist.

Joy swims in his irises as he holds you in his arms. He looks at you through his lashes, his lips tilting into lopsided smile. ‘Is that a yes, then?’

‘Yes,’ you answer. ‘Of course.’

‘How’s right now for you?’ He motions to the doors and your friends have finally been corralled to the side of the walkway, revealing an elaborately decorated table in the food court.

You gasp and grip his arm. Jun and Sehun hold the doors open and Jongdae escorts you out. A red tablecloth is spread out over the circular table. The chairs have added plush cushions and several candles have been lit. A bottle of wine and two glasses rest beside several plates of food. You recognize the pizza from Barada, the rest looks like a mix from the other restaurants in the food court.

With high fives and hugs from your friends they finally leave you and Jongdae alone. Well, almost alone. It’s not a busy time at the mall, but there’s no way to avoid some of the customers turning to watch with amusement and curiosity as they pass by. You pay them no mind as Jongdae holds out your chair and helps you sit.

The two of you fall back into conversation easy enough, aided by the enormous amount of food and how you no longer have to move your knees away when they bump under the table. Jongdae reaches for your hand and holds it, in full view. He stares at the joined digits with warmth before looking up at you.

Doubt passes across his face, marring the beauty that contentment lends his features. ‘I don’t -’ he struggles. ‘I don’t know how to keep this much good in my life. I worry that I’m going to mess it up.’

Neither of you are the type to openly acknowledge such things. Merely the fact that he’s voicing his fears to you shows you he’s doing what he said - he’s trying, he wants to change. And truthfully so do you.

‘I worried for the longest time that I’d be alone forever,’ you say softly. ‘I didn’t think I’d ever find someone who understood me or who could handle all my - well, you know how I am.’

Jongdae smiles then, lifting your joined hands to his lips to press a kiss to your skin. ‘I love who you are.’

Your eyes mist at that and you groan, trying to blink them back. ‘Good, because I love who you are too.’ With your free hand you reach for his, needing to hold both of them and all of him at once. Not wanting to give his overly-analytical mind a chance to override the fragile hope you’re both building tonight. ‘You know what to do when a computer overloads?’

He nods. ‘Of course. Often it’s just a simple matter of turning it off and on again.’

‘So,’ you say, lifting your shoulder in a shrug. ‘When we mess up or freak out or say the wrong thing, we’ll just start over again. As long as you want me and I want you, we’ll figure it out.’

Jongdae softens, his shoulders dropping and ease coming back into his eyes. ‘I didn’t know I was lagging until you jump started my life.’ He waggles his brows. It’s a gesture that’s all Baekhyun, and a pun so terrible that Junmyeon would be proud. You can’t help but laugh and squeeze his hands.

‘I’ve got one more surprise,’ Jongdae says, reluctantly releasing one of your hands to pull two narrow slips of paper from his pocket. ‘Do you have any plans for Christmas?’

The tickets are in both your names. First class round trip from Seattle to Amsterdam. ‘Oh my - Jongdae, what is this? You and me in Amsterdam?’

‘I figured it was about time,’ he says with pride.

You lean out of your chair and reach for him, tugging him closer to kiss him fully. Noise reaches you - clapping and cheering from the shops around the mall. When you look around you see Sehun and his girlfriend leaning out of Starlight Apparel. Chanyeol and Kyungsoo smiling and fist bumping as they work on closing up the shop.

Hitch nudges Baekhyun from the theater booth and he jumps in excitement. And from Guardians Junmyeon leans on the counter, resting his chin in his hand, giving a thumbs up.

You roll your eyes and wave. ‘We maybe should have gone somewhere outside the mall, huh?’

'No, I think this is perfect,’ Jongdae answers. He then covers your mouth with his and holds you so tight that it drowns out the chorus of cheering that echos around the space.

#jongdae fanfic #chen fanfic #exo fanfic #exo angst #exo fluff #exo au

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greenygreenland · 3 years

Text

The Floor Is Lava: (Platonic) 501st x Jedi Reader

-saw something about the floor is lava and imagined this in my head at like 3am

-note, you are a jedi padawan of shaak ti’s with your own squad (who are actually my ocs lol). They are called the Nebula Squad (the squad is actually from Wannabe, another one of my Star Wars fanfics)

-basically, you are someone who acts alone (without your master) and goes on special ops missions. you team up with anakin a lot

-CAN BE READ WITHOUT HAVING TO READ WANNABE

Summary: The floor is lava.

Spring came early. Too early. Maybe it was the fact that this planet had short winters, or the fact that you just weren't used to the warm breezes and scorching heat. After being stationed on Hoth for a good two weeks, you adjusted to the climate. With that came the curse of low heat tolerance.

"I'm going to die." you grumbled.

Your mission was in the more civilised (that was how one of your boys put it) regions of the planet. For some strange reason only the Force knew, your ship broke down in the worst place: a deserted village. Why was this the worst place? Because there was no way you could repair a broken ship without spare parts.

And where were spare parts located? In the city you were supposed to land in. Great, just great.

“(Y/n), can’t we contact General Skywalker for assistance?” inquired Nova. “We are supposed to RV with them anyway.”

Nova was your friend and assigned clone Commander. He, like you, had a knack for getting into sticky situations. Usually he was the one with the plan B, not you. “I can ask Grav and Nimbus if they can get a signal out over there.” He pointed to the mountain on your right. It was tall with a jagged top, where thick forests of luscious greenery sprouted out all over.

Yeah, good luck getting through that.

“You mean to tell me there’s no signal here?” you inquired. “Just how remote is this place?” Even with that bucket over Nova’s face, you knew he was frowning and holding back a long sigh. “Intel said--”

“Intel’s always wrong.” cut in a voice. You peered over Nova’s broad shoulders and met gazes with another member of your squad, Icee. He was just as tall as Nova, sporting the Squad’s signature purple stripes and it’s logo--a nebula. Over his shoulder, he held tight to a sniper rifle. The thing was a beauty, as well as his baby.

“The three things you can never trust are the weather forecast, the canteen menu, and intel. Plain and simple, vode.” Icee added. You shook your head, swatting a few mosquitoes away with a wave of your hand. “If that big ‘ol mountain is the only place we can get a signal from, then I say we go. All of us.”

Nova nodded in agreement. He shouldered his pack, adjusted a few straps on his kama and weapons, and motioned for the rest of the squad to move out. “Is there anything we should know about the wildlife here?” he inquired. “My HUD’s picking up the usual birds and rascals. I’d rather not risk it though. Remember Felucia?”

A shiver ran down your spine at the mention of that jungle-hell. Everywhere you walked lay a deadly plant in need of its next meal. They snuck up on you too, striking out of nowhere like the silence of night. Your number one rule there was not to touch anything.

“There are a few carnivorous plants south of here,” answered Nimbus. “Besides that, all we have to worry about are the birds.” You admired the way he was able to brief everyone so quickly. The only other clone you’ve met with such a well of info was Tech, a member of Clone Force 99.

“What do the birds look like?” you inquired. Nimbus scrunched up his face under that bucket of his. “I don’t think you wanna know.” Grav squinted at the screen and pushed his brother’s head with the back of his hand. It wasn’t enough to hurt him, but you sensed a lingering annoyance in the air after.

“What, you scared of some little bird Nimbus?“ he teased. Nimbus wordlessly flipped over his datapad for everyone to see. The screen displayed a large bird-like creature with long fangs covered in drool. Its eyes were beady and bloodthirsty, as if it wanted you to be its next meal.

Nimbus scanned over the heading. “This is a...uh...Kah-rah...Kahl-ram-dah-lahm-dahl...?”

“Kara’dalamb’da.” corrected Storm. He pulled off his helmet, the low ponytail of his fanning out in the warm breezes. “I’ve read about them once. They’re not the type of creatures I’d want to run into. They drag you to their caves, pull you apart limb, and then chew you alive. The worst part is that they don’t eat you.”

Nimbus knitted his brows together. “So we’re like chewing gum to them?”

“Exactly.” Storm affirmed. “They come out at night time, then stay around till dawn before hiding in their caves.” Icee blanched and you couldn’t blame him. You were all heading towards the mountains, where plenty of caves and labyrinths lay. There were probably tons of those Kara-whatevers waiting for their dinner.

You folded your hands together with a tight frown. “Is there another way of getting a signal to Anakin?” George shook his head sadly. You sensed an overwhelming amount of resignation rolling off his shoulders. “No. Even if I tried use long-range comms, it wouldn’t work. There’s too much interfering with the signal.”

There was a chance you could telepathically contact Anakin. He’d answer in an instant and personally come to find you. But that would drain your energy. Your boys needed you more than you needed to contact Ani. If you became dead-weight then it would compromise the mission.

“Alright,” you decided. “We have twelve hours to scale that mountain and hurry our shebs to the ship. If we don’t make it back in time, consider ourselves toast.”

You wished you’d consider yourself toast from the start. If that were the case, then you wouldn’t be running for your life. The mission up was a success. You managed to reach the highest point on the mountain in less than eight hours by ways of a local trail (Nimbus noted that this was a popular tourist spot in autumn). Then you contacted Rex, who promised to RV at the foot of the mountain.

The way down was a different story.

It was dusk when you made your descend. The moon rose into the sky while the sun shied away, and if it weren’t for the boys and their helmet lamps, you wouldn’t have been able to see a thing. At first, the walk back was completely fine. The boys were in good spirits and you weren’t hungry for (favourite food).

But then it didn’t go well.

It wasn’t your fault that you didn’t see the giant jaws of death looming over you, or Nimbus, who started arguing with Grav. Again. It also wasn’t you fault that George so happened to trip over a rock and slam into Sapnap, who tried breaking his fall by grabbing onto Halo’s arm. The three went down together, and with the heavy clanking of katarn-class armour, you were sure the whole animal kingdom heard the show.

And that was how the Nebula Squad found themselves in this mess, fleeing from the horrifying Kara’dalamb’da.

“This is your fault Grav!” cried Nimbus. They bumped heads and it took all your willpower not to join the screaming match. “Shut up,” replied Grav. “You were the one who started it!” Nimbus gritted his teeth. “You who else started this?” he seethed. “Them!” He pointed over his shoulder at Halo, George, and Sapnap. They were the ones who had fallen, after all. Why else did the beast wake up?

“It wasn’t my fault!” cried George. Sapnap scoffed and it was lost to the screech of the oversized bird above. “No one said it was your fault anyway! You just have a guilty conscious!”

You eyed the bird with a sharp scowl. It flew higher, into the haunting light of the moon and across the stars. It gave a great screech again. You covered your ears as a shiver ran down your spine. “Is there any place we can hide from that thing? I’m pretty sure it can smell us from klicks away!”

“That’s correct Commander!” Nimbus congratulated. By the light aura around his shoulders, you guessed him and Grav already made up. They always had petty arguments anyway. “The Kara’dalamb’da has an incredible sense of smell and a wingspan of about ten meters! That’s pretty cool.”

Storm stared at his brother in bewilderment. “How is that cool?” he demanded. “You want to be chop suey for that thing? Be my guest.” Halo laughed a little. You knew he was doing it to shake off his nerves. “Why’d you have to go on and say that? Now I’m going to start singing.”

You scanned the forest. For miles, it seemed to be only forest, wildlife, and bare nature. A flicker of...something cut through your senses. Calculating, at the ready, and deadly. You paused in your step, Storm mimicking you. He met your gaze. “You sense it too?”

“Maybe it’s them.”

You heard them before you saw them.

“Blast that bird out of the sky!”

A squad of 501st troops rustled through the trees. They were silent as the night, save for one trooper who decided to whisper-shout a ‘hi’ to your squad. Their formation, lame as it was, worked in their favour. They raised their blaster, lighting up the sky with bright bolts of blue.

“Can we get a rocket launcher over here?”

“Yes, sir!”

The bird dropped out of the sky with a cry, razor-sharp teeth bared and claws at the ready. It was coming closer, diving faster. You pulled out your lightsaber and thumbed it on.

I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.

You heaved in a deep breath and leapt into the moonlight. Your robes fluttered in the wind, and your hair whipped in arc of (hair colour). It was like you had wings. Time slowed and you raised your lightsaber. It came down in a neat slash across the beast’s neck.

You tumbled through the air and met the ground in a roll. The beast fell behind with a loud THUMP!. You turned off your glowing blade and stashed it away on your belt. The adrenaline keeping your nerves hidden away was slowing, and the realisation that you just murdered a beast settled into your mind.

Part of you wished things could have been different. But what choice did you have?

“Commander!” called Nova, stopping by your side. “Are you okay?” You smiled and he heaved out a sigh of relief. “That was some jump, but now look.” He pointed to your dirt-covered robes. It wasn’t a big deal, but to someone like Nova, it was an issue.

“Here.” Nova helped you dust off the robe with a few pats. “That’s better.”

“Oh, it didn’t look bad.” you stated. He folded his arms across his chest. “That’s what you always say (Y/n).” You grinned and bumped shoulders with him. He replied by playfully shaking his head with a sigh.

A familiar boy made his way towards you. Even through the moonlight struggling through the thick canopies, you saw the chipped blue paint. “Rex,” you greeted. “Thanks for the assistance. Although, I wish you toned it down a bit. You made my squad look like a bunch of young fools.” A loud ‘hey’ sounded from your boys, but you elected to ignore it with a grin.

“Your squad did a phenomenal job in staying alive that long.” Rex said with a chuckle. “And besides, you stole the show in the end. The boys had fun watching your display.” You three shared a warm laugh that reminded you of the sun.

Speaking of sun, was it just you or did it get brighter outside? You looked up to gaze at the moon. It still stood high in the sky, just as before. The stars were out too, bright and clear as ever. So why had the temperature risen so quickly? It was at least another eight hours till dawn. That was more than enough time for the moon to stay out.

A scattered cluster of birds flew from out of the trees. Was it just you or was the forest getting really silent? Owls refused to hoot, those kara-whatevers weren’t screeching from their caves, and crickets stopped chirping their calming songs.

“WOAH, WOAH, WOAH!”

“I TOLD YOU IT WAS HERE!”

“I THOUGHT IT WAS IN THE SOUTH!”

You spun around so fast that you could have gotten whiplash. Sapnap, George, and Halo sprinted from out of the thick trees with their helmet lights on the highest setting. You squinted behind them. Something had to be chasing them, otherwise they wouldn’t be sprinting like track stars.

But you didn’t see any deadly animals, nor did you sense them. All that was left was an...

...an eerie silence.

You thought back to the briefing. Back to the meeting you nearly fell asleep in. If it weren’t for Icee kicking your feet every now and then, then you would have passed out completely.

“On this outer rim planet, I suggest you be careful,” Obi-wan had said. “The locals reported the activity of volcanoes erupting unexpectedly. They believe it has to do with an angry spirit plaguing their land, but we’ve found out the Separatists have a hand behind this.”

“Do you know where these volcanoes are, General Kenobi?” inquired Grav. He shook his head. “No, but I’m sure you won’t have to know. The city under siege is our main objective. You will rendezvous with Anakin there.”

Sapnap, George, and Halo motioned for everyone to move. There was a flicker of movement behind them. Fives emerged from the bushes in a frantic sort of panic. “LAVA!” he cried. “THE FLOOR IS LITERALLY LAVA!”

That was all it took for everyone to run. As uncoordinated as the retreat was, having lava behind you wasn’t exactly something anyone could stay calm about. The glowing magma was faster than it was supposed to be, and you had a feeling it was because it had a nice flow coming out of the planet’s core.

“Talk about an intense game of ‘the floor is lava’!” Hardcase shouted with a laugh. Jesse ‘pffted’. “I thought being chased by lava would be worse! This isn’t nearly as bad as last mission!”

Last mission? Oh, what was Ani doing to these poor souls? Your shoulders slumped in defeat. They were so nonchalant. How? Burning to death in lava was said to be the most painful death, and you’d rather not be Gollum in his last moments on Mount Doom.

“Why don’t you turn that frown upside down?” inquired Fives. You hadn’t even realised he’d caught up with you. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s just a bit of lava!”

You threw a hand over your shoulder and pointed to the glowing, hot mass. It burned through everything it touched. A fire was beginning to catch too, and all the smoke and ash from it wasn’t doing you any good. “Just a bit of lava? Well how would you feel running into that?”

“I don’t know!” he retorted. “Never tried it!”

“If you did, then you’d be dead!” Kix shouted. You face-palmed. “That’s a bit of a no-brainer!” Fives pulled off his helmet. The grin smacked upon his lips didn’t leave. “Who’s up for a round of ‘the floor is lava’?”

“Me!” said Jesse.

“And me!” added Hardcase.

“You guys need to cool it.” Kix said. “But don’t leave me out, I want to play too.”

You let out a long sigh. The 501st may have saved your skin today, but tomorrow? They’d probably get you killed.

TIP JAR <--- (if you’re feeling nice)

#star wars #star wars the clone wars #star wars x reader #star wars the clone wars x reader #501st legion #Clone Troopers #clone trooper rex #clone trooper fives #clone trooper kix #clone ocs

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dercolaris · 3 years

Text

Glass

Fandom: Batman

Characters: Edward Nygma, Jonathan Crane

Relationship: Edward Nygma & Jonathan Crane (None-romantic)

Genre: Hurt & Comfort

Word length: 2004

Warnings: No warnings

Status: Complete

Short Summary: Sometimes we are our own enemies and one mistake is making the fragile glass collapse.

"John?" The former psychiatrist slowly opened his eyes, blinking in surprise into the darkness around him. The brown-haired man groan softly and sat up on the hard mattress, wiping his hands a few times over his tense face. The Master of Fear moved closer to the musty wall behind him and carefully leaned the back of his head against the rock. After a while he answered calmly: "Yes, Edward?" There was a faint rustling from the neighbouring cell, suggesting that the Riddler had finally taken his place on his cot and leaned against the wall as well. The tinkerer had been brought to Arkham that night. As usual, at this point he hadn't spoken a single word to anyone. It was never easy for the younger man to accept a defeat and face the truth that his desired perfection was nothing more than a farce. The wind howled loudly through the long corridor of the prison ward. Jonathan shivered under the cool temperatures of November. The asylum was poorly isolated and left enough loopholes in the stone to drive inmates to death after a single night.

The Master of Fear stared at the bare wall without looking away, counting the seconds inwardly. The gaunt man let his breath out of his mouth, watching it turn into white mist before his eyes to finally disappear in the air. A barely audible sob drew his attention to the person in the next cell. It was about time. The brown-haired man propped his chin on his bony hand and spoke soothingly: "You are taking it too much to heart again, Edward. You know that." The tinkerer seemed to want to maintain his control, but the strong snort could be clearly heard. The Riddler finally replied in a cracked voice: “I'm better than him, John. I swear to you. I'm fucking better than that wannabe detective. I ... I ...” His voice broke off abruptly, replaced by a muffled whimper. Jonathan slowly pulled his left leg up and set it up at an angle, wrapped his other hand around his knee. The former psychiatrist watched a small river of rainwater run down the prison wall. He brushed a loose strand of hair from his forehead and asked coolly: "Should we repeat our deep conversations from last time about your issues?" The whimpering stopped suddenly. Instead, the rustling of the thin quilt could be heard.

Edward coughed behind his fist and replied with a dry throat, "No thanks." The Master of Fear looked out into the corridor for a moment. A security guard was making his nightly tour and was using the bright flash light to illuminate the interiors of the cells. Jonathan finally hit the beam too for a moment. The man paused and growled almost angrily: “Is there actually a night when you sleep for once, Crane? My co-workers soon get nightmares when they have to see your ugly face every time they work a night shift.” The former psychiatrist put on a fake smile and gave a slight shrug. He replied cold-heartedly: "Really terrible, but my pity is actually limited for your colleagues." The guard hit the iron bars with the baton and seemed to be about to act fitting to his anger. It wouldn't be the first time an inmate had been harmed by the staff. The man finally snorted angrily, but continued down the hall without another word. Only when his steps had clearly moved away Jonathan dared to speak again: "You promised me something, Edward. Do you remember?" The tinkerer did not answer this comment for a long time. For a moment, the former psychiatrist even believed that the other had not heard him or was deliberately ignoring it. The cot squeaked a little before the Riddler replied tearfully: “What do you want to hear from me now, John? That you were right again? Are you finally satisfied and stop pushing me deeper into the dust? You're a shitty friend, if I'm even allowed to call a psychopath like you a friend.”

Jonathan suppressed a sigh. He had seen this direction of the conversation coming, of course, and yet it shook him again and again how quickly the black-haired man could be driven to defensive reactions. Basically, the former psychiatrist hadn't even said anything hurtful or criticizing by now. His entire non-verbal attack took place in the mind of the tinkerer and apparently already with such an intensity that he became hostile towards him. Jonathan crossed his arms over his narrow chest and spoke matter-of-factly: “I only reminded you of a promise that you made to me during the last stay. Nothing more, but nothing less either.” At these words, the addressed person seemed to continue to crouch on the wet mattress. Whimpering sounds came from the other cell again. A loud scream suddenly echoed from the depths of the wing, followed by completely incomprehensible words and scraps of sentences. Jervis seemed to be hallucinating vigorously again. The Riddler sniffed hesitantly and replied, completely defeated: "How the hell am I supposed to be able to look myself in the eyes with pride when I make one stupid mistake after another and the whole world is constantly laughing at me." Jonathan looked down at the icy cold stone floor.

