#okay i wrote this while half-awake but it's a vibe and i really like this
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Angstpril 2024 Day 2 Prompt: Frozen
“Anakin.”
The transport is rumbling under his feet. Leia is standing to his side, looking at him with a mixture of confusion and worry. The Inquisitor is likely still standing below, trying to find a way to follow them.
He should do something. There may be a way to track the flight path and confirm that they will actually make it to Mapuzo.
He should…say something. Leia is tugging at his robe now, her voice is louder, but he can barely hear it over the ringing over his ears.
But all he can think about is Anakin.
Anakin — who he’d left burning on the shores of Mustafar.
Anakin — whose very screams haunted his nightmares for the past decade.
Anakin — who fell to the Dark Side, killed all the Jedi in the Temple, killed Padmé, deprived Luke and Leia of the childhood they could have had.
Anakin — who he was absolutely certain did not survive.
Anakin — who has, against all odds, survived and has been looking for him for the past 10 years, intent on revenge.
“He’s alive, Obi-Wan.”
He can’t move. His heart is hammering in his chest, his breaths ringing in his ears. The surroundings of the transport feel somewhat fuzzy, unreal.
“Anakin Skywalker is alive.”
He can’t breathe. He can’t.
“Ben?”
Leia’s voice trickles into his thoughts. Quickly, he shakes his head, shuddering at the motion.
“Did that Inquisiting lady do something? Are you hurt?”
Numbly, he shakes his head again. His legs are trembling too much. He lets himself sit down on the floor — the motion is graceless, clumsy, so unlike the man he’d once been all those years ago.
Vaguely, he’s aware of Leia sitting down cross-legged across from him, squinting slightly. The expression is familiar in a way that’s almost haunting.
She is so much like Anakin that it takes his breath away.
He shakes his head again, trying to rid himself of the thought and get himself out of this state.
“What’s Anakin?” she asks. “When you came in here, you said Anakin.”
The ship continues rumbling.
His breaths shudder in his lungs, he feels himself shivering even though the interior of this transport isn’t really that cold.
He needs to focus on Leia, on getting her home and away from this danger. The person who he used to be would focus on what’s important, not freeze in the face of adversity.
I’m not him. Not anymore.
But if he can even just pretend to be Obi-Wan Kenobi for just a little while longer, maybe he can get Leia back to Alderaan without detection from the Empire.
Maybe that will be enough.
Maybe that means that Anakin won’t find them.
He takes a breath, reaches into the Force with a mixture of clumsiness and desperation.
Master Qui-Gon.
His only response is the silence — the cold darkness that has consumed the Force for over a decade.
Please, Master.
…
I need you.
#angstpril2024#day 2#frozen#star wars#fic#pandora writes#obi wan kenobi#leia organa#okay i wrote this while half-awake but it's a vibe and i really like this#might clean it up and post it on ao3 eventually but. this is it for now
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I went back through some old docs and revamped the garycato story outline, because apparently having school stuff to avoid is vital to my writing process.
Here is the meet cute that I wrote two years ago and am not going to change.
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Avocato sighed as he slumped forward over his drink. Usually he saw his son first thing after a job, but he was on overnight fieldtrip. So instead of lying awake in an empty house he found himself a drink at the nearest bar. He planned to peacefully drink the night away, until a body slammed into the seat next to him.
“This seat taken?” a blonde human tilted his head at him and stretched his arms across the counter. His flushed face betraying his lack of sobriety.
“You’re already sitting,” he raised an eyebrow as the man grinned at him. He turned away to wave down the bartender and Avocato kissed his quiet night goodbye.
The drink the man got was some fruity thing colored an unnatural blue that almost matched the skintight shirt he had beneath his jacket. The way he immediately slurped half of it down almost restored Avocato's hope for solitude, but he turned to face him just as quickly.
“So, what's your deal? You here alone or were you just feeling the cool and mysterious vibe today,” he wiggled the fingers of his unoccupied hand as he spoke.
“I was feeling more of a having a drink without interruption vibe.”
The man skipped right over the dismissal. “Ah, so you’re alone. It’s okay, we can ride this lonely night together!” he stuck his hand out. “Name's Gary, Gary Goodspeed.” Avocato didn’t take his hand. He pouted. “Do handsome cat men not have names?”
“I'm ventrexian, not a cat,” he snapped. He’d heard every pun under the sun within his first month on earth.
“Handsome ven-tracks-Ian then,” his smile remained plastered firmly in place.