A malnourished rat crawled eagerly towards the small desk, frantically gnawing at the brittle wood. She seemed to be freezing. The Master of Fear leaned forward with a smile and lowered his arm towards the animal. When his hand almost touched the ground, the rat willingly hopped up on his fingers, climbing onto the former psychiatrist's lap. There the rodent finally curled up and sought shelter from the cold between the brown-haired man's legs, clearly shivering. The thin man gently stroked the rat's thin fur as he reassuringly replied: "I'm not laughing at you, Edward, so it's not the whole world." The tinkerer snorted contemptuously and called back a little too loudly: "Can you do anything else than lecture everyone around you?" The beam of the flash light slowly came closer again. It wasn't a minute before the guard's angry face appeared in front of the bars. He cracked his fingers threateningly and hissed angrily: "I have told Dr. Young so many times that it's not a good idea to put you guys together again. Please talk quietly, otherwise I'll get uncomfortable. Understand?” Neither of the two answered this question. The guard seemed to interpret this as consent and shortly thereafter disappeared back into the guard's house. Jonathan leaned his head back against the wall and said gently: “I'm just trying to help you. Your constant urge for validation is a heavy curse on your shoulders and will eventually eat you up from the inside. You've also been desperately looking for recognition in the wrong places for years. It's hard to watch you doing the same mistakes all over again."

Edward suddenly hit the wall hard with his fist. The former psychiatrist seemed to have hit a nerve. The tinkerer hissed almost aggressively: “Shut up, Crane! You don't know anything about me! Nothing! Absolutely nothing! You can put your shitty diploma and years of experience somewhere else or up your ass!” Jonathan could hear the Riddler's ego slowly crumbling. Sharp-edged splinters trickled onto the floor, drawing wide circles around the feeble villain on the damp cot. Meanwhile, the lean man lovingly scratched the rat's head. The rodent seemed visibly comfortable in the orange fabric of the prison clothing and sunk the little claws deeper into the thin pants. After a while the older one asked calmly: "Why are you so angry, Edward?" Silence. Even the tinker's crying stopped after this simple question. Jonathan relaxed his eyes and waited. He knew the Riddler would not find an answer that would allow him not to ponder the real cause of his anger. The black-haired man started to speak, but didn't seem to find the right words. Finally he replied curtly: "I don't know." The former psychiatrist pulled the rancid blanket over his legs. Edward had perfected his ability to lie to himself and to convince others of it over the last ten years. The brown-haired man scratched his stubbly chin before answering: "I thought we were past this point right now, but if you prefer to lie to me or rather to yourself, we can end this conversation now."

Jonathan wandered with his bony fingers on the back of the rat, which tiredly rolled over on its stomach and enjoyed the gentle touch. He knew that the Riddler would eventually collapse under the tremendous pressure of his thoughts. A longed-for breakdown that could open new passages for better treatments. The black-haired man suddenly stuttered, clearly frightened: "John, please wait, I ..." The former psychiatrist looked leisurely back at the musty wall, gently moving his fingers in a circular motion on the fur. More splinters soiled the floor in the neighbouring cell, trickled down from a shattered statue and gradually slipped between the bars out into the corridor of the asylum. The Master of Fear did not dare utter a sound at that moment. The wind began to force its way through the cracks in the wall again. Finally, the brown-haired man heard the tinkerer's voice again, but this time much more concerned and uncertain than before: "It hurts to hear the truth, John."

The former psychiatrist nodded approvingly, even if the Riddler couldn't really see the gesture. Jonathan replied after a while sensitively: “I know, but only by facing the truth you can find your way out of this precarious situation and at some point realize that you have a firm place in this world even without constant validation from others. You don't have to prove to anyone that you are worth living.” The Master of Fear put the now sleeping rat on his pillow and covered it with the warming blanket. Then he carefully got up from the bunk and went to his desk, looking for a notepad among the several books. While he was looking for it, the Riddler began to speak again: "My heart has probably understood this to some extent, but my mind vehemently defends itself against this realization." Jonathan took his pen in his hand and wrote a few lines on the yellowed paper. He stopped suddenly, thought hard. The older one finally replied reassuringly: "I want to give you something again for this stay, Edward. A piece of paper just like last time.”

The Master of Fear folded the paper once, then stepped to the iron bars and handed it as best he could in the direction of the neighbouring cell. It took a few seconds for the Riddler to get up from his position and move to the entrance of his cell. For a brief moment their fingers touched while Edward reached for the paper. Then both disappeared back into their own solitude behind the bars. Jonathan sat down on the bunk again and bedded his head against the cold wall behind him. The loud squeaking from the other side suggested that Edward was also back in his previous place. There was an inaudible clang as the tinker's glass figure shattered into thousands of pieces. The former psychiatrist listened to the bitter weeping behind the wall and felt a heavy load fall from his heart. He explained sensitively: “Please internalize these words. In your case we sometimes have to take a different path to finally help you appropriately. Good night.” Edward stared at this piece of paper for a long time, even after Jonathan was long asleep. A tear dripped onto the paper. The tinkerer closed his eyes tightly and whispered into the cold room: "Thank you John." A flawed statue had been broken that night. A questionable work of art that was built from glass so brittle that even the splinters could not be put back together again. However, at the same time, a new base was set for building something more stable - it would just take time.

#DC #Batman #Riddler #Scarecrow #Jonathan Crane #Edward Nygma #Scriddler #Riddlecrow #Hurt & Comfort

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imjustheretoseetheprivateblogs · 3 years

Text

Qrowin Week 2021: 6/21-Childhood Friends AU

Two little snowbirds sitting in a row

They met in the garden at one of her father’s lavish parties. She’d gone outside because little girls didn’t like being told to sit still and not talk nor do anything fun, so she decided she didn’t care if the dress daddy bought her got messy, she’d go outside and spend time in the hedge maze.

They’d gotten it installed, in the shape of the Schnee family crest no less, because the Marigolds had one in the shape of their family crest and daddy could be silly about when people had things he didn’t.

The white roses that grew from the foliage walls, fragrant and delicate, were always calming to her, especially on a cool and cloudless night like this when the moonlight was at its brightest.

For Winter, to get lost in its lush corridors and marble statuary, it’s hidden gardens and fountains would be enough to get the annoyance of her father’s party out of her mind.

Most of that went out of her head when she found a grungy boy in a cape stuffing his face with what looked like a rabbit.

He stared at her, like an animal in a vehicle’s headlights, bits of his meal hanging from his mouth.

He couldn’t be older than her, gaunt with gunsmoke-colored hair stuck up at odd angles and eyes like carbuncles.

The clothes he wore were grubby and layered and obviously used long before he’d begun wearing them, especially that tattered cape.

For a moment, neither spoke, merely staring at one another in the moonlight.

Finally, Winter broke the silence.

“That’s disgusting.”

The boy dropped the rabbit from his mouth.

“Sorry if I’m not fancy enough for you, Miss Uppity.”

Winter felt her cheeks heat with indignation.

“How dare you!”

The boy threw back his head and laughed, a sound that reminded Winter of a pair of birds she’d once heard fighting in the yard.

“Is that all it takes to get under that pale skin!” he laughed, a sound which soon died in his throat when his stomach made a loud groan.

Winter huffed as he reached for the dead rabbit.

“Wait here and don’t touch that,” she said, turning on her heel.

She returned with two plates piled high with hors d'oeuvres.

“I didn’t know what you liked,” she said, handing him one, “so I got you one of everything.”

The boy said nothing, just shoveling food into his mouth in a way that probably promoted choking.

“You’re welcome,” Winter said, sitting down and spearing a piece of salmon on a toothpick to eat.

The boy coughed, pounding his chest.

“You shouldn’t eat so fast,” Winter said, “you’ll get sick.”

“Well, some of us don’t know when our next meal is gonna be,” he said.

His words brought back to Winter the memory of her father sending her to bed with no supper when he found she’d invited a faunus over to play, with threats of no breakfast if she didn’t break it off with the girl tomorrow.

“You might be surprised,” Winter said.

The boy said something through a mouthful of hummace.

“What was that?” Winter asked.

The boy swallowed.

“I’m Qrow,” he said.

Winter smiled.

“I’m Winter.”

One named Winter

She saw him on days when it wasn’t raining or snowing after that. The family he lived with (his “Tribe” as he called them) were camped out in the woods behind their house, the ones nobody would let daddy cut down.

At night, he told her, they danced and played instruments and drank until the early hours of the morning.

Winter never really cared for people who drank (her mother’s growing dependence on liquor was a factor in this) but Qrow never really showed up smelling like wine, so she supposed associating with him was no trouble.

It was also refreshing that he never stood on ceremony.

He never rolled his eyes at her when she spoke of wanting to learn fencing or told her how things were supposed to be when she complained about how someone (usually daddy) was being unfair.

He also taught her new games that were much more fun than anything that the boys and girls daddy introduced her knew.

Kick the can, stickball, and he played hide and seek and tag with her. And he’d tell her all about the places he’d been. Mistral, Vacuo, Menagerie, his tribe had traveled all over Remnant.

And while he could be crass, she still remembered seeing the way he rescued a baby bird from a stray cat and returning it to its nest with the tenderest care.

Or how when she complained of how her father was so bossy and so dumb, that he listened. Didn’t judge, didn’t criticize, just listen.

And sometimes, it was enough to know that they’d meet once a week, at night, in the hedge maze.

One named Qrow

She wasn’t what he expected.

Sure, she told him annoying things like “don’t slouch, eat slower, no burping, don’t pull up the flowers—no! I don’t need them, put them back!”

But she never called him weak. She never said he should practice more like his sister did.

Winter gave him food, and listened to his stories and ideas, and never asked if he wanted to fight. Sometimes, they would even just sit together.

She even taught him how to read; starting with big letters scratched in the dirt with a stick, before lending him books that they could read together.

Mr. Bruin is a Shoe-in was the first he read all by himself. And he was so happy when she let him keep it afterwards.

And she never told him to stop being so dumb, like his sister did.

And sometimes, it was enough to know that they’d meet once a week, at night, in the hedge maze.

Fly away, Winter!

Their shouts bring the servants running. All they saw was Winter on her knees, face in her hands as she wept piteously.

If only they’d come a few minutes earlier, then they could have seen the argument in all it’s glory. Voices rough from the volume and occasionally cracking, tears streaming down their faces, they weren’t that little boy and girl anymore.

He’d grown lanky and lean, she taller and with longer hair.

But they didn’t care right then.

She’d told him she was joining the military.

He said his tribe would be moving and asked if she wanted to join them instead of some stupid army.

She said it was a noble profession.

He said only for assholes.

She defended her position.

He reiterated his opinion.

She shouted at him, asking why couldn’t he be happy for her.

He shouted at her what would be wrong with going with him.

She said something about duty.

He told her to shut up, that he didn’t want to hear duty again in his whole life.

She told him that if he was going to act like a filthy little boy, then he could go off and sulk like one.

He said he wished he’d never met her and hoped she enjoyed killing people.

Arguments like that, they learned, ended with no winners.

Fly away, Qrow!

That was the end of the time Qrow considered himself happy. Life seemed to plan for him a long drawn out death, bracketed with disappointments and tragedy’s.

Transformation

The death of friends.

The death of family.

The horrors of war.

Secrets and betrayal.

Abandonment.

And the drink

So, so much to drink.

It didn’t fix anything. It didn’t make him feel more human. But it kept the nightmares at bay. It kept him as a predictable disappointment rather than an out-of-the-blue-never-seen-that-kind-of-train-wreck-before disappointment.

But the worst part of the drink, thought, was that no matter how many shots he took, no matter how many chasers. Black liquor, brown liquor, red wine, white wine, it didn’t matter. Melancholy brought back visions of that girl from that time he had been happy.

Come back, Winter!

First impressions had never come easy to Qrow. So really, it should be no surprise that impression number 15 the horrible sequel nobody wanted or needed.

But really, denying common sense by chucking an empty whisky bottle at James Ironwood’s head was not only pointless, it was utterly puerile. He was drunk. He was upset that his latest search for intel on Salem had turned up next to nothing, he was itching for a fight and if that pompous wannabe hero wanted to take it up with him, that was fine.

Except he hadn’t expected the woman by his side to turn out to be someone familiar. Someone he hadn’t seen since he was a dumb, romantic, fifteen-year-old kid.

Someone whose reappearance upset his stomach enough that he emptied it onto the general’s uniform and shoes. With enough force to make his eyes water.

The woman in the Atlesian uniform said she would take care of him and asked another girl, another white haired girl, where their room was.

As they walked towards Beacon, he thought he heard her say “Qrow Branwen, what has the world done to you?”

Come back, Qrow!

Qrow awoke to a cold rag on his forehead.

“Lie still,” she said, “I think you got a hold of some rockgut.”

“More like rockgut got a hold of me.”

Qrow’s attempt at humor was met with a scowl.

“Gee, you got frosty.”

“And you became an alcoholic,” she said, wringing out the cloth into a nearby basin.

Qrow looked away from her and to the wall, as if a better retort than her’s existed there.

“It eases the pain,” he said.

“No it doesn’t,” Winter said. She threw the rag into the basin, causing the water to splash.

“Qrow, my mother is an alcoholic. It doesn’t fix anything! It just makes you want more of what’s essentially fermented grass!”

“You don’t think I know that!” Qrow snapped. Tears pricked at his eyes and his heart sank when he saw the hurt in her eyes from his tone, something he hadn’t seen there since their last meeting.

“There are nights when no matter how much I drink, I still can’t forget the loss of all the people around me and how--”

He paused and swallowed.

“How everyone is just one day going to leave me!”

Tears were starting to fall as all the regrets he’d kept at bay with drink and fighting and everythng else he could find came rushing back into him and coiling around his lungs.

“I’m bad luck, Winter,” he said, “I lost my sister, my tribe, I lost the people I care about, and every day, it’s missions, missions, and missions to find an enemy I don’t even know exists.”

His shoulders were shaking and he remembered his sister, back when they were little, telling him how ‘boys don’t cry.’

God, Winter must think he’s so pathetic.

Instead, she took him by the shoulders and gently brought him into her embrace.

“It’s alright,” she said, “just let it out. Get it all out.”

Not knowing what else to do, Qrow gripped the back of her uniform and sobbed into her shoulder, years’ worth of pain and loneliness deep inside him rising to the surface and finally escaping. And the pressure went with it.

At some point, they ended up lying together on the bed (wait, were they in a bunk bed?), still in each other’s arms.

“We all have regrets,” Winter said, “things we said. Things we wish we could take back.”

Her hand tightens on his shirt and his hand closes around it.

“But, if you really want to know, if I could do it over...”

Please say it, he wanted to think, but every time he had thoughts like that, life saw fit to swat him down again.

“I would go with you. Even if after the first day, I went back home, I think I would go with you.”

Qrow felt his heart swell and suddenly, he didn’t feel so sick anymore.

“And... if you wanted to start over... I would like that too.”

“I still have Mr. Bruin,” Qrow said.

He didn’t know why he said that. She never asked about the book, never said “Qrow, what kind of literature do you normally read?”

Whatever the reason, Winter looked up at him, shocked.

“Still? I thought you would’ve thrown that away.”

Qrow looked down at her, eyes glassy.

“I tried a few times. But I just couldn’t get rid of something that reminded me of you. It’s missing the page where Mr. Bruin loses his boot, but I tried to keep it safe.”

Winter’s hand rises to his cheek and Qrow leans into it, the human contact easing the hole in his soul he’s tried to fill with booze.

“I’m sorry I didn’t turn out as someone you could be proud of.”

“The fact that you kept that book tells me everything I need to know.”

Later that night, Winter’s sister and Qrow’s niece would get the shock of their lives when they enetered their room and saw the two of them sleeping on Weiss’s bed together.

#My Writing #RWBY #qrowin week 2021 #qrowinfest #qrowin #qrowinweek #Childhood friend AU #AU #Qrow Branwen #Winter Schnee

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thegreenwolf · 3 years

Photo

Betting on the Ponies (originally posted at my blog at https://thegreenwolf.com/betting-on-the-ponies/)

(Above: Breyer Classic Arabian Stallion made over into a winged unicorn with real wings from a barnyard mix rooster I raised for meat.)

If you’ve been paying attention to my social media or my shop links at all, you may have noticed that I haven’t really been posting much in the way of new hide and bone art for the past year or so. It’s not that I’ve stopped; I still make some fun things for my Patrons on Patreon every month, and I make some bone, tooth and claw jewelry on Etsy to order. But ever since events dried up, I haven’t been regularly making new batches of costume pieces or other Vulture Culture art. My usual M.O. was to make all sorts of new things for an upcoming event, and then once the weekend was done and I was home, post whatever hadn’t sold on Etsy. And since there haven’t been events…well…I’ve just found myself doing other things.

Some of that is because I’ve had to scramble to make up for the lost income; events were a pretty big chunk of my “pay”, and losing them meant having to tighten the belt. I also lost several other income streams thanks to the pandemic making it unsafe to be around groups of people, which didn’t help. So I had to rely on what was left, along with adopting a few new sources of bits and bobs of cash here and there.

And, honestly, I’ve needed a bit of a break. I’ve been making hide and bone art for over two decades now, and while I love it, any artist eventually wants to explore different media for a while. Sure, I’ve stretched my Vulture wings in new directions, going from costume pieces and ritual tools to assemblages and the Tarot of Bones. But ever since the Tarot came out, I’ve been feeling….not really burned out, but a little creatively wrung out, at least. I’ve really appreciated my Patrons and Etsy customers who have helped me keep a hand in that particular medium, while also allowing me to head off in other directions, too.

Which is to say that if you have been paying attention to the aforementioned social media and shops, you may have also noticed that I’ve been increasing the number of customized Breyer model horses and other animals I’ve made over the past couple of years. This might seem like a heck of a departure from skulls, bones, and other dead things. But in a way it’s really me getting back to long-neglected roots.

(One of my favorite customs I’ve done on one of my favorite molds, the Breyer semi-rearing mustang. )

See, I was a horse girl when I was a kid. Or, rather, I was a wannabe horse girl. I never got to lease or own a horse, and even now in my early 40s I’m still about the greenest rider you’ll find. (Seriously, I need one of those kid-proof horses that’s seen it all, done it all, and is probably more trail-smart than I am.) But I was obsessed with horses from a young age. It started with my very first My Little Pony that I got Christmas morning, 1983 (Applejack, if you must know), and then exploded further with a book on how to draw horses and my first Breyer model (Black Beauty 1991 on the Morganglanz mold) in my preteens. Horse actually took over for Gray Wolf for a few years as my primary animal spirit during my teens, so we have a very long history indeed.

And since I couldn’t have a real horse, I ended up collecting model horses, mostly Breyers with a few old Hartlands for variety. I had over 100 at the peak of my collecting, but I had to sell them all in my early twenties when I was between jobs. In hindsight it was probably for the best because having less stuff made it easier to get through the period of my life where I was moving about once a year, but I do miss that collection.

Back then I did my part to add to the artistic end of the model horse hobby, mostly with badly blended acrylic paint jobs and terrifying mohair manes and tails. But it made me happy, and that was the most important thing. Even though I only knew a couple other collectors in my little rural area, and my only real connection to the hobby was through the quarterly Just About Horses magazine Breyer put out, my collecting really made me happy in the same way that my first fur scraps and bones would catch my interest a few years later.

2020….well, it sucked. We all know that. Pandemic, political stress, financial roller coasters and more made it a really tough year for anyone who wasn’t wealthy enough to hide away and weather it all. And many of us found ourselves with more time at home, in need of distractions and solace. It ended up being a time where many people rediscovered their love of childhood hobbies. I’m one of those people. I’ve been slowly edging my way back in for the past few years, starting with repainting a few old Breyer models found at thrift stores, and then gaining momentum as I found that not only was I much better at customizing these models than I used to be, but I was having fun without the pressure to make a living off of it. (Yes, I love my hide and bone art, but when an art form is your bread and butter, it changes your relationship to it. But that’s a post for another time…)

So 2020 saw me really ramp up my customization efforts. I had to stop for a few months in summer and fall when I moved to a spifftacular new living space on the farm I’ve been working on the past few years (with, by the way, THE best studio space EVER!) but as the days shortened I found myself making more dedicated time to repainting and otherwise customizing models. I even started keeping a few of the models I’d bought to customize that were in better condition to create a small, but slowly growing original finish collection, and that really helped me feel like I was back in the (not actually a) saddle.*

That’s why a well-established artist of organic, pagan-influenced arts made from fur and leather and bone and feather suddenly started painting all these secondhand plastic ponies. It’s giving me that deep injection of childhood nostalgia balanced with adult skill and perspective, and it’s offered me a much-needed break from the exhausting schedule I’ve been living the past decade or so. Because suddenly, even with the time spent rearranging my income opportunities to make sure I could stay afloat, I found myself with a little time that hadn’t been scheduled to death, and when I thought about what I wanted to do with that time, I gravitated toward one of the few creative outlets in my life that was purely for fun.**

(Yes, this IS fan art of “The Last Unicorn”! I used a Breyer Stablemate rearing Arabian for the unicorn, and a Breyer Spanish fighting bull for the Red Bull. A LOT of fun to make this particular project.)

In a way having all my events canceled was one of the best things that happened to me, because it made me slow the fuck down. I no longer had several weekends a year where I had to spend weeks beforehand making art and otherwise preparing to be away from all my farm responsibilities for 4-7 days at a time, with all the packing and moving and setup and vending and teaching and teardown and going home and unpacking and exhaustion that goes with each event. I realized just how much each one was taking out of me, especially as I’ve gotten older. And I also recognized how much pressure I had been putting on myself to ALWAYS MAKE MORE STUFF FOR ETSY EVERY WEEK OR ELSE.

So the model horses are really sort of a symbol of the childhood joy I’ve managed to recapture, wresting time and energy back from my workaholic tendencies. I’ve even been thinking about what my professional life is going to look like once the pandemic eases up enough to allow events again, and whether I’ll put the same amount of time toward vending and and teaching at conventions and festivals as I used to. (There are a few favorites that I’m not going to miss for anything, so don’t worry about me dropping out entirely.) But for the first time in a very long time, I’m relearning to prioritize myself, and figuring out that maybe I don’t have to go hell-bent for leather every week, every year, in order to keep the bills paid and the critters fed.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s okay for this dead-critter-artist, pagan-nonfic-author, teacher-vendor-farmer, to indulge herself with something fun, and bet on the ponies to help her get through the tough times.

(P.S. Amid everything going on, I am back to working steadily on my next book, which I mentioned in this blog post almost a year ago. As a recap, its working title is Coyote’s Journey: Deeper Work With the Major Arcana, and it’s a deep dive into that section of the tarot using pathworkings with the animals I assigned to the major arcana of the Tarot of Bones. It’s not just a Tarot of Bones book, though; it’s a good way to get a new, nature-based angle on the majors in general, as well as hopefully gain a better understanding of yourself. My goal is to have it out later this year, self-pub of course, and at the rate I’m going it may end up being my longest book! Stay tuned, and if you want to get excerpts of the work-in-progress, become my Patron for as little as $1/month!)

*At the height of my “horse girl” phase, I had a really beat-up pony saddle I’d bought for ten bucks at a yard sale, and got a cheap saddle stand for it and put it in my room. And yes, I occasionally sat on it and pretended I was riding an actual horse. Hey, it made me happy at the time, and it was the closest I was ever going to get apart from a trail ride every few years.

**Yes, I do sell my customs. But I don’t make them on a schedule, I take commissions VERY sparingly, and I’m getting to stretch some new creative muscles, especially in the realms of sculpting and painting, so this is primarily for my enjoyment. The sales are just a side benefit.

(My ode to the forests of the Pacific Northwest, a Breyer deer repainted to resemble the Columbian black-tailed deer that frequent the farm I live on, along with hand-sculpted Amanita muscaria mushrooms, real and fake moss, and real lichens from fallen branches.)

#Breyer #model horses #vulture culture #artwork #artist

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mallickshah · 3 years

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CHECKING IN: 2024

MALLICK SAI SHAH; ACE OF CLUBS; 2021-2024 A Leap Through Time.

It has taken more than one speech, more than one gathering, more than reaching out once for Mallick to establish the innovative notions he wanted implemented in the faction. The council of Barbarians has brought in a following that is surprisingly peaceful, as long as they get their fair share of power. It is not without much reticence that Mallick agrees to let them have the monopoly over certain things, but he’s not all powerful, and to be such has never proven to work in the past.

Friends have supported him, his family has shown support, not only by keeping him alive but also by making sure to show a unified front to whoever dared to try to speak ill of his intentions. The Resistance and the members who were not informed of Mallick’s departure, and how he would speak of them during his first speech, have become rather vengeful. Attacks have been attempted, but foiled each time by the ones who were sworn secrecy over his true intentions behind the lies he told about the rebellious group.

Mallick has been kept busy, so busy in fact that his whole life seems to have passed him by without any realization. The first one involved a lot of pushback, from all corners of the city, but as long as he kept the ones he gathered the first time, progress seemed to go accordingly. Slowly, clubs began to accept their new fate by the end of the first year. Mallick has been working to leave people less hungry, less angry and more outraged at the right people, the outsiders. It did the trick to make clubs fight for one another, to a certain degree of course, but it did create something else he didn’t think he would need to address.

Open animosity for other factions and even less cooperation when it came to dealing with members of other factions. The second year was about mending broken bridges, but Mallick didn’t focus on this for the entirety of the year, it might have been selfish on his part, but he grew to not quite ‘dislike’ this new found patriotic way clubs started to do things. The Council came to light as a solidified established part of his politic mid 2023; the reception wasn’t too wild, moderately argumentative, but by then, people might have already heard the rumors of the Ace working alongside the Barbarians’ leftovers.

The end of 2023 brought about new changes, even busier times came by the end of the year. Mallick and The Council worked to bring forth ways to make those who hunt, fight and can protect the faction work for the weakest while making them think they were doing it for themselves. No clubs would agree to simply work for those they thought were not deserving, so it had to take a bit of reverse psychology to make this work.

clubs now have a group of hunters to keep up with the demand for food. This group is handled by Devjay, Mallick’s brother, and some of the best hunters and shifters with predators for animals that he managed to get on his side during the first gathering. The hunters work on rotation, they also accept volunteers who simply want to join in on the adventures. Outings’ dates are posted on the board of Yureif’s tavern the second Monday of each month.

Mallick’s relationships have not taken a big hit, aside from the one he had with certain Resistance’s members who were not made aware of his plans falling out, the ones he has with his family grew stronger. So did the ones he established with his allies.

Mallick has been keeping every promise he’s ever made, on a poster, or in a meeting.

The club's citizens now have a meeting with The Ace and The Council where they may share their worries and suggestions on how to make things better for the faction. The paperwork is handled by one of Mallick’s sisters-in-law.

The meetings are held once a month, to gather information on how well the new ruling is doing, but to also assess what is needed to make it better, or to totally abolish and be reestablished. Trials and errors have been keeping him more and more indoors, going through ideas and suggestions, then releasing tension with light sparring. Mallick has so far joined three hunting journeys, the first three ones, to ensure that they are safe and only there for the good of everyone.

The Adventurer’s Guild is something that came as a surprise to him, but not something he disliked in the way things were going. They at least made things a lot better, so who is Mallick to judge them at all? Besides, he has better things to do than to worry about whatever it is they did to get rid of the supposed River Witch. Mallick has been playing his own shady moves on his own chess to get where he wants to get, so he’s not exactly in any position to judge anyone.

Among friends who have supported his ways of doing things are: Fallon and Hilo.

Fallon is no surprise as she advised him plenty of times during the decisions he took, she has been playing the unwanted role, perhaps, of advisor since he became Ace. Hilo did come as a surprise for Mallick, a discussion has been had about not revealing anything Mallick has told him about his time in The Resistance, Mallick returns the favor by never mentioning the interview that took place of course. As an ally, Hilo has been the liaison for lowranked individuals during the meetings with The Council and The Ace.

Clubs now have a patrolling team, established by The Council and whose members have all been picked by The Council’s members. This is a recent addition, established at the beginning of 2024. It has come with its complaints and opposition however, as some members feel they are being watched and supervised like children. However, those who benefit from the protection it offers have been grateful for the team.

The team, by Mallick’s standards, is made of a lot of hard headed wannabe heroes who think they are handling the only job that matters in the faction. He likes to let them think that because it helps them to not feel like they’re being used to protect the weak. Discrimination still runs rampant, but it is not something that brings forth actions like murdering people and not getting away with it. Trials are not held at clubs, but the patrolling team reserves the right to take justice in their hands the way they see fit if they wish to. They are reminded to not shake the current peaceful state of affairs, however, or they might lose certain privileges; eg. getting dibs on certain food ratios first before the rest of the population.

The divide of food ratios that comes in from the Hunters is shared with everyone. Those who hold any sort of complaints can request a meeting with The Ace to understand why things are divided the way they are. Mallick will gladly meet with anyone who wishes to see him, whatever they come uninvited or invited. He’s also settled himself back in the house he shared with Saiyah, her belongings have finally been packed and sealed somewhere safe in the house.

His house is now known as his headquarters.

The backyard where the tree full of wishes on the branches is a favorite of many clubs’s members, they’ve added their own wishes to the tree as well. The kids especially love the idea of putting their wishes there.

It is becoming a tradition to think that Mallick’s tree really does grant wishes; Mallick cannot be more delighted because it keeps Saiyah alive through their hopes and wishes. The elders who know of the story of how he lost his wife have named the tree after her, whether that sticks or not, only relies on the children they tell the stories to.

So far, hearing his late wife’s name more times than he ever thought he would be able to withstand has not been so unpleasant. Especially not when it is filled with the wonder of innocence, pondering just how real the magic in her name is.

Mallick has not had time for himself, but he’s more than happy with his current position.

Oh, his beard has grown back of course.

#kadeu: task #the wounded widow (solo)#this is me for a lifetime #i'm out

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michaeloneillwords-music · 3 years

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Oasis: Knobworth. Cocaine, Caricature and ‘The Culture Industry’s’ wet dream.

This week sees the release of the documentary film ‘Oasis Knobworth 1996’ which marks 25 years since the Manchester rock band played to over a quarter of a million disciples in a field in Hertfordshire across two nights. Obviously brand Oasis couldn’t miss the opportunity to celebrate its own greatness, in what is now being understood and accepted as some sort of era defining moment in pop cultural history. As a native of Manchester, who whether he likes it or not is psychically entrenched in the cities musical and cultural legacy and who was 15 years old when this event took place, I equally cannot miss the opportunity to challenge this retro fetish overstatement and present my own subjective understanding and experience of watching these caricatures of sex, drugs and rock roll as they rose to prominence. Let's face it ‘the culture industry’ has always needed fodder to sell to a teenage audience who in coming of age are flirting with the mask of social identity which is heavily informed by pop culture, and from late 1995 onwards Oasis, led by the brothers Gallagher were that fodder. The juggernaut of utter nonsense that they were peddling really began with the release of their sophomore effort (What’s the story) Morning Glory on the 2nd of October 1995, which to this day has gone on to sell in excess of 22 million copies worldwide, figures that depressingly highlight the state we are in as a species. Upon hearing the album as a 14 year engrossed in pop music culture I immediately disliked it. Gone were the walls of thick guitars, punkish irreverence and embellishments of baggy Northern Psychedelia that marked the best moments of their debut album, instead the listener was subjected to an overly clean, acoustic, commercial sounding record that was lyrically lazy, pedestrian and trite, to me it was and always will be an artistic car crash. It sounded immediately like a band uninterested in challenging itself or its audience, who instead were solely concerned with mass appeal, shifting units and making money. Whilst it should always be noted that the Gallagher brothers made no attempt to hide their aspirations for commercial success, material wealth and brand ubiquity, I simply find such sole motivations a turn off, that, more often than not result in utter dross, the kind that defines Oasis’ discography. Indeed, any ascent to the summit of pop culture will rarely be the sole result of an absolute desire for honest and uncompromising artistic expression, to just ‘make something’ regardless of economic reward or consideration for the consequences of what that expression communicates, represents or signifies. Indeed, such an approach will often come into direct conflict with the bottom line of the music industry, which is solely concerned with profit, monopolistic market control, the dissemination of ideology and projection of archetypes. And so it is that far from the ‘deviant bad boys of pop’ peddled by the culture industry press from 1995 onward, Oasis were actually a very obedient market vehicle for profit, who promoted nihilistic hedonism, idolatry, narcissism, misplaced masculinity, benign sexism, cocaine, lager and a depressing caricature of working class identity, and last but not least a brand of Beatles infused substance devoid pub rock. The ‘culture industry’ had been peddling this sort of shit from the mid 60’s in pop music and long before in general pop culture and as a result dear reader it was obviously very marketable once again to the mid-nineties teenage generation and to many subsequent generations for that matter. The game doesn't change. Oasis were and remain a wet dream of ‘the culture industry’, all too happy to short change a generation of youth culture with their destructive notions of cool, short sighted egocentric one dimensional outlook, and celebration of pack animal conformity under a banner of ‘rock and roll’ which signals ‘defiance’ ‘deviance’ and ‘hope’ but when unpacked and interrogated actually reveals a concession and obedience to the drudgery, depression and anomie of a top down controlled market culture by both the band and its disciples. They were without doubt a grey cloud of hard materialist understanding and sense pleasure that would leave Saint Francis of Assisi empty inside and reaching for a razor blade. I think it was the idolatry, narcissism and the reductionist mask of masculinity (that were all no doubt in the air at Knobworth, I couldn’t actually say as I wasn’t there, I had seen them on 26/11/1995 at the Manchester Nynex, and although I certainly do have deep seated masochistic tendencies everybody has a limit, and once was enough) that the band and its followers displayed that really didn’t sit well with me when the cultural juggernaut of Oasis and Britpop took off. These traits were for the most part distilled, embodied, displayed and performed by the band's frontman Liam Gallagher, a man whose answer to all of life’s existential conundrums is a pint of Carling. To me, Liam always carried a look of someone who had been asked a question they didn’t understand and was just trying to front it out with a gormless stare in an attempt to display some presence of depth and mystique to his onlooking disciples and celebrity obsessed media. When he did speak his articulations rarely got beyond how he was ‘mad for it’, how he was the ‘best frontman’ in the ‘best band’ and when his adopted mask of self-confidence was ever threatened would often bark ‘fook off’ in deflection and defence. Gallagher became the ‘Archetype’ that the modern-day British working class (and wannabe working class) alpha male identity is built on. Replete with feather cut, stone island jacket, adidas originals and cheap cocaine, ready to perform the identity prison they have adopted until the cows come home. I occasionally ponder as to whether the clinging too and performance of such a symbolically material identity merely masks an innate fear, and serves to deny the unpacking and unmasking of the ‘authentic self’, and how that process would more than likely contradict the projected ‘tower of strength’ that is indefinitely projected and protected by this deflective mask. I mean I thought we were an expression of consciousness with the innate capacity for creativity, who are looking to integrate the inner self into the ‘persona’ so as to not be imprisoned and tormented by the demands of the social mask, the gulf between the two and its insistence for the inauthentic? Who knows, and ultimately who really cares in this day and age. In terms of the idolatry, the fans deification of Liam and his brother Noel, alongside their deification of John Lennon, the two Paul McCartney's, Bozo and Poor Weller also really pissed me off when I was 15 and still doesn’t sit right with me today. It's the rock n roll hierarchy-musical establishment-gotta pay your dues-know the classics-they’re a fucking genius claptrap that really gets me goat. I mean fuck off, they've just made a record aided and abetted by an industry who want to flog them to death for moolah, and i’m expected to sit here and believe they're some sort of god like genius that captured the feelings of a mass populace, nah mate, it was capital backed exceptional marketing and mass gullibility. Limmy would capture working class culture in a 20 second video clip shot on his phone for nothing entitled “She’s turned the weans against us” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I5VaPQflLq0&ab_channel=Limmy) in a far more profound and meaningful way 15 years after Knobworth. Furthermore, music solely informed and inspired by music and music history makes me want piss on my own face. That whole disciple of rock n roll dogmatic cultish crap, we want to be like our hero's motivation is so very depressing. I mean you’re having a unique subjective sensory experience, migrating through your own orbit of experience, and then when you engage with your creative faculties as a singular human being you adopt wholesale the principles and goals of those who’ve gone before you, or equally when simply embodying your identity it’s one built on the fetishization of a vapid celebrity archetype? Really? Really though? You’re not gonna take the opportunity to figure yourself out and project the uniqueness of your experience, reject or accept the external organising principles or merely just ‘mix the fucker up’? Hey who am I to pose such questions I guess, and in the immortal words of Oasis “You have to be yourself, you can’t be no one else”. Ha. I do think that line should now be updated to “you have to be a caricature of yourself because you cannot be anything else” though. Ooooh. Anyway, I shouldn’t really be blaming the current mask of one dimensional male social identity or celebrity deification on Oasis, they’re merely a cog in a machine that reproduces this reproduction over and over. However, that doesn’t detract from the fact that they are Manchester's greatest cultural own goal (shame really cause after the opening 5 or 10 minutes I was thinking we've got a team here), who made and continue to make to this day nonsensical grey groove-less drudgery a viable commodity with posthumous releases and as solo artists. Now that may be easy for me to say, as I was without doubt somewhat spoiled by exposure to the cities compelling history of DIY music from a young age, from the shadowy existential concrete corridors of Joy Division to the sharp witted marriage of high/low brow culture and realism/surrealism presented by The Fall, all the way through to the theological and philosophical street politics of The Stone Roses. Come 1995/96 I maybe expected more, but therein was a lesson for me, never expect, and indeed, always take the art and never the artist, and never ever deify. Musically Oasis were breathtakingly boring, real stodgy laboured stuff, and lyrically, to be brutally honest they were cringeworthy and embarrassing. However, to give them their due they did have conviction, but I’m sure that fellow Northerner Harold Shipman also had conviction in his creative output, but ultimately that doesn’t mean it was any good now does it? To me Oasis sounded like they were sent from the back of a battered cement mixer, or the lounge of the Robin Hood, or from the bottom of an overflowing ashtray on a coffee table in a council flat where shit cocaine is being relentlessly sniffed and Sky Sports News plays indefinitely. Symbolically they may be best defined as a scrunched up and discarded losing betting slip on the floor of a bookmaker’s that is heavy with the air of momentary hope, desperation, and inevitable loss. No thanks. P.S Look, all subjective criticism aside, Oasis spoke to millions and for that I congratulate them, they just never really spoke to me. Initially Liam and Noel were a breath of fresh air with their straight up lads with guitars attitude, riding their obvious desire with endlessly projected self- belief. However, to me there was just nothing after that initial Jab of intent present on Definitely Maybe and in interviews circa 94/95, there was no hook, combination or knock-out punch. Couple that with a general lack of grace, rhythm and finesse in the ring and to me as a spectacle it became boring very quickly, and as the rounds wore on that predictable Jab looked tired and stale, and the self-belief turned to coke fuelled narcissism. The ‘flock identity’ that materialised in the slipstream of their ascent and especially the attitude mimicry that was present then and remains today in the ‘Oasis Fan’ to be truthful is touch tragic. Furthermore, I've always held a deep-seated scepticism of the dynamics and motivations of 'the crowd' at the point of critical mass, especially when corporate power is deeply involved and invested in the relationship between the art and the audience. D'you know what I mean?

#manchester #music #social commentary #philosophy #cultural critique

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falseroar · 4 years

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((Abe, a monster hunter, is distracted from chasing down a particular Colonel when he hears a rumor that he can’t let go without looking into it for himself.

Based on today’s prompt for Trail 5 of the Ten Trails Whump Challenge, “Muzzle”, this sort of went off track. Like I mentioned yesterday, think of this as a sort of in between story, after ITYC but a few years short of the present day.

Warnings: mentions of blood, animal cruelty, and light swearing))

Abe knew he shouldn’t be here. He had his own leads to follow, his own personal monster to hunt down, but he also knew that as soon as he heard the rumor, as soon as he heard that single word, he had no choice but to come and check it out.

Not that he bothered to share why he was so invested, when he came to this little village out in the middle of nowhere. He barely even had to ask any questions, as the people recognized him as a hunter as soon as they saw him and were excited to share what was probably the first interesting thing that had happened here in years. A couple of guys he didn’t bother to learn the names of immediately offered to show and tell him everything.

Everything about the werewolf.

“When did you say they showed up?” Abe asked as they led him deeper into the woods outside of town. The way they jumped at every crack of a twig and hint of a shadow, he guessed the village probably already had its own stories about the place before the recent arrival.

“Not sure exactly, but three days ago is when it came into the village looking for supplies,” one guy, the taller one who walked with a swagger when he wasn’t nervous, said. “Bought normal stuff for a traveler, but the butcher noticed when it came in and put in an order for meat, a lot of meat. More than one person traveling on their own should need.”

“How did you know that they were alone?” Abe asked, ducking under a tree limb and noting that despite the recent signs of multiple people passing this way recently, they weren’t following a normal trail.

The other guy, who had a way of smiling that made Abe check to make sure his gun was within easy reach, shrugged and answered, “Because there wasn’t anyone else with it? Some of us weren’t sure if it even knew how to really talk to people, the way it mumbled and wouldn’t look anyone in the eye. First sign something was off about it.”

Abe took a deep breath and released it slowly, trying hard to rein in his always short temper. He could save what he wanted to say to that until after he didn’t need these two anymore, although he felt his fingers twitch every time they said the word “it.”

“So how did you go from ‘there’s a new stranger in town’ to ‘werewolf’, exactly?” Abe asked, already prepared to learn that this was a wild goose chase that ended with him nursing a drink and hopes so dashed it was a wonder they kept coming back.

Again.

“Well, at first we were thinking it was a witch,” the taller man said. “Because it started asking around about herbs and plants and that night some of the teens spotted it walking outside the village walls at night, picking something in the moonlight.”

The other man smiled again and added, “And then their parents had a lot of questions about what they were doing out at night themselves, like we all didn’t know the answer to that.”