“…Avocato,” he gave up. The resulting grin was brighter than the flashing lights on the opposite side of the bar. It was kind of cute, if he was being honest.
“Avacato? That’s ado-" he caught a warning look, “ah- awesome! That's an awesome name.” The way Gary’s cheeks puffed out as he awkwardly looked away while stumbling through his correction almost made him snort. He turned back to his drink.
Avocato was allowed a few minutes of the only sound he had to put up with being the ambient noise of the other bar patrons and pulsing music. The man next to him ordered another fruity drink, pink this time, and quietly slurped away until he took pity on him. “So what's your deal? You here alone or did you decide that you were into cool and mysterious vibes today?” Gary's grin as he began to respond with flailing arms made Avocato's lips quirk up just a bit.
“I just wanted to get out for the night, y’know? It was kind of a last minute decision. My daughter is out for the night so I decided I might as well make the most of it. My son might be trashing the house right now though, he was pretty adamant about me leaving,” he laughed and ran a hand through his hair. Avocato leaned his elbow against the table to rest his head against his hand.
“You have teenagers?”
“Yeah, they’re the best,” he responds quickly but then trails off a bit. “I’ve actually only been taking care of them for two years. It’s a long story,” the sincere look in his eyes was easily recognizable as he spoke his next words. “but I love them a lot. I’d do anything for them.”
Avocato did smile this time. “My boy's turning 15 this year.” Gary grinned.
“That’s how old my daughter is! Are you and your boy from off world?”
“We’ve been here about 6 months,” He frowned as he spoke, the circumstances of their arrival not being something he liked to think about despite how much time he spent dwelling on it.
Gary nodded, thinking on his next words as he took in his new bro's expression. “My son was 15 when I brought them here. I wasn’t able to help them adjust much, spent the last few years before in space and never really had the kind of life I wanted for them here. But he’s done pretty well. Kids will be kids no matter where they are, as long as they have room to be.”
“Yeah…
The conversation shifted between more drinks and a song that Avocato actually found tolerable. The night drifted past until the last round was called and Gary, now a giggling mess, dragged them out to his car.
“You can’t possibly plan to drive like this.”
“Don’t worry!” he shoved him into the backseat before clambering in after him. “HUE!”
“You know Gary, I am a highly advanced AI made for interstellar battleships,” a robotic voice drawled as the dashboard lit up. “Piloting such an inferior vehicle is not a productive use of my time.”
Gary blew a raspberry. “You wouldn’t be doing anything else any way Hue. Besides look,” he twisted his body so he could pull Avocato closer. “I made a friend,” he drew out the word friend in a breathy way that gave it several extra syllables.
“Yes, I can see that Gary. Good job, you can have a cookie when you get home.”
“Yesh,” he slurred as he slumped his body against Avocato, who smiled at the weird interaction.
“Were is your destination, Gary?”
“Hmm, Brocato,” he grabbed him dramatically. “Are you ready to go on an adventure?”
He smirked. “You got it, baby.”
Avocato woke up to a comfortable but unfamiliar warmth. He curled himself tighter around it and allowed a low rumble to spread through his throat. His half asleep brain thought to stay like this forever. Until he heard a soft gasp from just below his face.
“Bro, are you purring?”
Avocato bolted up straight to stare at the grinning man bellow him. The grinning, naked man below him.
“Fuck,” he ran his hands across his face with a groan as the last night’s events caught up to him.
“Uh, you okay brocato?”
He stared at the blonde before sighing and falling backwards into his pillows. “I was literally inside you less then 8 hours ago, don’t call me bro.”
Gary leaned up on his elbow to look at the clock on the bedside table. “Mm, like 8 hours and 20 minutes ago, actually,” his smile turned smug as Avocato glared at him. He pushed him off the bed.
“What the frick, bro?”
“You were warned,” he closed his eyes and waited with a smirk for the man to start dramatically yelling about betrayal. When it didn’t come though he turned over to find Gary having slid his underwear back on and fishing under the bed for where his pants had fallen. He watched as he shimmied into them with a frown. “That wasn’t meant to kick you out you know.”
Gary turned to him, “Yeah, I know. But Fox should be awake by now and I didn’t exactly tell him I wasn’t coming home last night.” He fished his phone from his pocket, scrolling through his notifications before sliding it to Avocato. “But if you want a round two some other time you could give me your number?” He bit his lip, he wouldn’t be surprised at a rejection.