The two snickered, but the noise gradually died away into an awkward silence when the hunter didn’t join in until the taller man continued his story.

“But then old Mercer remembered that a farmer out near Wayforth told him that he’d seen a big beast back at the last full moon, and three of his cows had been killed by something big, and it would have got into Wayforth if their wards hadn’t held. And wouldn’t you know it, there was a full moon coming up the next night.”

The other man looked over his shoulder at Abe and said, “Well, it didn’t take much to put two and two together from there, did it? Us and a bunch of other men in the village talked about it all night and came up with a plan on how to deal with it.

“The butcher’s wife knew where some of those wolfsbane flowers grow, and they came up with a way to sort of test it, you know? Basically, she ground up some powder, and he mixed it into one of the packs of meat it was supposed to come and pick up. Lo and behold, when it came in the next day, it immediately snuffed out something was wrong and asked about that one pack, and when they said it was just some seasoning that must have got mixed in, it wouldn’t take it.”

The two men stopped when they realized Abe wasn’t following them and looked back to find the hunter staring at them in disbelief.

“Wolfsbane is poisonous, and not just to werewolves,” he pointed out.

“Well, yeah, but they planned on switching it out if it wasn’t a werewolf,” was the answer he got. “Sure, it was a waste of meat, but we had to know, didn’t we?”

The taller man added, “It didn’t want to stick around after that, but a group of us were already set up to follow it. We had planned on figuring out where it was holed up and coming back with something to take care of it for good, maybe a fire or something, but it realized we were after it somehow and took off running.”

“Not surprising,” Abe said. “A werewolf can hear your heartbeat and catch your scent long before you have eyes on them.”

He strode ahead of the two men, eyes on the less than subtle markers from yesterday’s chase. “So you tried to chase down someone you believed to be a werewolf. How’d that go for you?”

“Followed them all the way here,” one of the men answered him, just as Abe found where the trail ended.

It was a cave, or more like a tiny hole under a large rock outcropping, that looked like it could have been home to a bear or some other wild animal except most wild animals didn’t leave a store of chopped wood and gathered stones in neat piles outside.

Abe pulled a lighter from one of his many pockets and looked in before ducking under the low stone ceiling. The small light caught the circle of stones around the cold remains of a campfire, a worn pack resting against one earthen wall, various bags of recently bought groceries, and the mounds of wrapped meat hastily thrown to the other side.

“Why would they come back here when they were being chased?” he asked aloud, only to realize that he was alone. Looking over his shoulder, he could see the two guys standing at a distance from the mouth of the cave with their hands in their pockets, slouched as though they were just waiting around and not scared to come in here.

He rolled his eyes and looked back at the meager possessions left behind. He was surprised the food was still here after an entire night, but then he doubted any animal would be brave or desperate enough to come in here while the scent of a werewolf was still hanging around. The herbs they had been so interested in gathering were carefully sorted and bundled together in separate stacks, and after identifying a couple Abe suspected he knew what they had in mind long before he started looking through the pack.

A change of clothes, barely any money, a piece of paper folded and refolded so many times that it was soft to the touch, and at the bottom of the pack, a tiny drawstring bag that was so tightly knotted that it took one of Abe’s knives to get it open.

A single silver ring fell out into the palm of his hand, the letters inside barely legible with just his lighter to see by.

It took Abe so long to come back out that the two men were visibly relieved when the hunter reappeared and leaned heavily against the rock wall. He blinked a couple of times before remember the paper in his hand, which he carefully unfolded and began to read in the sunlight.

“What’s that?” the man with the uncomfortable smile asked.

“A recipe,” Abe said after a second. “Seen it around a few times, it supposedly makes a werewolf docile if taken on the night of a full moon.”

“Really?” the taller man asked. “Never heard of anything like that.”

“Because it doesn’t work,” Abe said. “Trust me, I’ve seen every so-called remedy or cure out there, and every one is concocted by a con artist or someone desperate enough to try anything. I heard of one guy selling a brew that didn’t so much cure a werewolf as leave them too weak to stand for half a month. Would have killed anything else that drank it.”

There was that smile again as that one asked, “Wouldn’t happen to know where we could get some of that, would you?”

“Not anymore,” Abe answered. “Someone else got to him before I did.”

Abe still wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. By the time he got there, there was no sign of the crook, and every note and sample of his “cure” had either been destroyed or taken with him. Just as he wasn’t sure what the man’s fate might have been if he had caught up with him first.

So, one dud recipe to keep a werewolf calm during a full moon, enough meat to keep the wolf occupied for a while, and, judging by the stones piled up nearby, a plan to temporarily seal the entrance to the cave. They were setting up to weather a full moon, and instead these stupid wannabe vigilantes had chased them off.

By the time he was finished swearing, the other two were standing at a distance and looking ready to run themselves.

“Which way did they go?” Abe asked, stepping forward as they took another step back. “What did they look like?”

The two shared a look before the taller man said, “You mean you don’t know?”

Abe led the way back to the village, not outright running but apparently walking fast enough to leave the other two breathless and barely able to point him in the direction of the blacksmith’s workshop. The blacksmith saw him coming and had enough of a sense of self preservation to unlock the door and get out of the way long before the hunter reached him.

Abe slammed the door open and immediately regretted it when he saw the creature on the other side of the room flinch and cower away. The clink of iron chains didn’t quite drown out a weak whimper from the massive wolf that tried, and failed, to stand up as he moved closer. The full moon was gone, but it was possible they either didn’t have the strength or the will to change back.

The hunter stopped short halfway across the room when his eyes adjusted to the light, the crashing disappointment of realizing that the shade of the wolf’s coat and its eyes weren’t the one he desperately, stupidly hoped to see twisting and tangling itself up in the twin ache of seeing the muzzle wrapped around the wolf’s snout and head, the straps so tight after they changed that they were cutting into the skin in some places.

Funny, how quickly those feelings could turn into barely restrained rage.

Without turning around or looking behind him, Abe gathered enough control of his voice to say, “You put a muzzle. On a werewolf.”

The men seemed oblivious to the tone in his voice, but the werewolf’s ears twitched and one tired, bloodshot eye opened to look at him.

“Great, isn’t it?” He could hear the smile in the other man’s voice as he continued, “It was my idea for Blake to grind down some silver into dust, we coated the muzzles and chains in the stuff. Still thought it might escape when it went all hairy on us, but it worked!”

Silver dust. Abe could hear the labored breathing, see the short spasms as each of the wolf’s breaths brought in a fresh dose of poison. There were broken handcuffs on the werewolf’s front legs, below the heavy leg irons that must have been added afterwards to match the pair on their hind legs, both sets clearly old, but what he had mistaken for rust before was actually dried blood. A thick chain connected the leg irons to a ring on the wall which looked one or two more pulls away from being torn off. If not for the silver, they would have been able to escape easily, and under the influence of the full moon slaughtered who knows how many in the village.

He tried to keep that in mind, he really did, but then the man kept talking.

“Silver’s really the only stuff that works on these monsters, isn’t it? We tried all kinds of stuff last night, but nothing stuck. Probably a good thing though, since Mercer talked to his farmer friend and found out the Bronsons will pay out in exchange for a monster their institute can practice on. We just didn’t expect you to get here so fast, or I would have had a little more fun. Although if you want to give it a go, that fire poker over there—”

The crack of Abe’s fist against that stupid smile stung, but it felt good to see the guy crumple to the ground and finally stop talking.

He looked up at the guy’s buddy who was too shocked to do anything and said, “We have a strict policy against...you know what, just generally being an asshole.”

“Uh…”

Before the taller guy could catch up, Abe flashed his hunter’s badge with the assurance that no one in town would know the difference between him and the institute’s employees and started talking quickly. “Right, lucky for the institute I was already in the area. You got the keys that go to these cuffs and locks?”

“They’re on the anvil, but don’t you have a cage or something you need to bring in first?” the guy asked.

“Don’t need it,” Abe said, reaching into another pocket and pulling out a small drawstring bag. “You can’t cure a werewolf, but with the right stuff a good hunter can keep it under control.”

He made a show of holding the bag near the werewolf’s snout, who looked from him to the clearly visible outline of the ring inside the fabric and then back again. This close, he couldn’t tell if it was fear or hope in their eyes, but he knew that they could hear the words just under his breath that failed to reach the other man in the room. They didn’t have a lot of time before Smiles McGee over there woke up, and more importantly before the hunters who actually worked for the institute showed up, but at least he could give them a head start.

“Play along, and don’t make me regret this. Please.”

((Thanks for reading! I do plan on picking up the Traces of Silver series, and I’ve been working on the next story that I am dangerously tempted to title “Dog Days.” Please, someone, anyone, talk me out of this.

Also, it’s been so long I forgot to add a taglist. Oops.

Tagging: @silver-owl413 @skyewardlight @withjust-a-bite @blackaquokat @catgirlwarrior @neverisadork @luna1350 @oh-so-creepy @weirdfoxalley @95fangirl @lilalovesinternet-l @thepoolofthedead @a-bit-dapper @randomartdudette @geekymushroom @cactipresident @hotcocoachia @purple-anxiety-blog @shyinspiredartist @avispate @missksketch ))

#markiplier #fanfiction #traces of silver #wkm au #monster hunter au #werewolf #ten trails whump challenge #tw animal cruelty

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lo-55 · 3 years

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Shattered Chains of Fate Ch. 10

Encroaching Shadows

Everything goes haywire, as Ichigo's plans usually go. No plan survives the first blows of battle, but the best warriors are those who adapt.

Still, he didn’t expect Renji to recognize him off the bat and sound the alarm.

The first person to respond is a captain.

Or maybe some kind of wannabe porcupine. Ichigo hasn’t decided yet.

They don’t tag team (lucky for Ichigo, stupid for them), and the end result it Ichigo takes down a lieutenant and a captain in quick succession, with brutal blows and quick footwork.

(Mordred had taught him a thing or two, about fighting against almost-berserkers and countering raw power.

How proud Mo would be, to see Ichigo has his own steadily-increasing abilities now)

Ichigo gets away with a long gash going down his arm and not much else.

It’s really Kenpachi’s fault. He offered Ichigo a free first shot and Zangetsu had rent his flesh and bone beneath Ichigo’s unyielding will.

After that the rest of the cronies showed up, lead by another lieutenant, and Ichigo ends that fight just as fast. The lieutenant, a blond man with a solemn face, hits the ground before he even gets to unleash his sword. Ichigo is starting to think it’s best to blitz high ranked shinigami before they can use their zanpakuto. It’s the same strategy he’d used in wars. Hit opposing servants before they could use their noble phantasm. They all took at least a few minutes to charge and recover between strikes.

If he can stop them from even using them, it’ll be easier than trying to figure out what each ability is and how to counter them.

Ichigo sits off to the side while Hanataro, a little medic who had been at the back of the group of enemies, tends to the two bleeding figures on the ground.

They’re more pressing than he is, and Ichigo is perfectly capable of stitching his own arm up.

He’s aware of Ganju staring at him, while he chats ideally with fretting little girl with bright pink hair.

She feels like Kenpachi does. Exactly like him, actually, a playful animal with the most lethal of teeth. A predator that sits at his side, shadowed and dangerous and grinning.

Ichigo tries not to think of the chaos that would unfold if Yachiru had been in Chaldeas when the other kids started pouring in. Jack, Alice, and the Lily’s.

Finally, Ganju speaks.

“Ichigo… just who are you?”

Ichigo glances up from his work. “Huh?”

“I don’t get it. You say you’re not a shinigami, but you’ve taken down three of their highest ranked officers with barely a scratch. I could barely stand in the presence of that man, but you didn’t even blink! You switch plans on the fly. I watched you fight and it was like you changed who you were between one and the other. And now you’re stitching yourself without even flinching. Just who are you?!”

Ichigo paused, eying Ganju speculatively. Yoruichi, too, looks interested.

“Ichigo,” she intones, “You called me a ‘familiar’. Were you referring to the animals that partner with human magicians?”

It’s possible that he’s gotten too used to playing it close to the chest, if he’s still hesitating to explain himself. They’re in the land of the dead. They’ve fallen from the sky. What judgement can they render him?

“... yeah,” he says at last. “I’m not very good at it, but I’m a mage. I’m a combat mage for the Chaldea Security Organization.”

Ichigo grimaces.

“Or, I was.”

“Was?” Yoruichi steps lightly towards him.

“Yeah. There was an accident at Chaldea. Sabotage, actually. It blew up. A lot of people died.”

He’d been helpless, helpless, helpless .

“I started training. I learned how to fight better than before. Chaldea has a magic that makes time pass differently,” he doesn’t say it lets them yeet their soul thousands of years in the past. That’s a little far even for shinigami. “I left when I was fifteen. I was gone for a few weeks. I came back three years later, for me at least. I’m eighteen now.”

Eighteen and the survivor of nearly a dozen wars.

Eighteen and the last of his team.

Final Master of Humanity, Light in the Darkness, Master of FATE, Archduke of the Roman Empire, Savior, Guardian of the Future.

He is all of these things.

He is Ichigo Kurosaki, he is eighteen years old and he has seen four thousand years. He will save Rukia. No matter what.

He goes back to stitching up his arm.

Ichigo wishes it was not Yoruichi and Ganju that he’s confessed to. He wishes it was Kyo. His promise(s) sit heavy in his chest.

He cannot die yet. He had promises to keep.

He must find Kyo. He had promises to keep.

Once more, he tastes the bile of indecision and helplessness.

For all his power that he now has, he is so limited by where he is and what he’s doing. He want to rush in. He has the power to cut down those in his way. But his friends have come with him and for their sake he must be a leader, he must be a Master without command seals in his hand. He cannot be reckless with their lives in his hands. They are weaker than he, they are his responsibility. He can’t expect them to keep up and adapt to his crazy plans the way his servants did.

As soon as Rukia is rescued, he tells himself, he will find Kyo. He will find a way to convince him of his crazy story and make him understand everything that’s happened. He’ll tell him everything they didn’t have time to discuss in america, and apologize for the damage he’s surely done to his home with this rescue mission. If Ichigo had managed to get him alone, maybe he would have been able to get Kyo to help him even. He knows he has little love for this place.

(So why is he a captain?)

Hanataro comes to check his stitches, even though he looks dead on his feet. Yachiru takes Kenpachi away, carrying him like he weighs nothing at all.

Ichigo is starting to see an annoying trend. One where he wakes up feeling like he’s been hit by a bus, rolled over on his face, and trampled by a freight train on steroids.

Ichigo stares at what remains of the ceiling of the whitehouse. His chest aches and his head hurts, and there’s someone holding his hand so tightly he thinks it might break.

Ichigo turns his head enough to see Kyo at his side. His brown hair is blown back, limp strands falling across his sharp cheeks. Behind him, back facing Ichigo, was Medusa. Her clothes were torn and her hair lashed out and spit venom with a vengeance.

“What?” his voice warped and reverberated. Ichigo’s brows furrowed and he cleared his throat until he spat out a glob of white and red. Kyo pulls him until he’s sitting up and he shakes his head. Something white falls from his hair and disappears around his shoulders.

“What the fuck happened?” He asks, looking around. There’s a demon god pillar, white and red, with a gaping hole blown straight through one side of it. It leans sideways like a tree ready to topple. Who had done that? Which of his servants was so capable?

“You were stabbed through,” Kyo says, his voice strained and his skin pale. “Your magic went haywire and-”

“Scathach returned,” Cu Chulainn cuts in sharply. He gives Kyo a hard look that Ichigo has never seen on his laid back servant's face while he kneels at his other side. “She didn’t die, she only retreated to the Shadow Lands to recover her strength. When the other me used Gae Bolg on you, she managed some type of magic to stop the damage.” Cu taps his chest and Ichigo looks down. His shirt hangs around his hips and arms in shreds of white. In the center of his chest is a perfect red circle, right above his heart.

He actually touches his throat to double check that his heart was beating. He should be dead. Gae Bolg is all but a one shot kill attack. What had Scathach done to keep him from dying?

“She came back? Where is she? Was she the one that damaged the god pillar?.., wait, where’s the berserker?!” Ichigo’s head swings around, but the other Cu Chulainn is nowhere to be seen.

“We were winning,” his Caster says, “So he offered himself to the grail for Medb’s wish and became a demon god pillar.”

“Oh,” Ichigo stands with a grunt. “Fuck.”

Another look at the God Pillar reveals that the gaping hole has done plenty of damage. He’s almost eighty percent dead by now. It’ll only take a couple more attacks before it falls and they win. He can see the glimmer of the holy grail deep inside its body.

“She said something before she left again,” Kyo adds hastily. Ichigo doesn’t know what’s shaken him so badly, but there’s a gleam of curiosity that borders on manic in his eyes. Ichigo would be worried, if he trusted Kyo less.

“What did she say?” Ichigo asks. The demon rumbles, preparing for attack. Medusa, who is bleeding badly from one shoulder, stands firm with Mash at her side. Rama lay’s on his side several feet away, breathing but bloody, and Nightingale is unconscious but not dead nearer by. Ichigo realizes that Cu’s right arm is pressed close to his chest, clearly broken. What the hell had happened?

“In regards to your heart,” he taps Ichigo’s chest, raising a hiss from him. It’s sensitive, like new flesh beneath peeled skin. “If the day comes that it gives you issue, she said this;

Sand and towers, glass and stone. The lady waits for him alone. Ebon glass in emerald frame, cracked white lily speak her name. Blood red bane in dragon's stone. The bone crown waits for him alone.”

Ichigo looks between Kyo and Cu.

“What, and I cannot emphisize this enough, the fuck does that mean?!”

“It’s a way to find her,” Cu says shortly. Once more, he gives Kyo a sharp look. There’s something more going on, but Ichigo can’t focus on that right now. There’s a secret they don’t have time to unravel. Cu wouldn’t endanger him willingly. So he stands, throwing an arm around Kyo’s shoulders for support, and turns hard eyes to the pillar of power, all white and red crystalline destruction.

“Medusa!” he calls, “Are you okay?” With Nightingale down they don’t have a healer, and Ichigo’s mystic code has been shredded. He can’t heal either.

“I’m fine,” she says shortly, her voice the rattle of chains. “This is just the price I pay for failing my duty.”

“Your duty?” Ichigo frowns.

“I was supposed to protect you. I failed, and now we’re here. I paid for it.”

Ichigo’s frown grows into a scowl. “Don’t you start that shit!”

“Can we argue later?” Mash calls, gripping her shield tightly. “We’re in the middle of a fight.”

Ichigo can’t argue with that. He nods grimly. This is it. “Let’s go.”

* *

Ichigo eyes the door to the senzaikyu curiously. Hanataro has come with them, and he has the key. They haven’t had time to really work it all out, why he wants so badly to help them save her, but Ichigo is not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Very rarely have Ichigo’s instincts lead him wrong, and they tell him Hanataro is help that they will need.

More than that, though, is the feeling of cool petals brushing at the back of his mind. Ichigo breathes in the scent of blossoms and ink, and tastes a trace of banked fire beneath it.

“Ganju. Hanataro. We’re about to have company. You guys go ahead inside. Get Rukia for me.”

He doesn’t know how this is going to go, exactly, but he tastes someone new on the air.

They taste like a tempest on the horizon, like the storms at sea just before they crashed, when the water was still clear at blue and the Golden Hind cut surely through the waves.

Ichigo pulls his wig off and stuffs it into his bag. It would be bad for it to fly off in the middle of a fight, and he’s loathe to let go of his disguise. Even if it doesn’t work that well.

It’s Byakuya who makes the top of the stairs first. Of course it is.

Ichigo grips his Zanpakuto tighter. Zangetsu hums a deep note in his hands, sure and steady. Ichigo is smart enough to be weary. Byakuya beat him once before. He can’t afford to lose to him again. Especially now that he hasn’t got Rukia’s ice to freeze the bladed petals in place.

She was coldness and ice and fierce, stinging power. He was brute force, soaring power, and stubborn, unbending will.

Ichigo readies his sword. He can hear shouting from inside the senzaikyu. He has no clue what Hanataro and Ganju are doing, he hopes Hanataro hasn’t betrayed them, but he must focus on the task at hand now.

“Byakuya.” There’s nothing but venom in his voice. Ichigo doesn’t hate easily, but Rukia is this mans sister and that he would just let her die makes him sick to his stomach. He rages inside his soul, power cutting along the blade of Zangetsu.

“Ichigo Kurosaki,” Byakuya looks at him with nothing short of the most mild contempt. It drives Ichigo up a wall.

He darts in and swings, hard, aiming to cut Byakuya in two if he has to. Zangetsu sings when he clashes with Byakuya’s sword. The contact sharpens every sense Ichigo has about him. Their power were to different for him to notice before, but now he can hear the hiss of a fiery inclination, tempered behind steel bars.

Byakuya it forced to skid back several steps.

Ichigo grins when he catches sight of the slightest widening of his slate grey eyes.

“Ichigo!”

He barely dares glance behind him.

There’s Rukia, in all her glory. Dressed no longer in her shihakusho, but a plain white kimono. Ichigo can barely feel the soft brush of snow on his skin. It seems to evaporate as soon as it touches his cheeks.

Rukia meets his eyes and her knees give out.

“Rukia!” Ichigo shouts, horrified.

He barely cares that Byakuya uses his distraction to throw him back. He takes the inertia and uses it to skid back, to Hanataro and Ganju’s side. Ganju feels more tumultuous than usual, and Hanataro is still and small, a shadow to the side.

It’s not them he cares about.

“Rukia?!” He repeats, kneeling at her side. What-?

“I was-” her voice is rough and breathless, “I was in the sekiseki stone for too long. My powers are too weak.”

Too weak? She’s being crushed beneath just their aura?

Like Ganju and Kenpachi.

Fuck.

Ichigo looks at her, helpless. This is not the same strong, stubborn girl he’d grown used to. This is not the girl who lent him her sword, pale white and shining with it’s graceful ribbon.

Wait…

“They’re the essence or the soul of my staff. They work a bit like command seals.”

Merlin’s voice echoes in his head.

Ichigo reaches out and grasps the thick wrapping that hangs from Zangetu’s hilt. Like command seals, a manifestation of miracles that bind master and servant. Ichigo poured his energy into the ribbon until it bled a dark red. He bit the edge and tore the red section off. It stung, like ripping off a slice of his own skin.

Ichigo wrapped it around her wrist, and let the age old, familiar feeling of having his power drawn from his body take over. He pushed it into her, using the ribbon as a medium.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Byakuya, faster than Ichigo can blink, is upon them. Sword drawn, Ichigo barely blocks the deadly slice in the air. Even as he holds Byakuya at bay he can feel the draining of his Reiryoku. Admittedly, he barely feels it even while he pushes it into Rukia’s body. It’s nothing like the weight of a goddess’ Noble Phantasm. He’d nearly died in Babylon, not because of laymu or giant axes being thrown through the sky, but because he’d helped a goddess drag stars from the sky to shoot down their enemies.

Rukia gasps, loudly. There’s a flash of light and the blow of red and white energy pops with smoke. It brushes gently, cold against Ichigo’s skin.

Byakuya’s eyes widen in shock. Ichigo uses his distraction to thrust their blades and hit him with a roundhouse kick.

Byakuya is forced backwards. He keeps going, until he’s a fair distance away, and raises his sword. The scent of sakura blossoms and steel grows stronger.

“What’s he gonna do from way back there?” Ganju mutters, but Ichigo already knows. From her expression, so does Rukia. Her white Kimono is gone, but the black shihakusho hasn’t reformed. Instead she’s in a different kimono, still white but this one with a high collar and wide sleeves. There’s a pale green obi around her (far too skinny) middle, and frost has settled across the crown of her dark hair. In her hands, her sword shakes.

“Rukia,” Ichigo says slowly. “I know you didn’t ask me to save you. I know you told me not to. But I’m here. And I can’t save you, and I can’t beat him, unless you help me. I’ll give you all the power you need, but you’re the only one who can stop his zanpakuto. Okay?”

He expects a fight. He expects her to smack him in the head and shout.

Instead she regards him with something between terror and awe and nods, minutely.

Truthfully, Ichigo is certain he can beat Byakuya as he is now. It might be arrogance, but to him it’s the truth. He can see his strength, and they’re on even footing now. The biggest problem is the number of blades he can command. Ichigo doesn’t know how find of control he has over them, but he’s not willing to risk Rukia’s life finding out.

On top of that, Rukia looks so helpless, so downtrodden and resigned. Even if Ichigo saves her here, it will do her no good if she isn’t willing to pick up a sword and fight for her life.

Yoruichi is gone again, he notes with a frown.

“Get ready,” he says grimly.

Byakuya only looks at Ichigo. He refuses to so much as glance at his sister.

“Scatter. Senbonsakura.”

Byakuya raises his hand, Rukia raises her sword, and the world turns white.

***

“Do you know where you are?”

The voice is soft and playful. It would be comforting, in any other circumstances. It comes with the overpowering smell of flowers and the spice of life energy that sends him into a sneezing fit.

It takes a few minutes for him to recover long enough to actually peel his eyes open and have a look around. Flowers as far at the eye can see, an ocean of blossoms that meet a pale blue horizon.

“Eh!?” He looks around frantically. “Where am I? What’s going on?”

His gaze freezes on a man with a white hood over his head and weird stick in one hand. “Who are you?!”

“Me?” He the man smiles and tilts his head. His eyes are mostly hidden. “I’m no one important. Or, someone very important but unable to matter until the dream of existence has ended. You understand?”

“...Not even remotely. Where are we?”

“We’re in a dream.” The man sits among the flowers, which ripple like water around him and flow back to cling to his clothes. “It must be because you’ve borrowed ‘That Vessel’ for the time being.”

“Vessel… You mean this body?” he touched his chest, but when he looks down it’s not a hand that he sees. There’a limb, but it’s most incorperal. Nearly transparent. His whole body is, actually. “What the hell?!”

“You should calm down. If you panic too much, the threads of your being might unravel. We don’t want that, now do we?”

“Just who the hell are you?!” He finally points at the stranger. As much as he can point with barely a hand.

“Me? Why, I am Merlin. And who are you?”

Merlin? Had Ichigo ever mentioned someone like that?

“...I’m Kon,” he says finally. “What kind of dream is this? And why are you in it?”

“Oh well. I was trying to get ahold of someone else, but you popped in instead. Maybe you can help me to help him. You’re Ichigo’s friend aren’t you, the artificial soul?”

“How did you know that?” Kon gaped at him.

“Ichigo’s told me all about his adventures. I sent him something to help him along a while ago, but I believe he forgot it in all the excitement of rescuing the Rukia girl. You want to help Ichigo don’t you? Make him less prone to melancholy?”

Merlin was right. Ichigo was kind of a downer some times. Still, how could a dream fix that? And how could this guy send things from a dream into the real world?

“I guess… What did you have in mind?

The smile returned to the strangers mouth.

“I decided. A reunion with a friend would suite him well. Won’t you help me, Kon?”

How is he supposed to say no to that?

“Alright. Why not. What’s the worst that could happen?”

****

Ichigo eyes the massive waves of ice that covers not only Byakuya’s tide of cherry blossomed steel, but also the man himself, the entire bridge, the building behind it, and a good fifty feet of the sky beyond even that.

He blinks. Once. Twice. Thrice.

“I think we overdid it,” he muses, running his fingers through his hair.

“Holy shit,” Ganju says eloquently.

“I-I had no idea Miss Rukia was so powerful…” Hanataro breathes in utter awe.

“I’m not,” Rukia tells him, even as she herself stares at the new glacier with no small amount of fly-catching. “Ichigo, what did you do?!”

“Huh?” he rolls his shoulder to peer down at her. “I lent you my energy, duh. You’re the one that took it and ran with it. This is your full capability right now. Don’t celebrate yet. There’s a storm coming.”

“A storm…?”

Ichigo can feel it better now. Lightning along his skin, water in his hair, the wind pulling at his soul. There’s a shadow not far behind it. A laugh on the wind and too-sweet sake.

He turns, the others follow him a second later, just in time to a blur of white come to a halt. Slung over one shoulder is Byakuya Kuchiki, who is less frozen than Ichigo had hoped. Damn.

The man who holds him looks rather frail. His cheeks are thin, and there’s a hollowness under his eyes. It’s hair is stark white, and his eyes are deep sea-green.

Ichigo isn’t fooled by the gentle smile. It’s not false, really, but it hides something dangerous. Ichigo thinks once more of the ocean. Thinks of Francis. Bright and laidback but more dangerous than any hurricane. A woman who punched the sea god himself in the face and stole his holy grail.

This man is no francis drake, no pirate, but the feeling of a current about to sweep him away is there all the same. This is not a man to take lightly.

“C-Captain Ukitake!”

Rukia’s captain. Ichigo can see a gentleness in the way he smiles at her, even if he is puzzled.

“Rukia! How are you? You look thinner. Just what happened?” He asks one quick succession.

Ichigo nearly growls at him, a beast of protectiveness stirring. His instincts tell him to be weary, this man is strong, but the need to protect Rukia rings truer.

Like a dragon set to guard a castle, Ichigo wants to wrap his arm around her middle and launch himself into the air and away.

He can’t.

He didn’t even see this captain move . There is no way they can escape. And, Ichigo isn’t so sure he can beat this storm in human skin.

He grips his sword tighter anyhow. Now the storm, Ukitake, stands between them and Ganju and Hanataro. They’re weaker. All he need do is turn around and-

“Rukia,” Ukitake’s eyes are on him now, wide, his mouth stretched and his throat suddenly tense. “Who is this?”

Ichigo narrows his eyes minutely.

“I’m Ichigo Kurosaki,” he says shortly, honestly. Why bother lying? Rukia’s time with him has proven that shinigami suck at navigating the living world. And once he dies, no one will ever find him.

Ichigo hears the hiss first. He doesn’t dare take his eyes off Ukitake even when Rukia twists around and gasps. It takes him a second to realize that the petals of senbonzakura are coalescing back into its original shape, fluttering past the pair of them without doing any damage at all.

Does Byakuya even want to hurt Rukia? Or is he just too cowardly to stand up for his sister?

Ichigo doesn’t care.

Byakuya struggles as dignified as he can until Ukitake sets him down on the ground again. One of his legs is covered in ice, and the skin revealed from a shattered pant leg is red and ugly. So Rukia had caught his leg.

Too bad Byakuya is a long range fighter.

He brings his sword up and drops it into the ground. Ichigo’s mouth opens when it sinks with a ripple into the earth.

“Kuchiki,” Ukitake frowns. “Surely you’re going overboard with this.”

“This does not concern you,” Byakuya says firmly. His gunmetal grey eyes are locked on Ichigo. “Rukia is my sister. I will execute her myself if I must. Bankai . “

“Ban-huh?” Ichigo’s brows furrow. All around them, massive swords rise from rippling air. One by one that shatter and twist into those pink blossoms. It would be beautiful and poetic, if Byakuya wasn’t trying to kill him.

Joy.

Idly, while the flowers swirl around them in a deadly dance, Ichigo says,

“ Cherry blossoms scatter

Snap, the buck’s antlers

Come off

Without regret

They fall and scatter

Cherry blossoms.”

“That’s a very nice poem,” Rukia says dryly, “But it doesn’t stop us about to die!”

Ichigo may have spent too much time with Murasaki Shikibu. “Why are you yelling at me?! Stop them again!”

“I can’t stop my brother’s Bankai!” she shouted, looking at him like he was insane. Ichigo rolled his eyes at her.

“Have you tried?”

“No but-”

“No buts!” Ichigo smacks his fist down on top of her head. “Hurry up!”

“Fuck you!”

At least she sounds more like herself now. Nevertheless she settles her sword in front of her again. Ichigo pours his power into her, until the ribbon on her wrists glows faintly red. Her eyes gleam the palest blue and she puts herself between Ichigo and her own brother.

“Tsugi no mai,” bells ring and she dips the tip of her sword in the ground, “ Hakuren .”

There’s so many waves of blossoms she’s forced to repeat the move four times. Each time Ichigo swings his sword, sending out wave after wave of his own attack. He doesn’t know it’s name, still, but that’s less important now than just not dying. A few petals slip through, slicing through Ichigo’s body. He only bleeds sluggishly.

Ichigo darts through the cloud of cherry blossoms, towards a Byakuya that looks halfway to actually upset. His mouth is curved downwards.

Ichigo brings his sword down hard, slicing through the air and the bridge. Pale energy roars forth. Even with Rukia consuming his Reiryoka he doesn’t falter when Byakuya shoots balls of light at him. He dodges between them, ducks down, and swings upwards. His sword is stopped by a glowing pink one that forms in Byakuya’s hand.

Ichigo let’s go of Zangetsu. The ribbon at the end it wrapped firmly around his wrist and swings wildly at Byakuya’s legs, when it’s blocked against.

Ichigo plants both of his hands on the glowing sword, letting the blades bits into his skin while he hoists himself above it and slams his head into Byakuya’s nose.

It gives way with a crunch. The sword dissolves and Ichigo kicks him hard in the stomach and drives his elbow on the mans back when he’s forced to double over.

Ichigo punches the back of his head with a bleeding fist.

Byakuya hits the ground, still, and the flower petals slowly float back to his side.

Ichigo turns to the other captain while he wraps his hands up like a boxer with Zangetsu’s white ribbons.

Rukia is panting, surrounded by glittering ice and snow, but with Ichigo’s power coursing through her she doesn’t fall to her knees. Even when another stupidly strong man comes out of nowhere to stand beside Ukitake. The one Ichigo had felt before.

The shadow. The laugh on the wind. A man with a straw hat and a pink kimono across his shoulders. His brown hair is tied back, save a single strand that falls across his face.

He looks a bit like Kyo. Older, more easy going, but he doesn’t feel the same.

This is the man that feels like a stretched shadow and a laugh, and smells like too-sweet sake. There is a poem somewhere under his skin.

Ichigo narrows his eyes at the pair of them. They move with the ease of long practice, a duo that knows how the other so much as breathes.

“Oh wow. I didn’t expect you to be surrounded by such interesting people, Juushiro. They one is rather brutal,” the new comer cocked his head, his eyes on Ichigo.

He’s strong. He and Ukitake are both strong enough that even without releasing their zanpakuto he’d been willing to bet that they were born around the time of the round table. They don’t have the raw destructive power of Mordred or Artoria, but they’re at least on par with Agravain.

Agravain, the Man Who Knew No Wounds.

Ichigo holds his ground.

“I wasn’t expecting it either,” Ukitake confessed. He tilted his head, and called out two smaller Shinigami. When he sent them off to fetch someone from the fourth, Ichigo made no move to stop them.

“Are you going to try to stop us?” Ichigo asks lowly.

“Stop you from what, exactly?” the man with the hat asks, “You Ryoka are so tricky, this is the first time we’ve been able to corner one of you. To think you disguised yourself,” he casts a glance at Ganju over his shoulder. Ganju, who stays perfectly still. Like a rabbit caught in a snare.

Rukia, too, looks much more hesitant to fight these two men than she was to raise a sword to even her own brother.

Ichigo doesn’t blame them.

“Right,” Ichigo runs his thumb across the back edge of Zangetsu. “Rukia. You should go now.”

“What?” her head snaps to him. “I’m not just going to run-!”

“Rukia,” his voice sharpens. Commanding, firm, it’s nothing like the laidback boy who she had taught the shinigami ways to, all those months ago. It feels like half a lifetime. “Go. The other’s are waiting for you. Bad Luck should lead your path. Take Ganju and Hanataro with you. We kidnapped him along the way,” he adds for good measure. If he can make sure at least one of them won’t get in trouble for this, he will.

“That’s very noble of you,” says the hatman. “But you can’t really believe that we’ll just let you go, no can you?”

“Honestly, I don’t know how you people think at all,” Ichigo nearly spits his disdain at them. “You’re going to execute Rukia for saving people’s lives and protecting humans. You’re all willing to just follow orders, even if it means murdering your own sister, or someone you’re supposed to take care of!” he turns his burning eye on Ukitake, who actually leans back from his vitriol. “So no. I don’t think you’ll let us go. That’s why I’m not going to give you a choice!”

He throws himself at them, wrapping his power around him in a glowing cloak of defense easy to switch to devastating offense. He does not have his Shielder here, and the only one he knows is strong enough to have his back now is Rukia, who cannot stand against the pair of titans before him.

The hatman draws the shorter of his blade to block Ichigo. The impact jars his hands enough that they start to bleed through their wrappings.

“You should just surrender,” he says piteously. “You’re already injured. You’ve taken down two captains and three lieutenants. You should really be proud. You’ve proven you’re a force to be reckoned with. That’s why, I cannot let you leave here so easily.”

Ichigo notes, in the part of his mind that has learned to puzzle over and pick apart people's intentions, that he had not said leave at all.

“Fine then,” Ichigo pours his power through his sword and pushes the man back until he’s forced to draw his second. “I have no problem fighting you if I have to. And whatever the outcome is,” whether Ichigo finds himself dead on the ground, or whether this man falls to his blade, “Let it be on my head. And the Devil take the hindmost.”

*****

As the weight of the Ryoka’s power settles across the Seireitei, far off in a mansion of white walls and dark shadows, an old man bereft of a future lifts his head. From the shadows his eyes glow with the faint blue of hellfire.

He has waited centuries for this. His wait is coming to a close.

All around him his children scramble, while one run away stretches out near the epicenter of change.

******

#Ichigo Kurosaki #bleach fanfiction #BAMF!Ichigo Kurosaki #Ichigo Kurosaki is Ritsuka Fujimaru #gin ichimaru #kyo (SCoF)#rukia kuchiki #sosuke aizen #Merlin Fate/Grand Order

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kendrixtermina · 4 years

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Now here's an all new theory for where the procrastination comes from

Like the uni councilors thought of like generic selfhate insecurity or like spineless ppl pleasing (nope an anime cured me of that when I was 13 - thst sounded more like what that ladys own problems might be), fear or failure & wanting to spite my father, eveb that getting ahead through "talent" was an unfair advantage bad tainted and evil, or that "talent" meant being beholden and controlled by others (definitely somewhat right - we worked on that, it helped, the second guy was defs much much more helpful & compatible cause he focussed a lot more on strategies than wannabe-maternal pep talks) but there was always something else there that wasnt getting touched

In tje end I dont think I have talent and in any case what really matters is attitude toward "living the examined life" for example whst you do. What you notice.

Now I did notice that things get harder to do precisely because I actually want them(whereas a lot of ppl get distracted from stuff because they dont really want it) - at the same time I can totally function or pick up new habits in day to day life its not like I have some "hardware problem" like, say, ADHD or the like.

Like of course its some emotional knot it couldnt be anything else but I feel they didnt identify what kind of knot? Certainly not that first lady. If im trying to get clarity and you give me reassuring pep talks you just freak me out more for the love of god tell me whats happening. Nothing worse when a Doctor says "it will be over soon" rather than explain the procedure

Fear of/ distraction from wanting itself never really occured to me thats not a common stereotypical fear that ppl talk about.

Let me get this straight I never thought I was better than anyone I knew very well that I'm not. I thought of both those things as ways not to get bullied, maybe get somewhere where I feel that im in the right place.

If I look back at really breaking experiences it was times I really really wanted something and then I couldnt do it or some outside party stepped on my fingers. That Tori Amos Music Video where she escapes from a psycho killer's trunk and then the passerby's dont help her? That was my most favorite music video in the world for years maybe still is.

Like I was told I could maybe skip third grade and I poured all my energy and passion and strenght into that everything I had to do well, make friends with the new class i was so highly motivated I aced all the exams I felt so happy & fulfilled just being in thst flow state all the time... i wanted this more than anything. Maybe it was the first time I really wanted something beyond vague dreams or base desires. But the homeroom teacher hated my guts and put the kibosh on that; Probably because I was unwittingly repeating some of the artogant classist shit my father spouts without realizing how hurtful it is. my parents thought it wasnt worth going to the higher ups for that but having to essentially redo 4th grade in a crap school in the different town we moved to was one of the worst times of my life. Also I didnt find out that the teacher had hated me/acted in a petty way until years after I thought I just failed. That there was a possible place I could have belonged but turns out I really belong nowhere after all.

All my effort was for nothing. It was such a joy - i mean these days even getting code to work or solving math problems has that same joy - but all that effort and joy and wanting did was that... im tearing up and searching for the words to even process this tbh. I think I denied that joy, told myself that I was just a stupud kid thinking I was a special snowflake. It didnt even matter.

Rather than insist on staying up late to make sure my homework was done I just stopped caring and hardly did another piece of homework in my life just faking it on the spot or coasting through. It could have gone another way maybe if it werent for the bullies and my father the chief bully or if only I was more determined but it was like "okay I dont care anymore I just dont care" and I think thats stayed my default response to dissapointment to this day.

This TV show didnt turn out like I wanted? I dont care its just a tv show.

My father treated be with hatred all my life? Its okay I dont care about him and I dont want his love anyway.

Like there were other times when I thought I could be happy.

Like I really wanted to go to this boarding school for gifted kids. Again I thought maybe incorrectly that this would be a place where I can belong and not be bullied it was never about being better than anyone.

Again I wanted it I clamored and cried and made noise nonstop. Maybe I still hadnt wholly lost contact with willpower back then. I still thought of myself as strong willed.

And my father made me regret it. It was around the same time that mom briefly considered divorce maybe I was just the stress valve. Or he took it personally as wanting to get away from him. Duh he abused me of course I wanted away from him. He was such a suffocating control freak! Mom said yes first then he spoke to her and suddenly she followed everything he said. Thats when I really realized how emotionally manipulative was how abusive... i mean one of my first conscious memories of him is thinking "oh crap I will be just like cinderella" but he really laid it on so thick so transparently even a 10 year old could tell its manipulation. If you do this you dont love your mom. If you do this you dont love your siblings. If you dont obey me your mom will kill herself. No she wont you jerk even my 2 year old self could tell youre abusive.

The most cruel thing he did was briefly say yes. Again I got so happy. So invested. Just bending all I was towards that even though he bombarded me with abuse and mental torture.

And then on the day we were supposed to leave he said no youre not going.

Maybe I actually did say I didnt want to go because of one time he was doing this constant scientology type torture on me

That same reaction: "I dont want it I dont want anything so please please let me be"

Ppl think of bad childhoods as a game that you win if yoz turn 18 -or 28 maybe - without killing yourself. But its not. Every year you live it can take away from your potential. Every day less than you have to live it

He sure didnt let me have sucess with his overcontrol and abuse. Anything I was proud of he rules. When I graduated from school with a fairly good but not perfevt final score he humiliated me. When I turned 18 he humiliated me. Everything I did was a burden even just feeding and washing me. Hed give me unwanted white elephant gifts then bitch about how giving them to me ruined his life cause he had to work so muxh "Ingrate Ingrate Ingrate" Butch I never asked for anything I want nothing!

But as I had to eat I did in fact have to ask things of him and I hated it so much.

No wonder that I turned out afraid of wanting things eh?

Hed seen some poster when we went to see tje school I wanted to go to - not by the school by an individual student - about the history of abortion portrayed in a positive way or at least that was his official reason why I couldnt go. Again I had wanted something badly with all my being and again all my being availed nothing. Irrelevant like I didnt exist. All my screaming gone unheard.

And this is so silly cause im not a child anymore I have control and if I were to stop procrastinating I could have money and gave even more control.

I havent even spoken to him in years now hes no longer relevant. Its not about him its about thus bad pattern I picked up.

I like how this books handles it with the idea that certain experiences dont create the type but that it nakes you uniquely suceotible to certain kinds of hurt or certain misunderstandings.

Because with all this discourse about bad message free media ive really come to think that while it can and should be minimized its not possible to eradicate cause human mibds are so quicl so fallible to extract overgeneralizations and make it mean something abput themselves

Like an immature statistical learning model easily overtrained by noisy data.

Another time I was nearly happy was when I started looking for work, doing my thesis...

Same pattern I was engaged, happy to be engaged talking to ppl at both work and in the uni work group loving it all so much...

my life had started to feel meaningful again. And it had gotten to that point in part because of my ex-fiance. Yes the councelling heloed taking up meditation helped, getting high on morning glory that one time helped a whole lot got more self esteem from that than I ever got from my father.

But that all started because of my ex fiance.

He was an i tellectual type and he had a sense of purpose about him like hes a legendary character and everyone around him became legendary too. And he found me useful! Others had called me "walking dictionary" with mockery and scorn he called me his google and it meant love and admiration. Maybe I got a bit of an ego trip off of tjat but I also really stupidly dumbtastically loved him I bragged of him to anyobe who listened everything he did seemed fascinating abd interesting and meaningful, but also I just loved the sweet gentle warmth of being next to him in the morning. Once again I was happy and everything was joyful even when it was hard, I felt strong and meaningful and useful and I let myself openly want things.

And then it all blew up. Worse yet i was so mistaken abozt him it really shook my confidence in my own judgement or any sense of clarity. I was si confused during the fucking breakup like I hadnt been since I left my father's house.

Google hah! More like his personal Alexa! It turns out he didnt respect or like me at all.

I couldnt even be sad or angry cause it was all my mistake. The one feeling I allowed - and even that took me weeks to identify - is dissapointment. Heavy leaden dissapointment i didnt even kniw that was a feeling you could feel so strongly. I didnt even do anything wrong you have to open yourself to have love. He could habe choosen to love me he just simply didnt. He probably thought he did but he wouldnt evebn do something as simple as not make fun of my voice or clean when I am sick.

Once he started putting me in the "wife" role he just became unable to see me. His loss really cause I think he wanted to keep me from all those annoying texts and email he had the nerve to write.

By all means I was right to trust but also right to leave later but still my sense of certainty and purpose and meaning was totally shaken. He did the sort of romantic stuff I didnt think was real. I knew I loved him when we had this conversation about water on mars. He got me the perfect books for my birthday! He said I was pretty and a genius and looked just like an actress. He got me this titanic esque heart pendant with stars. We were stuck at midnight in a train station that one time and he pulled out a picnic rug two plastic glasses and a shampain bottle. It never worked out but he said he might take me to see the LHC! I really thought we would be buried in the same hole folks!. He had read that same steven Hawkings book that I loved. One of the rather few books he actually read as I would find. Sigh.

And I fell right back into that same old pattern. Dont care about anything dont want anything it would be stuoid unrealistic and silly to want.

When I first came to uni I also had this feeling of hapiness and belongingness and wanting, I was putting in an effort, talking to ppl more.. and when things went wrong the slightest bit I pulled by hand back from that like from an open flame.

And here I am years later most the sucess or contact I get is comments on my fanfictions.

I thought I was doing that, or drawing, because its Stakes/Evaluation-free (going by the fear of failure theory) or because at least with the ffs gratification/payoff for effort is immediate compared to original stuff or uni work. Its a nice little niche at least.

I mean I do care about it its not "just" distraction but maybe ive been profaning it in that way... and so etimes I dont even do that and go for full unadulterated undebatable distraction; Line to 7 I guess. Tje only reason I spoke face to face to anyone else than the delivery guy this week is that I had some doctors appointments.

But not its distraction from stuff Im too lazy to do or even from pressure like I always thought. But from wanting things.

So the original fiction went great while it was a distraction from school not so much when its one of the things I most want and actually have the time to do it.

Even thought thats the most practiced skill I have that I never stopped working on since I was 10. 🤦‍♀️

I mean they already explained that its basically like meditation. Or weeds. Or popup ads. Youve got to click them away as they pop up.

I always told myself thst I didnt have to be happy... and thats not even untrue actually but it would sure be neat to be happy again one of these days.

#enneagram #enneagram type 5 #feelings #enneagram 5w4 #5w4

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deltaengineering · 5 years

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Fall Anime 2019 Part 4: also, he has a gun for a head

Beastars

So here’s the CG anime that everyone for some reason decided way in advance would be the best show of the season, more or less by default. I was very skeptical of this for a multitude of reasons. First of all, that is a bad name for a show and you can’t convince me otherwise. It’s actually even worse because you’re supposed to write it in all caps, but I refuse. Second, it has a terribly on the nose conceit in which all sorts of animals live together in a high school setting and it’s all metaphorical ‘n shit. The main character is a wolf but get this, he’s actually all sensitive and quiet! Yeah, this is definitely rated D for Deep. And finally it’s by Orange, the CG studio that got an inordinate amount of acclaim for making Houseki no Kuni, the show that everyone thinks looks great and finally made CG anime worthwhile (actual real fact: HnK does not look great most of the time and CG anime was worthwhile well before it).

But enough about my preconceptions since Beastars is... pretty good, actually. If you ignore the setting, which is indeed terribly on the nose. And there’s not much else to say about the story so far besides it. However, it looks significantly better than Houseki no Kuni because it actually has really good character animation throughout instead of a one-minute action scene with flashy spinny camera tricks every other episode. The directing’s strong too, even if the show conspicuously mainly consists of obvious manga panels. I’m still not too hot on the animal stuff but the general writing seems to be sufficiently competent it would work simply on a character level. So I don’t love it, but it seems solid enough to see if it goes somewhere with its “Zootopia but also Beverly Hills 90210 but also they eat each other sometimes″ plot.

Rifle is Beautiful

Remember the whole “anime about some assorted anime girls joining a club doing an oddly specific activity” thing? This is another one of those, and now it’s about air rifle sports shooting. Except it’s not about air rifle sports shooting because that’s apparently way too violent, so they use rifles that look like exactly like air rifles but are actually based on lasers or really bright flashlights (they can’t keep their bullshit straight between scenes, sorry) instead. I just don’t think “girls doing activities” anime should blatantly misrepresent their subject matter like that, you know? With the possible exception of idol anime that is, ain’t nobody who wants to hear about that shit. Apart from that it’s nothing special, so if you are really into air rifles and wish to watch an anime that’s not about those, knock yourself out. It goes through a whole “club needs 5 members” arc in the first half of the first episode, so I really can’t say where it goes next. Nowhere much, I would guess.

Oh right, there’s one more thing: They frequently render the bodies in CG and the heads in traditional drawings, and they do it every time when they’d actually have to draw a rifle otherwise. It’s a weird effect that I think I haven’t seen anywhere else before, and it’s not great but also not terrible. And it’s the most interesting thing about the entire show.

Kabukicho Sherlock

“Let’s take a bunch of public domain characters and put them into a hip modern setting” seems to be its own genre at the moment, and not only because the BBC did that with S. Holmes, Esq. already. Obviously this show is influenced by that (besides other public domain namedroppers like Bungou Stray Dogs), mostly in Watson and his relationship with Sherlock, but Sherlock-san is rather different here; he’s neither the classic Victorian bohemian nor the abrasive sociopath of the BBC version, and tends more towards a bumbling 90s pop culture version of autism and/or general wackiness here. These two are surrounded by a bunch of campy transvestites for some reason, and I’m not quite sure whether I’m supposed to find this particular stereotype offensive or empowering this week, but it sure is annoying. And it has the same character designer as Joker Game, so if you like chiseled, angular anime men, you’re in for a treat here - even if they tend to wear a lot of makeup and dresses sometimes. I don’t know man, it seems sort of okay-ish for the most part but it’s neither as funny as they think, nor as weird as they think, nor is the murder of the week intriguing at all. Oh yeah, he’s hunting noted public domain character Jack the Ripper. Because of course he is.

Shin Chuuka Ichiban!

I am told this is the sequel to episode 19 of a 52-episode anime TV show from 1997. Okay. I am also told to not dare watch this without the important setup therein, which makes me think I should pay less attention to what I’m told because understanding Shin Chuuka Ichiban and its backstory is not hard at all. Kid is superawesome cooking champion in ancient China and goes around clowning on lesser cooks, got it. It’s not a complicated setup and it’s not a complicated genre either: This seems to be mostly about sick shounen cooking duels. Besides the setting, the main difference between this and Shokugeki no Soma seems to be that SnS goes for ridiculous and Chuuka Ichiban goes for epic - which is to say that it fancies itself emotional as well. Apart from that it’s what you’d expect from a cooking shounen, big moves, big reactions, huge twists and so on. One notable thing is that this show looks really, really nice. Production I.G seems to be establishing a sideline in taking stuff from the 90s and updating it with smoother animation and shinier lighting, while keeping the overall look intact; They did it for Mahoujin Guru Guru, and this looks much the same. Still, I’m just fundamentally not really interested in what appears to be a very straightforward cooking shounen from the 90s.

Assassins Pride

Straight from the Department of Chuuni, we have this light novel masterpiece about a cool as fuck teenage assassin who teleports behind u and nothin personells fools all day. He then meets a princess he’s supposed to off but just kinda decides not to, probably because she seems to be smitten by his m’lady act. Now he has to use his sick skillz to keep them both alive. It’s awful and terrible and no good and also kind of adorable. This truly is the most 13 AND A HALF MOM years old anime in a while, and it’s not even isekai! The writing’s just so amateurish and corny you can’t help but smile when princesses exposit their backstory for no reason while being accosted by pumpkin monsters (without knowing that Awessassin McCooldude happens to be listening in, which is certainly convenient). Or when the episode ends with the man just reading the synopsis of the show out again, in case you were too fascinated by this plot to pay attention to what it’s about. Yeah I’m not going to watch this in a thousand years, but it sure made me chuckle. Your mileage may vary.

Mugen no Juunin - Immortal

Speaking of 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔱𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔢𝔡𝔤𝔢, another anime adaptation of Blade of the Immortal appeared! You know, the manga for the cultured and historically minded guro fan. The first episode of Blade of the Immortal runs with this and is an arthouse production that someone most definitely directed the shit out of. I don’t think I’ve seen this much directing since, well, Sarazanmai, but “Ikuhara amounts of directing” is pretty much the idea here. And most of the time it even works! The quickly edited, disorienting style gives episode 1 a feeling closer to horror than to a cool swordmen action show, and that really brings out the best in the material, which is grotesque splatter bordering on the comical - It’s somehow a better Junji Ito anime than the actual Junji Ito anime. I think it tries too hard in a few places, but at least it does try.

But then I watched the second episode and that one’s a fairly conventional splatter-comedy swordin’ anime. I am not at all pleased with this development. The third episode was better again and seemed to split the difference between 1 and 2, even if it mostly uses the tricky editing to save on effort in the action – I would much prefer actually readable fights and the wacky mannerisms in the more psychological stuff, thank you very much. Based on episode 1 I thought we might have something special here, but as of episode 3 I’d already merely call it pretty decent. I guess I’ll still stick with it but man, that’s a real bummer.

No Guns Life

No Guns Life is a neo-noir thriller about a guy who has a gun for a head. That’s fuckin rad and exactly the kind of silliness I am totally down for. He also has a gun for a hand, and there’s also some battle nun’s who carry revolvers with two cylinders, so in short I think the title is false advertising. This sounds very wacky (and it is), but it also takes its noir very seriously, down to details more wannabe neo-noirs tend to neglect (like being set right after a big war). The look and feel is pretty excellent, with sharp design and high-contrast artwork, and the music goes all in on the moody saxophone as you’d expect. And there’s some really adorable “look mom, I’m writing” stuff about how Man With Gun For A Head really “needs someone to pull his trigger” and so on (which is, as the astute reader might remember, at the back of his head). It feels like a throwback but then I can’t really think of many 80s/90s shows like this, so it’s actually more like the sort of faux-retro idea Trigger/Imaishi would come up with on a lark. Trigger/Imaishi would, of course, make a far worse anime out of it, so it’s all good. Well, it has some pacing problems and as always it’s a fine line between amusingly camp and not so amusingly camp anymore, but No Guns Life seems to have enough real qualities that it can probably stand on its own even when its conceptual gimmick eventually doesn’t suffice anymore. I give it a two gun’s up.

Hoshiai no Sora / Stars Align

And finally, here’s an anime about middle schooler softboys playing a tennis just as soft as themselves, while being henpecked by the elites on the girl’s team. This is not an “actual” sports anime though: for starters, it’s not based on some shounen manga and is an anime original with quite some staff pedigree instead. It’s also more of a character drama that already goes to some surprisingly real places by the end of episode 1, reminiscent of the recent and quite good Run with the Wind. Furthermore, it looks delicious, with minimalist but distinctive and varied character designs and animation that’s both extremely detailed for a TV anime and also not trying to shove that fact into your face with flashy stunt cuts. In short, this show seems very simple at first glance but every aspect of it just oozes quality. If nothing else, it’s already worth watching just for the excellent ending sequence where the characters show off their “best” dance moves and the chunky student council president dunks on everyone. This one caught me by surprise and it’s an easy pick for most promising show of the season.

#anime #impressions #Beastars #Rifle is Beautiful #Kabukicho Sherlock #Shin Chuuka Ichiban!#Assassins Pride #Mugen no Juunin - Immortal #No Guns Life #Hoshiai no Sora #stars align

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eidolonlathi · 4 years

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The Issue with Gen’s wasted Character Potential

With the manga about to reach its end I thought it worthwhile to have a closer look at how Gen’s character has been written. And the conclusion I'm coming to is that things started promising but then ended with already established potential not getting used.

Let’s start at the beginning. I don't believe that by the time of their introduction, any of the Sato squad’s new members had a clear and finished backstory. Or if, that it must have gotten changed while the story was progressing.

At this point it is difficult to say what the initial intention had been. But looking at Gen’s introduction, I always had the impression he and Takahashi didn't use to know each other before, came to the meeting alone and met there for the first time, instantly developing sympathy for each other. Something of the body and facial language in their first panel just seems too distant for me to signal anything else. And taking into account that until chapter 66.5 it hadn’t been confirmed that they shared a backstory, I view an individual arrival still as a possibility. Gen stating some time after the Grant Pharma arc that he possesses no ghost is no contradiction; just because Kou was clumsy enough to attract attention and got caught doesn't mean Gen wouldn't have been able to attend the black ghost meeting undetected.

Either way, only moments later, as soon as Sato's plan was established, he and Takahashi were able to quickly adapt to the situation and work together in harmony. Be it because they used to already know each other or by forming an instant strong connection. This moment already established the pattern that functioning together came easy to them while with Tanaka in the equitation friction would develop easily. But interestingly on the newly formed team all disharmony vanished at first, the operation on Grant Pharma ending a success.

I think this is about the only time in the manga where Gen is completely on his own and it’s impressive how good his nerves are during this moment. He stays calm, analyses the situation and delivers the needed information. And he has to do all of this while Takahashi is constantly being killed right next to him, yet Gen doesn’t get nervous at all.

That kind of levelheadedness would last until into the Forge Arc. And then getting reduced for the sake of preparing a “twist” lacking any solid foundation. Regardless of what one thinks of Gen being human or him and Takahashi supposed to have been brothers all along, from a storytelling perspective it makes zero sense to hide this all away from the reader until the last second. Like, that’s it? That’s the twist? How is this supposed to be relevant again? One of the random sidekicks to the main baddy –who you always knew wouldn’t have a chance to make it to the end- died instead of having gotten captured. I doubt anyone but the less than 20 people who used to ship takagen cared. These characters were about to disappear from the story either way, the average reader wouldn’t care about the surrounding details because these two were not the kind of characters that were given enough relevance. Or more, after a strong introduction, relevance and focus kept getting taken away from them.

Because relevance is the second factor why the reveals at the end were a bad way to progress the story. Since it got clear that some intended surprise was along its way (being shocking for the purpose of being shocking always looks forced), Takahashi and especially Gen were shoved further away into the background of happenings, given little to do. And that was a waste, frankly, taking into account how active both of them were allowed to behave shortly after their introductions. Remember them both supporting Sato with their sniping skills during the Grant Pharma attack? Sniping is a task complicated to do right but both of them were proving to be capable. Together and on their own: The moment Takahashi was taken out by enemy snipers, Gen was perfectly able to calmly overview and asset the situation, like this gathering together the information Tanaka needed to advance further and deal with those threats.

So, you have these two characters who have proven to be capable during stressful situations with a reliable mind and then the manga just… shoved them aside. Not just by lessening focus on them but by downright ignoring the ways they would have been able to contribute to their team. Cutting their teeth and claws further and further, first by putting more of a focus on their drug using habits (edgy. Now we know they’re bad guys for sure. Don’t get me started on addiction getting used as an indicator of morality) and then taking this further until they were reduced to not much more than moving props clowning around in the background. Compare that to Okuyama, whose early established technical skills kept getting efficiently used to advance the plot.

The curse got broken. After years of silence chapter 59 finally allowed Gen to speak again. Unfortunately barely anyone still remembered he existed or what he had brought to the plot so far.

Letting all this potential go to waste, for what? Because more of a focus would have threatened to reveal those wannabe twists? Something that turned out as boring as “one was human all along but the writing never told us that for no good reason”. It is hard to imagine after all the Sato squad was unaware about this important little detail: Not with their habit to regenerate themselves or their injured comrades via shooting themselves back to life during operations. With this they would have needed getting informed about Gen not being an ajin.

And the sudden sibling status about to get introduced resulting in “Gen’s dialogue needs to get reduced into nothing, otherwise it would become too obvious he and Takahashi being brothers was a last minute idea, with them going against local conventions by not calling each other “brother”, instead using their last names ever since.” Yeah, how did that work out? Now we have actual implied canonical incest because Takahashi and Gen being related changed nothing about the fact they were giving off the most obvious couple vibes this manga had to offer, making it look they were actively hiding being related. Where did it go wrong? Was “Gen is human” installed as a possible twist last minute late in the game, kept nebulous in case some better idea came up? (The hints were always vague guesswork at best, supposed to be able to go both ways, and unlike the anime the manga didn’t have the foresight to prepare it as believable by keeping Gen out of the most dangerous situations and reducing this drug consuming habit to a zero. So, am I supposed to look at it as a deliberate suicide mission on his part in manga context? Was his nihilism this deeply rooted here?) And what about the sibling retcon? Was “he joined this non-human extremist group for the sake of supporting his friend” sounding too gay an explanation, so in an attempt to erase that away they were retconned brothers? Would at least explain why those two look absolutely nothing alike despite supposed to be related.

Ironically this accidental incestuous implication was the only element working here in favour of story telling and character development. Disillusioned incestuous couple disappointed with life drifts into nihilism and thus resonates with Sato's ruthless modus operandi? Now that's the kind of variation and originality I like to see in fiction.

Interesting how Gen just shrugs his shoulders and goes back to routine once told the hostages already served their purpose. Zero sentimentalities to be seen.

I’m glad the story at least let those two stay loyal to Sato until the end, keeping the last bit of relevance in place that differentiated them from their (former) teammates. Takahashi and Gen had bloodthirsty motivations long before they met Sato, so it makes sense those shared similarities kept deepening the bond of those three. It makes sense on a level of characterization and interpersonal relation as well: I’d go as far as to say that Sato was most likely one of the few (the first?) people who accepted them the way they were. Attentive as he was it is hard to imagine he would have missed any aspect of the nature of their relationship. Yet his demeanour towards them never changed, more, as time went on the three of them grew closer. Being met with this kind of acceptance, it is easy to see why Takahashi’s and Gen’s loyalty towards Sato would have strengthened over time as well. Add to this that those three had a pretty similar mind set and voila. A unit that could have had it all, hadn’t it been for the story’s need to play it safe and prepare circumstances so the “good” guys (anyone seriously believing the status quo of using captured ajin for experiments would have changed without outside pressure?) win because of reasons.

This manga has many strengths but the recent habit to insert plot threads that keep dangling and are leading to nowhere or constant retcons that backpedal on what was previous established are none of it. Seeing how the manga started losing its way shortly after the Forge Arc ended and how the plot is now stumbling around in an attempt to reach an ending has been a disappointment, exactly because the story already has proven so many times that it can be excellent under the right circumstances. Alas, hope gets snatched away last.

#ajin #takahashi #gen #takagen #satou #eidolonlathi writes #lathi writes ajin

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bazypitchandsimonsnow · 5 years

Text

Games People Play

Rating: Teen

Genre: Fluff/Minor Angst

Word Count: 8343

Summary: Baz gets dragged to a party by Dev. Simon gets dragged to a party by Penelope. Hijinks ensue. Based on "spin the bottle" request.

Read on AO3

AN: Oy vey, this took longer than I wanted. Work keeps giving me the goddamn morning and closing shifts so I've been exhausted beyond belief. But now I'm down to four shifts a week so more writing time :D Shout out to @carryonmylovelies for being the best writing helper/encouragement this side of the cosmos. Love you hun <3 Hope you guys like this!

———————————————

Baz

“Baz,” Dev whines, draping himself all over my back like some annoying floppy blanket. “Please?”

“You being pathetic is certainly not going to change my mind,” I say, focusing intently on my own notes. We have finals in a week, dammit, and my cousin is more focused on this.

“But I need you there! To be my wingman!”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “What makes you think I would be a good wingman?”

“Okay, less of a wingman, more of a support.”

“And since when am I a good support either?”

Dev plops himself on my desk, pushing a pile of my perfectly stacked notes. I scowl deeply. Fucking hell, I’m going to strangle him, blood relation be damned.

“Please, Basil? I’ll get you a new bullet journal or something nerdy like that.” He flicks my stack of leather notebooks.

“Nice try, but no cigar, cousin.” I push my glasses further up my nose. “I have far too much studying to do.”

He groans and slumps further against the wall. “But Agatha is might be there! She’s finally single again after three bloody years. This could be my chance!”

I scoff. “Sure.”

Dev glares at me so hard his eyes become slits. “A man can dream.”

“A man can hallucinate, especially with the right help.”

He leans over, arching over my very important homework. “Y’know, I heard Simon is going to be there too.”

Oh. Fuck. I freeze up, heat rising to my face instantly. A grin spreads across Dev’s stupid face. Bloody hell, I wish I had never told him about my stupid crush. Him, Niall, and I were all drinking cheap beer and playing truth or dare. Apparently that beer was strong to get me to answer “who’s your biggest crush?” truthfully. It’s not something I’m proud of, crushing on my gorgeous idiot roommate. But it exists, and it makes me- he makes me very weak. Damn Dev for using it to his advantage.

“He hates parties,” I mumble.

“Yeah,” Dev leans closer, “but rumour has it, Penelope Bunce is dragging him there. Something about getting him to have fun since his breakup with Agatha. Maybe he could have fun with you.”

I immediately throw a notebook at his stupid face so I don’t have to see it. But it’s also to hide my stupid bright red cheeks. The rational part of my brain knows that’s a one in a billion shot. Snow hates me. He thinks I hate him. It can’t happen. But my lovesick side desperately wants to be hopeful. Maybe, just maybe...

“Fine,” I grumble.

Dev straightens up. “Huh?”

“Fine, I’ll go with you to the stupid party.”

Dev grins like a kid on Christmas. “Yay! Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, Baz!”

He throws his arms around my neck, bringing most of his weight along with him. I push him off me before I’m strangled. “Yeah, yeah, you owe me, arsehole.”

“I thought Snow’s presence was your payment.”

“No. I expect five mint Aero bars by no later than next week.”

“Ugh, fine. Small price.” He jumps off my desk, then gives me one last squeezy hug. “You’re my favourite cousin.”

“That’s not saying much, considering your other cousins are my demon siblings.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Good point. Party starts at 8 in Fraternity basement. Meet me at my room at 7:45. Bring your game face and cologne. Maybe Snow will like the smell.”

He dashes off, but not before I chuck a pen at his stupid head. It just misses. Dammit. I sigh and hold my face, rubbing it up and down. What the fuck am I doing? This is idiotic. Snow hates my guts, I’ve made sure of that. I decided early on it was easier to just make him hate me from the start than confess my feelings and have him destroy my pathetic gay heart. Snow will always despise me. A party won’t change years of fights and snark and anger. No matter how much deep down I might want it to.

The door slams open, making me jolt. I don’t even need to look to know who it is.

“And a good afternoon to you too, Snow,” I say.

“Fuck off,” he growls like an animal. His uniform is in its usual disarray, tie loose and shirt rumpled. On anyone else I would call it sloppy. But on him, I find it ruggedly charming.

“Pleasant as always, I see.” I push up my glasses and turn back to my notebook, instead of looking at his stupid bronze curls and mesmerizing plain blue eyes.

“I don’t need your shit today, Baz.” I listen as he violently throws open his desk drawers. It sounds like a cabinet in a hurricane. Snow is always a force of nature, in both good and bad ways.

I sigh sarcastically. “Alright. Be as loud and pissy as you want, not like anyone else lives here. Don’t you have chemistry right now?”

He growls again and slams his drawer particularly loud. “Forgot my notes.”

“Ah, I see. Didn’t know you could take any.” The comment is out of my mouth before I can stop it. Sharp comments at Snow have become reflex at this point.

He gives the leg of my chair a good kick, rattling my whole body. I glare at him over my glasses, and he glares right back. Bloody hell, he’s so damn attractive. I look away before my face turns red. Luckily, Snow stomps away again, and I’m left in blissful peace.

Fucking hell, this party is going to be a nightmare.

———————————————

Dev

I’m putting the finishing touches on my amazing hair when I hear the knock.

“That Baz?” Niall asks me, voice all nasally from his clogged nose. He’s on his bed, reading some football magazine while surrounded by a mountain of tissues.

“Probably,” I reply. “He’s willing to go to the party with me.”

Niall scoffs but it comes out as a cough. “Sorry I have allergies.”

“Excuses, excuses.” I waltz over to the door. “Baz is my true friend.” I fling the door open, and my hands immediately drop. “Oh my god.”

Baz raises one eyebrow at me. “What?”

“What the ever loving fuck are you wearing?!”

Baz looks down at his perfectly pressed navy slacks, buttoned to the collar white shirt, and polished black oxfords. “Have you gone blind, cousin? It’s a shirt and slacks.”

I groan and shake my head. “I can see it’s shirts and slacks, Baz. Why are you wearing it?”

“Because it’s good party attire.”

“Mother of God, Basil, you- I just-” I groan again, grabbing his wrist to haul him inside. “Get in here, we have to fix you.”

“Fix me? But-”

“You’re not wearing a suit to a high school party, end of story.” I push him down onto my bed by his shoulders. “First off, this goes.”

I reach out and ruffle his slicked back hair. He smacks my hand away. “Hey!”

I shove a finger in his face. “No one under forty slicks back their hair. And if they do, they’re an arsehole.” I hand him my wide tooth comb. “Comb it out. Now.”

“Why?” Baz hisses.

“Because you don’t want Snow to mistake you for a tight arse banker, right?”

Baz keeps frowning, but starts combing it out anyway. Good. “Next, you’re not wearing these.”

I take his glasses off his face. Baz gapes and tries to snatch the spectacles out of my hand, but I’m too fast. “Dev! Give those back!”

“No! They make you look even more nerdy, and right now we’re making you look cool.”

“But I need them to see!”

“No, you don’t. You only need them to see stuff that’s super far away. This basement is not that big, you’ll be fine. Honestly, I think you wear these to look smart.”

Baz frowns, but he doesn’t protest. He knows I’m right. I nod and go to Niall’s dresser, sorting the messy piles on top that should be in the drawers.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Niall asks furiously, but I can’t take him seriously with that high pitched clogged nose voice.

“Baz is going to borrow some of your clothes.”

“Why not your’s?”

“I’m a head shorter than Baz. You two are the same height.”

Baz scowls. “I am not wearing Niall’s clothes. He dresses like a wannabe club cruiser.”

Niall leans over and punches Baz in the arm, hard. Baz growls and punches back with just as much force. Seriously, are they still five?

“No,” I say, “Niall dresses like a normal teenage boy. And tonight you’re going to pretend you’re one too.”

I throw more clothes onto the floor, until I finally find something good. I grin ear to ear. Yes, this is perfect. I turn around and toss the clothing right at Baz’s face, hitting him with a small whack. “There. Wear these.”

Baz takes them off his face and gives them a once over. He looks positively disgusted. “Absolutely not.”

“No bitching. Put them on or we’re not going and you don’t get to gaze longingly at Simon from across the room.”

He looks indignant, and I’m worried he’s going to punch me. But instead he just huffs and stomps to the door, heading to our communal washroom I suppose. I lean to the side to shout at his back. “And you’re wearing Niall’s sneakers! Not those bloody oxfords!”

He flips me off before slamming the door hard. I chuckle and flop back on my bed.

“What would he do without us?” I sigh.

“I think he’s considering finding out,” Niall replies, then sneezes loudly into a tissue. He slowly brings it away. The whole kleenex is covered in snot.

“You’re disgusting” I say.

“Fuck off,” he grumbles. “I hope Baz ends up killing you.”

I smirk, laying down on my crossed arms. Baz won’t kill me. I’m going to have my chance with Agatha, he’ll have his chance with Snow, and we’ll both be happy. Everything will be great.

———————————————

Simon

Everything sucks.

Why am I even here? I’m tired, I’m sweaty, I’m still getting over Agatha, and this party sucks. It’s just a bunch of my classmates in a dingy basement, totally pissed out of their minds, stumbling and bumping into each other. There’s not even any dancing. What’s a party without dancing?!

“I’m bored,” I groan, flopping against Penny, cheek pressed on her head. She sighs and pushes at my side.

“You’re bored because you refuse to leave this wall next to the snack table,” she replies. “Go mix and mingle, bloody well talk to someone other than me.”

“But everyone else doesn’t like me.”

“That’s not true, Si, lots of people like you.”

I scoff and cross my arms. Penny’s usually never wrong, but this time she is. People don’t like me, they’re fascinated by me; the weird orphan scholarship kid, the headmaster’s pet project. Only Penny and Agatha actually like me and know me. (Well, Agatha did like me.) And then there’s Baz, who just straight up hates me. Posh prick. Just because I wasn’t born with perfect hair and pretty eyes and a silver spoon shoved up my arse like him he thinks I’m lower than dirt. At least I don’t dress like a nerd. That’s one advantage I have over him, I guess.

“Are you going to leave any snacks for the rest of us?” Penny asks.

I look her in the eye as I shove a bunch of crisps in my mouth. “I’ve captured these crisps in the name of House Snow.”

Penny rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “I never should have introduced you to Game of Thrones.”

I smile wide, crisps filling my chipmunk cheeks. Penny laughs happily. Well, maybe being here isn’t too bad. I turn back to look out at the party, still grinning. But then my mouth immediately falls open, chip crumbs spilling on my shirt.

“Simon!” Penny yells. “What are you, five?!”

I dust the crumbs off my shirt, quickly chew and swallow, and point at exactly what I’m looking at. Or more precisely, who. “Penny, Penny, look. Tell me I’m not crazy, is that Baz?!”

Penny squints, pushing her glasses up her nose. I watch as her brown eyes go impossibly wide. “Holy shit, it is.”

“Holy shit,” I echo. Because...this is insane.

In the years I’ve known him, Baz has always dressed like a posh nerd. Uniform crisp and pristine, glasses down his nose like some snooty scholar, and raven hair gelled to oblivion. But tonight, he’s very different. For one, he’s not wearing his glasses, making his cheekbones look even sharper and deep sea grey eyes more visible. His hair isn’t gelled either. It falls in his face in a lazy wave. Most shocking of all, for the first time ever, he isn’t in businessman attire. He’s wearing a torso hugging charcoal grey v-neck, white trainers, and black skinny jeans. Since when does Baz wear black fucking skinny jeans?! And they’re like, really tight, showing off every toned muscle he’s gained from playing football. I can’t stop looking, holy shit.

“Simon? Hello? You still in there?” Penny is waving a hand in front of my face. I blink rapidly, snapping out of my jeans induced trance.

“Uh, yeah, Pen, I’m here. Oh my god, what is going on with Baz tonight?”

She shrugs, looking more like me than herself. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s decided to change up his style.”

“I seriously doubt that. He’s been wearing the same kind of clothes since we were all eleven, Pen.”

“People can change.”

“Not Baz.” I narrow my eyes, examining his strange outfit with careful precision. “He’s plotting something.”

Penny sighs and rubs the bridge of her nose. “Simon, for the last time, Baz is not some vampire supervillain.”

I scoff, crossing my arms with a frown. “Says you. I just haven’t proven it yet.”

“Whatever, Si. How about you try to have fun tonight? That’s why we’re here, remember?”

I hear what Penny is saying, but I’m still watching Baz. He’s got his arms crossed, leaning on one foot, a frown on his face. But that last one could just be, y’know, him. Everything about his face is designed for pouting. Either way, he doesn’t look happy to be here, no more than me. He must not like that his plot isn’t working or something. I keep glaring at him as I shove M&M’s into my mouth.

“And you’re gone,” Penny sighs. “I do not get your issue with him.”

“You don’t live with him,” I grumble through my candy.

“No, but I feel like I know way too much about him because of you. Seriously you need to stop obsessing over him.”

Baz lifts a hand to tuck a piece of his raven hair behind his ear, showing off the pointy tip. I stroke my chin. What’s the purpose of that? Is he trying to distract me? Is he trying to pretend he’s all cute and innocent and not evil? Strange, very strange...

“Hey! We’re playing spin the bottle!” someone shouts. “Who wants in?”

I stay on my wall. I don’t have anything against spin the bottle, but I’m busy, and not really in the mood to kiss a few random classmates. Plus I haven’t seen Agatha yet, but she might not be here. I’d rather not run into her.

Suddenly, there’s a hand on my arm and someone is dragging me away. I look over at Penny, who has a determined expression on her face.

“Pen, where are we going?” I ask, fear filling my voice.

“You’re going to play spin the bottle.”

I inhale sharply. “What?! No way!”

“Yes way! You’re going to go have fun, dammit.”

“Is spin the bottle supposed to be fun? I thought it was just embarrassing.”

“I don’t know, I’ve never played. And I’m not going to play cause I’m in a serious relationship.”

“Great endorsement,” I mutter. I try to wriggle out of her grip, but it’s no use. She’s like a bloody pitbull. Eventually, she turns to face me, hand on her hip.

“Simon, you can’t mope and overthink about Baz against a wall the entire time. Just try this, see if you have fun. You haven’t had fun in ages. You can stop anytime, just try please.”

I sigh, body and ego deflating at once. “Fine, I’ll try.”

Penny smiles a bit. “Good.”

She lets go, but I keep walking towards the loose circle of tipsy British teens. I recognize most of them. Trixie, Keris, Rhys, Gareth, and Philippa. (Luckily no Agatha, that would be awkward.)

“Hey we’ll join!”

We all turn to the left. “Oh god,” I groan.

Baz glares at me as he sits next to Dev, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes are deep sea grey daggers trying to stab me in the head. Why did he have to sit so close to me?! Luckily there’s a slightly drunk boy between us, wobbling back and forth even though he’s sitting. Hope he doesn’t get sick on any of us, especially if we’re supposed to be bloody kissing.

Oh fuck, what if I have to...no, no way. There’s very little chance that will happen. The universe can’t hate me that much.

Keris raises her hand. “I’ll go first.”

I lean my cheek on my palm. I really don’t care who goes, as long as it’s not me. Keris grabs the vodka bottle and gives it a good hard spin. I follow the spinning with my eyes, watching as the low orange light reflects off the glass. It’s kind of hypnotising, almost makes me want to sleep. Christ, I’m bored.

The bottle finally stops, and everyone either laughs or groans. It lands right on Trixie. I burst out in fits of giggles, clutching my stomach. Okay, maybe the universe sucks, but at least it has a sense of humour.

“You cheated!” Gareth declares.

Keris snorts and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I can totally cheat at spinning a bottle, Gareth.”

“If there is you found a way!”

Keris shrugs. She turns to her left and kisses her girlfriend right on the mouth. The really drunk people whoop and cheer. Some of my more immature male classmates gasp or gape like fish. Penny just sighs behind me. This isn’t unusual for her. I’ve heard many rants from her about Trixie and Keris’ snogging in her room. This is probably mild for her.

The couple separates with a little pop. Both girls are grinning ear to ear. A few boys are still gaping, which is kind of gross. I glance over at Baz, to see if maybe he’s having any sort of reaction. But he’s still as stone faced as ever. He seems to be having even less fun than me. That’s one plus, I guess.

“My turn,” Trixie singsongs. She lays a delicate hand on the bottle and spins it. It lands a foot away from me, and for a second I think it landed on Baz. My heart rate jumps a beat. Holy shit, did that land on him? But when Dev raises his hand, I let out a long breath, feeling relieved for some reason.

“I don’t think you want to kiss me,” Dev chuckles, and everyone else chuckles along with him. Except Baz, because he’s a creature of darkness who is physically incapable of laughter.

“The cheek okay?” Trixie asks

Dev shrugs with a small smile. “I’ll take it.

Trixie leans forward on her knees and Dev follows. She plants a big wet kiss on his cheek. Rhys gives a sarcastic whoop and holler. Gareth gives his own over dramatic “oooooo” and pumps his fist. As she sits back, Trixie rolls her eyes, going back to slum;ing on Keris’ shoulder.

“You two are so mature,” she drawls.

Gareth and Rhys keep giggling and high five each other. I chuckle under my breath. It’s immature, but just a bit funny. Dev takes the bottle in hand and spins it hard. I’ve heard rumours he has a crush on Agatha, so whoever he gets he’ll probably be disappointed. I’m getting bored again, leaning on my hand. The bottle lands on Philippa. The cheering duo gets punched in the arm by Keris before they get out too many whoops or hollers.

Dev looks at the ground, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh, you wanna, Philippa?”

Philippa flicks her eyes over to me for a second. I’m not sure what she hopes to see. Honestly, I feel kinda bad for not being what she wants me to be for her. I look down, because I’m not sure what else to do.

“Sure,” Philippa replies.

I lift my head just enough to see what happens. Dev and Philippa crawl towards the centre of the circle. They both look very nervous, both lacking in experience or alcohol or probably both. He leans forward, eyes closed and lips pursed. She does the same and closes the distance. The kiss barely lasts half a second, but drunk people still cheer like it’s a Manchester FC game. Dev and Philippa scramble to their seats with bright red faces.

Philippa spins the bottle without saying anything. I’m barely following at this point. Pretty sure I’m going to leave after this and go stuff mint aero bars in my mouth. That’s the best breakup therapy in my opinion. I hope Baz hasn’t eaten my entire stash.

“Simon?” Penny taps my shoulder forcefully. “Simon, it landed on you.”

My head snaps up, only to see everyone staring at me, some looking very confused and concerned. I look down at the vodka bottle, the top pointing right at me. My eyes go wide. “Oh,” I squeak.

Philippa is blushing all the way down to her neck,with a small smile. She plays with the end of her hair. “Do you want to?” she asks.

I gulp, fiddling with my fingers. I’m nervous, but not really reluctant. Philippa is nice enough and I know she likes me. Maybe it’ll be nice, maybe I’ll feel something. What’s the harm?

“Uh, sure,” I say with a slightly forced smile.

Philippa’s smile gets a bit bigger. Fuck, am I leading her on? I don’t want to hurt her. This is a terrible idea, shit. She crawls forward, closing her eyes and sticking her face out. I shuffle towards her, squeeze my eyes shut, and kiss her.

It’s slightly longer than her kiss with Dev, but not by much. Long enough for me to realise her lips are smooth and smell like vanilla. Other than that I feel...nothing. It’s not that Philippa is bad. I just don’t feel a spark or anything close. I used to feel something with Agatha. Not a lot, but there was a stomach drop or a heart flutter at first. Not now. Part of me is scared I’ll never find anything like that again.

We separate, everyone is still making their obnoxious cheers. They’re laughing and smiling, so I try to smile back. The only person not so happy is, weirdly enough, Baz. He’s got his arms crossed and the corners of his mouth threaten to break out of his cheeks just so his scowl can get bigger. What’s got his knickers in a twist? Maybe he has a crush on Philippa. Well, pissing him off is a benefit I guess.

“Your turn, Simon,” Philippa says meekly, smiling and blushing at the ground.

“Um...” For a minute, I seriously consider standing up and running like the wind. But everyone is looking at me. I guess one more time couldn’t hurt. “Okay.”

I grab the bottle and give it a firm spin. But I guess I’m slightly on an angle, because it spins to the left like a wayward football. People scramble away to not get hit, giggling and clinging to their friends. I’m just focused on where it lands. The sooner it’s done, the sooner I can bow out gracefully and stuff my face with chocolate. It slows bit by bit, and finally, it stops. I snap my head up to see who it landed on. I’m met with a pair of panicked deep sea grey eyes.

Oh fuck.

Baz

That’s it, God hates me. There’s absolutely no question now. Of all the people he could’ve landed on, why did it have to be me?! This is an absolute disaster. Panic washes over my body like a nonstop tidal wave. Dev laughs and slaps me on the back, like this is some football goal at a match. I want to shout at him for being a numpty and run away to a very dark corner where I can just die.

But I’m frozen, staring at a gaping Simon Snow.

“Oh fuck,” a drunk guy slurs to his friend, trying to whisper but failing horribly, “don’t they like, hate each other?”

Snow’s face shifts from shock to a deep, deep scowl. He jumps to his feet. “Yeah, we do. So this is not happening.”

I manage to stifle my sigh of utter relief, but my silence is probably odd. So I cross my arms and stick my nose in the air. “Good. Like I would ever want to your chavy mouth on mine.”

Fuck, why did I add that last part? I hope I’m not blushing and giving myself away. Snow is turned around, ready to leave, but throws a fiery look at me over his shoulder. “Fuck off, Baz,” he snaps.

“Very eloquent, Snow. Forgot to mention your mouth is stupid too.” Except it’s not stupid. It’s full and soft looking and fucking beautiful, and I wish he wanted to kiss me with it.

Snow balls his fist and looms over me. “Well, your mouth is naturally made for frowning.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, very nice. Your’s can’t form proper sentences.”

“At least I’m not spouting shit all the time!”

“Either follow the rules of the game or leave, Snow.”

Bunce rubs her nose under her glasses. “Simon, let’s just go.”

She takes his arm but he doesn’t listen to her for once, shaking her off and menacing over me more. “Oh, you want me to kiss you, Basilton?”

Oh fuck fuck fuck, what is wrong with me?! I didn’t drink anything. I think I’ve just lost my goddamn mind. I need to get out of here before I burst into flames from pure embarrassment.

I stand up, brushing off these ridiculous jeans. “Of course not. I would rather go back to our room than have my lips torn up by your dry ones.”

Simon growls like a caged animal. And it should not make me as excited as it does. “My lips are not dry.”

“Guys,” Gareth says slowly, “maybe you should just-”

“The constant bleeding and scabs would disagree.” Leave Snow, for the love of God, just storm off with Bunce, please.

“Oh yeah?” Snow leans forward over the drunk boy in between us. “Well, I bet if I kissed you, you would like it, arsehole.”

If I wasn’t blushing before, I certainly am now. I am literally going to explode on the spot any minute. I scoff and look away.

“Like hell I would.” Yes, I would, and it would be awful.

“Fuck you, you would!”

“Never!” I snap, digging my nails into my arm.

Snow growls once again. “I bet my goddamn sword history book you would!”

He’s leaning closer now, close enough I can smell his cheap soap. It makes my pulse quicken terribly, like the thump of a rabbit’s foot. “It would be easy winnings.”

“Says you!”

“Yes, and I’m right!”

“No you’re not!”

“I am!”

“Why don’t I prove it, huh?!”

“Fine, go ahead!”

I don’t even have time to process what I said. Because Simon Snow immediately grabs my collar and kisses me.

Holy fuck.

Simon

I just want to prove I’m right, and stop his stupid mouth. I hate when he throws insults at me. And now it seems for once I’ve actually shut him up. We’re both frozen in place, me shoving my mouth on his. I faintly hear everyone gasp around us. But I’m too focused on kissing Baz. Oh my fucking god, I’m kissing Baz!

He’s just standing like a statue while I hold his collar with a death grip and squeeze my eyes shut. He’s really not moving at all, not even a twitch. Is he surprised? That would make sense. Scared? I won’t hurt him, not right now. It’s just a kiss.

Baz’s lips are colder than Agatha’s. Softer too. Like silk sheets on a chilly night. It feels kind of nice, actually. When his top lip slightly slips between mine, I swear to god, my brain short circuits. Scratch kind of, this feels really nice. Sensation spreads from my mouth through my whole body. Why does this feel so much better than when I kissed Philippa? Or even better than Agatha? This is so confusing and amazing my brain is about to explode.

I don’t even know how long we spend with our lips pressed together. I tilt my head to the side a bit, just for a change of pace. And even though it’s crazy, I swear, for a moment Baz relaxes and pushes his mouth forward. Pushing his mouth closer to mine. Oh my god. Is...is Baz kissing me back? It feels so much better.

My hands slide around to the back of his neck, and Baz’s hair is soft of course. I think about grabbing it, but Baz suddenly pushes me away. It happens so out of the blue I stumble back in shock. I expect him to be angry, to punch me in the face or at least shout until he’s blue in the face. But Baz, he looks, scared. What’s there to be scared of? His eyes frantically dart around, chest heaving, until he looks back at me. I’ve never seen someone so frightened in my entire life.

Baz turns and bolts away, slamming the door behind him.

The entire room is silent for a long, awkward moment. You could hear a bloody pin drop it’s so quiet. I’m frozen, mouth hanging open. I can’t even process what just happened. So many things are going through my head right now, turning into a mushy goop of mismatched ideas and fears. I look at Penny.

“Pen, I- what just- I...” I can’t form words. My mouth and tongue feel so unbelievably useless, even more so than usual.

“Simon-” she starts. But before I hear what she says, I’m off running. I don’t know why I’m doing it, but I have to follow Baz. I just have to.

———————————————

It takes me way, way too long to find him. I search all throughout the Fraternity before I remember just how bloody dramatic Baz is. He wouldn’t hide away in the building, he’d go to where he always goes when he’s upset. Not his room or an alcove like a normal person. The Wavering Wood.

I run across the great lawn, wind whistling in my ears. The trees get larger and larger until I finally reach the edge. It’s dark out, so I have to navigate mostly by my other senses. I feel rough bark, sink into on wet dirt, hear the leaves crunch beneath my boots. I squint, trying to see in the darkness. And when I catch a glimpse of black shining in the moonlight, I dash towards it.

Baz is sitting under a tree, legs pulled up to his chest, face buried in his knees. Raven hair fans around him. I watch his back heave and shudder. Fuck. I don’t think he’s okay.

Slowly, I walk towards him, careful not to make too much noise. I don’t want to spook him, no more than he already is. But of course I step on a fucking branch, the snap ringing through the whole goddamn woods. Baz’s head bolts up. His eyes are wide and scared like a deer caught in the headlights. Tear streaks stain his cheeks. We keep staring at each other, until Baz looks back at the ground.

“What do you want, Snow?” he asks. He’s trying to be intimidating, but his voice is too strained to scare me.

“I, uh...” Fuck, what do I want? Why am I here? I’m not Baz’s friend. Quite the opposite, really. Yet it hurts to see him like this, so I start walking towards him, fiddling with my belt hole loops. “I wanted to see how you were doing. You um, ran out of there pretty fast...”

He snorts unkindly. “That wasn’t an invitation for you to follow, Snow.”

I groan, rolling my head back. “Man, I’m actually trying to be nice, there’s no need to be an arsehole.”

“Since when do you care about me?”

I shrug as I sit down on the grassy ground. I’m cross legged, facing Baz and his dagger stare. “You looked scared back the party, and then I see you here crying. I’d be worried no matter who you were.”

He rolls his eyes incredibly dramatically. “Of course, Mr. Hero. Any kittens that need to be saved from trees? Probably more pertinent than me.”

“You’re the one crying in the woods, so I think you take top priority.”

Baz tries to wipe away the tear marks, but they stay the same. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing, you’re obviously upset.”

“No matter what, it’s none of your business.”

I look down at the ground, playing with my shoelace. I know what I want to mean, but I’m not sure how to get the words right. Everything I’m considering seems dumb. Baz will throw anything stupid back in my face. Actually, stupid or not, he’ll throw it back. Might as well just go for it.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. I flick my eyes up, and Baz is gaping at me, his eyebrows are all scrunched together.

“You’re...sorry?” he says, genuinely confused for the first time in his life.

I rub the back of my neck. “Y-Yeah, I’m just, really sorry.”

“For what?”

What the hell does he mean? What else could I be talking about? I look right at him. “For like...kissing you when you didn’t want it. It was stupid and impulsive and really rude to you. You should never kiss anyone when they don’t want it. So I’m really sorry.”

“You...think I didn’t want you to kiss me?”

“Um, yeah. I thought you said I could, but then you ran out of there pretty fast afterwards. So I’m just super sorry, Baz.”

There’s a long stretch of silence, only filled by wind whistling through the branches. I keep looking at the ground. I’m not sure what Baz’s expression, and I’m not sure I want to see. I hope he’s forgiven me. I honestly don’t know what to do if he doesn’t.

“Thank you, for the apology,” he says slowly. “But you don’t have to feel bad.”

My head snaps up. Baz is looking away now. And in the pale moonlight, I can see a faint blush going all the way to his ears. I’m not worried anymore, just unbelievably confused. “W-What do you mean?”

Baz plays with the hem of his shirt. “I mean, I’m not upset that you kissed me without my permission, because you had it. I did say you could. We both made an impulsive decision.”

“Then why did you run off so fast?”

He twists the hem so hard I’m afraid he’s going to tear it. “Because, it’s just embarrassing to have your first kiss in front of your entire class, no matter who it is.”

My eyes go impossibly huge. I swear they become bigger than the moon. Holy fucking shit. “That back there was your first kiss?”

His blush gets worse, spreading down to his neck. Baz has always been so cool and calm. I’ve never seen him like this before. It’s strange, but kind of makes him seem more human in a way. He nods slowly.

“Oh,” I squeak. I inch closer, trying to comfort him, before remembering that I’m the last person Baz wants comfort from. Especially after I embarrassed him. God, I feel like a prat. “I-I’m still sorry then. I didn’t mean to take that away from you.”

“Stop saying sorry, Snow,” he sighs. “It’s really fine.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I was okay with it, because I li-” His lips press together before he says anything else. He plays with a loose strand of his hair, looking nervous and shy, still blushing so hard his entire face is red. The gears start turning in my head. I’m not as oblivious as everyone thinks I am. I can see things, they can just take a bit longer. And I think I see something very big now.

“Wait,” I say slowly, “do you...like me?”

Baz bites hard on his bottom lip and clenches his fists. A few more tears fall down his cheeks, but he doesn’t wipe them away, not even acknowledging they exist. My mouth drops open.

“For how long? Have you, uh, felt like that?”

He finally looks at me, his eyes wet and vulnerable. I’ve never seen him like this before, not ever. He doesn’t look like a villain, or a bully, or even an arsehole. He just looks like...a boy.

“A long time,” he whispers harshly, like he’s forcing the words off his tongue. “Almost since we met.”

And I thought I was done with surprises for the night. My heart is beating twofold, but I’m not sure with what emotion. Everything is so jumbled and twisted up right now. “O-Oh. Really?”

Baz rolls his eyes, though he looks more annoyed than genuinely angry. “Yes, really. You think I would make that up?”

“I don’t know! I’m not sure I know anything about you anymore...” I nervously scratch at the back of my wrist until the skin turns red. Nothing is processing, nothing makes sense. And one question pops up immediately. “If you feel that way, why have you always been such a wanker?”

Baz lets out a small snorty laugh, and immediately covers his mouth. But it’s kind of adorable. And I kind of want to hear it again. “Very well put question, Snow.”

“Are you gonna answer it or keep being a wanker?” I’m not angry, just tired really.

“Fine,” he sighs. He goes back to twisting his hair and shirt, chewing on the corner of his pouty lip. “I was a wanker because it was easier.”

“Easier?”

His face lowers even more, nearly behind his knees. “Easier for you to hate me, than for me to confess my stupid feelings and innevitably have you break my heart.”

I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut, almost offended that he thought I would be so cruel. But Baz looks even more hurt. I think that his feelings matter more right now. “Oh. Okay. You thought I would really hurt you?”

“You were straight as an arrow and already madly in love with Wellbelove when we were 11.” He traces the dirt with his toe, scuffing the pretty white trainer. “You would’ve hurt me even if you didn’t mean to.”

“Oh,” I squeak.

Baz scoffs with the corner of his mouth pulled up. “That’s your favourite sound tonight, Snow.”

I let out a sort of scoffing chuckle. He’s an arse, but funny. I’ve never noticed how funny he can be in his own biting way before. “Well, you keep dropping bombshells, it’s perfectly reasonable. Honestly you’re lucky I’m not exploding everywhere.”

He laughs, still small, but doesn’t cover his mouth. He doesn’t hide. “Yes, well, cleaning up bits of you off the forest floor wouldn’t be my favourite activity. It would be more fun than your snoring though.”

“I don’t snore!”

“Yes you do, I would know. You’re like an adorable little fog horn.”

We both laugh, starting small and getting louder and louder. Baz even begins to giggle, fucking giggle. He sounds like a thousand little silver bells. I shouldn’t be laughing. Usually I would be offended by his jabs. I’d yell and scream at him for being a dick. But he’s laughing, smiling, all with a playful glint in his deep grey eyes. I wonder, is this what Baz is really like? When he isn’t trying to make me hate him?

“I like this,” I blurt out. Baz stops laughing immediately. A confused furrow forms between his brows.

“Like what?” he asks cautiously.

“This, right now, what we’re doing. Being nice and honest.” I shuffle closer, knees nearly touching his. “I like this better than fighting.”

Baz’s pouty lips fall open slightly, just barely half an inch, and his eyebrows raise. I think that’s Baz’s equivalent of completely, utterly shocked. “Seriously?”

I grin as wide as I can. “Yeah, seriously. Do you, uh, like it too?”

I expect Baz to smile, to laugh, to be happy. But instead he looks scared. Even his hands are shaking. I reach forward, but Baz pulls away, wrapping his arms around himself. Another tear falls down his face but he quickly wipes it away.

“Why were you crying?” I ask quickly. “Was it just like, embarrassment?”

Baz slowly shakes his head, more black hair falling in his face in a lazy wave. “N-No, it’s just...this can’t be happening.”

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t stopped hating me, that can’t change.”

His voice is so small and scared. I blink rapidly, tilting my head to the side. “Why not?”

He scoffs and shakes his head, staring at his own lap. “Because I’ve made your life hell for years! Because one stupid kiss and a few laughs can’t change things after so long.”

I move even closer. I can see every crevice in his face the moonlight hits, every sign of his tears. Oh. I think I get it, sorta. I kissed him, and Baz wanted it, but he was sad because he was sure it would never happen again. That’s a reasonable conclusion. At least, it was.

“Maybe it can’t change everything right away. But,” I reach forward and touch his wrist, just lightly, and when he doesn’t move away I stay there, “we could try, y’know. To change things.”

He doesn’t look up, but his brows wrinkle together again, and I find it unbearably adorable. “What are you saying, Snow?”

“I’m saying I want to be your boyfriend.” I say quickly before I lose my nerve. “I mean, I’m not a very great boyfriend, if my last relationship is any clue. But if you want this, I want this.”

I stare at the ground, too nervous to look at Baz’s face. I don’t let go of his wrist though, and he doesn’t move away, but it’s still silent again. Every passing second makes my anxiety build up and up like a shaken soda about to blow. Will he run away? He ran away before. I don’t want him to go, not again. I don’t want to lose him. (Fuck, that’s dramatic.)

“You’re an idiot,” Baz sighs, and it makes my breath hitch. “But you can have...this, if you want.”

My head snaps up so fast my neck hurts. Baz is finally looking at me, eyes soft and open. I’ve never seen him like that before. A grin spreads across my face. I probably look stupid but I couldn’t care less.

“I do,” I say, “I really do.”

He smiles softly. Slowly, he turns his hand around and fully holds mine. His skin is colder than most people’s and strangely rough for someone so posh. His calluses scratch perfectly against mine. It feels incredible, somehow so much better than holding anyone else’s hand. Just like that kiss.

“Hey, uh,” I nervously run my thumb over his tepid skin, “can I, um, maybe...kiss you again? Like in a nicer way?”

Baz chuckles, squeezing my hand. “Yes, you lovely moron, you may. If we’re going to date, you need to fix your gram-”

I get up on my knees and shut his cute smartarse mouth by pressing mine against it.

Baz

Bloody hell, I think I’ve died and gone to heaven. Because for the second time in one night, Simon Snow is kissing me. And this time he really wants to, because he likes me, because he wants to be my boyfriend.

It’s not forceful or angry like before, just firm enough to get me to stop mocking him. I freeze for a moment, the shock hitting me like a truck. But slowly, bit by bit, I let myself melt into it. Snow tilts his head to the side, so I do too, letting our lips slip together. Simon does this thing with his chin that drives me insane. At first I try to mimic exactly what he does, shoving back with my body and mouth, but I quickly realise I have zero idea what I’m doing. For once, Snow is the expert. So I let myself relax, giving up control for the first time in my life. Snow pushes me against the tree and places a hand on the side of my face. He delicately runs his thumb over my cheekbone, like I’m something good, something precious to him. Is this a fucking dream?

His hand moves farther back. Calloused fingers slip through my hair as his tongue slips between my lips. It’s warm and wet and the best thing I’ve ever felt in my entire miserable life.

“Baz,” he sighs quietly between our mouths.

No, this isn’t a dream. My imagination has never been this perfect.

I wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him flush against me. “Simon,” I groan. He kisses me harder, clenching a fist in my hair to better shove our faces together. Suddenly my breath feels short, and I push lightly at Simon’s chest. He moves away instantly.

“Sorry,” he says. He’s out of breath, unsurprisingly. I am too.

“No it’s okay, just,” I sigh and run my hands up his sides, “this is quite a lot for a second kiss. I just need a breather.

Simon giggles quietly. He falls forward, tapping his forehead against mine. I press my hands into his back, feeling the muscles through his shirt. We stay like that for awhile. I don’t mind. I would stay with Simon in my arms forever if I could.

“Hey,” he whispers, eyes still closed and leaning against me, “I’ve got a question.”

“Is it a sensical question?”

He pinches the back of my neck, just lightly. Not enough to hurt but enough to make his annoyance clear. “Yes, arsehole. Why were you at the party? You hate parties.”

“So do you.”

“Penny dragged me to it to have mandatory fun. So what’s your reason?”

I chuckle quietly. “Funny enough, Dev begged me to come with him because he wanted support for when he hit on your ex-girlfriend.”

Snow reels back, eyes wide and mouth falling open. “Seriously?!”

“M-hm.”

“But Agatha didn’t even come!”

“Yup. So it looks like I’ve had far more romantic success tonight than my cousin.”

Snow snorts out an adorable laugh. His hand trails forward across my jawline. It leaves sparks of sensation on my skin. He plays with a piece of loose hair in front of my face. “Y’know, I like your hair like this. You should leave it loose more often. Save some money on hair gel.”

I chuckle again, and Snow follows. Soon it turns into a loud laughter from both of us. I’ve never laughed more in my life than I have tonight. Once I calm down, I look up at him, smiling brightly. “M-hm. And you’re someone to take fashion advice from?”

A small part of me worries Snow is going to scowl and yell at me for being a prick. But instead he smiles too and rolls his eyes. I let out a small breath of relief. Everything is different now, and I love it so much more.

“Yeah, well, I know a good thing when I see it.” His hands goes lower, trailing over the soft v-neck. “Like this shirt. It fits you well.”

“Really?” I croon, trying to hide the fact that I’m exploding inside.

“Uh-huh. And these jeans. I nearly had a heart attack when I saw you in them.”

I grin so much my cheeks happily ache. “Well, I’ll let Niall know you like his clothes.”

His mouth drops open. “This is Niall’s stuff?!”

I cock an eyebrow. “You think I own clothes like this?”

“Well, no. But I, uh, kind of wish you did. You should definitely buy more jeans...”

His cheeks are cherry red. I’m pretty sure mine are too. I hold his waist tighter, tilting my head up towards his. “I’ll be sure to get some on my next trip into town.”

He smiles again, looking like a ray of sunshine. “Can I come with?”

God, he’s like an adorable little puppy. “I don’t see why not, Snow.”

He leans forward and brushes our noses together. “You called me Simon before.”

“No I didn’t,” I singsong.

Snow pushes even closer to me, warm lips against my ear. “I like it,” he whispers. “I like it when you call me Simon.”

How have I not melted into the forest floor yet? I don’t feel like a real person anymore. Just the remnants of a pathetic gay teenager who’s melted into a puddle after having all his dreams come true in a single night. I hold him tighter. Because I’m not letting him go anytime soon.

“Simon,” I sigh, just before I turn my head and kiss him softly. He reciprocates immediately, and I’m in absolute euphoria. I know we have to move eventually but I don’t want to anytime soon.

“Best spin the bottle game ever,” Simon giggles.

“Damn right,” I whisper, just before pulling him back into a searing kiss.

My god, I’m living a charmed life.

———————————————

AN: Main worry with this fic: I feel like things move too quickly, but at the same time I didn't want to drag it out. Like we all know what's going to happen, best not to beat around the bush lol. Either way, this has flaws like anything I write, but I still like it. I thoroughly enjoyed writing Simon's reaction to Baz in tshirt and jeans lol. Hope you peeps liked it too, see you next fic :)

#carry on #snowbaz #baz pitch #simon snow #penelope bunce #dev #niall #normal au #spin the bottle #mysnowbazfic

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