But Avocato took the phone from him right away. Gary grinned and set himself to search for his shirt. He was pretty sure he had it on when he entered the room. Before he could find it Avocato handed back his phone, and then found his shirt stuck behind the pillows shortly after.
Within an hour he got a text from an unknown number, “the walk of shame is a whole other level of embarrassing when your son spins around in your office chair to ask you where you’ve been.”
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I think im going to go the series route with it. The first part is probably going to be around 30k and I don't feel like splitting it into chapters. And while I was originally thinking 2 big chunks, the other pieces I want don't really flow together well. So a 30k one, then a 10k one, and I'm not sure how long the two after will be (I haven't outlined that far).
I will post it on ao3 eventually probably. Or not. Idk.
I'm keeping it fun and tropey outside of a few angsty story beats. There will be a breakup and then a parent trap but no relationship issues beyond that.
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Whumper 4, caretaker 5 caretaker (doesn't know it's blood)
Is that ok?
Whumper 4: “Let's see what's more important to you. Your dignity, or their safety?” / Caretaker 5: “Let me help you.”
Yeah, of course that's ok :) I'm guessing that the parenthesis was supposed to go before the 'caretaker' and they don't know about the blood? well, I hope that's it because that's what I wrote haha, but if it wasn't, please feel free to send me another ask <3
Also, some content warnings because this one ended up a little intense: implied noncon (didn't mean to write it like that but the vibes are there so), noncon drugging, a very creepy and intimate whumper... there's comfort at the end though!
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Whumpee should’ve known there was something weird about Whumper. No one could smile that big and talk that kindly without wanting something in return. They just never thought it’d be this.
“Come on, now. I don’t have the whole night. What’s your choice?”
All Whumpee does is close their eyes and shake their head, too overwhelmed to force any words out of their quivering lips.
“Whumpee, it’s not a hard one,” Whumper huffs, and they can hear the annoyance in their voice but they can’t convince themself to say the words. “Do you need me to repeat it to you?”
They don’t, the sound of Whumper’s offer still echoes inside their head, loud and clear.
But Whumper takes their silence as agreement.
“Here’s your choice: you can take these pills and be the entertainment of my party tonight, or I can go snatch someone else to do it. You’ll only stay if you agree, and if you don’t, I’ll let you walk away and never see me again. It’d be a shame though, because everything is ready for you. I’ve been watching you, and oh Whumpee, you are just so… perfect. But, in case you say no, I can always go after someone else. Say… Caretaker? I’m told they are a friend of yours.”
Their heart pounds in their ears, so loud Whumpee is almost surprised Whumper can’t hear it too.
“I can go get them if you want me to. Can’t promise they’ll come out in one piece after my guests finish playing, though. Not like I can promise you. You are far too precious to be permanently damaged, you I can promise to keep somewhat safe. Caretaker on the other hand, not so much. Who knows what those troglodytes could do to them if I give them a free pass?”
Whumper’s laugh fills the basement Whumpee woke up in only minutes ago, bouncing off the walls and making Whumpee’s skin crawl. How could they trust the mysterious stranger who offered them a ride? Why hadn’t they been more careful? Now here they are, locked in a basement with someone twice their size and no hope of escape. If only they’d been more careful–
“Well?” Whumper says, drawing Whumpee’s attention back to those narrowed eyes, glinting with cruelty.
“W-what will you do to me?” Whumpee whispers through the thick layer of fear enveloping their world. “If, if I say yes… what then?”
Their smile is almost as horrid as their laughter. Whumpee shrinks against the wall, pulling their knees closer to their chest. “If you say yes my love, the pills will start working in a few minutes. I will give you a nice new outfit while the drugs do their job and then when you are barely able to walk, I’ll help you up the stairs. Everyone will be so happy to see you, Whumpee.” Their eyes burn, but no tears fall when Whumper scoots closer and touches their hair, gentle fingers brushing back sweaty locks. “And then we will have fun. You’ll barely remember it afterward, but I will remember it forever. You might be left with some sore spots but all temporary. Well, almost all temporary, won’t promise one or two marks for you to remember me later. Maybe a few scratches, some of my friends are remarkably fond of knives. But the point here is that you’ll make anything we want you to, and that’s the real fun.”
“And if I say no?”
“If you say no, I’ll go after your friend. Kidnap them, just like I did you. And when they awake, they won’t be given the choice I’m giving you since it wasn’t them I really wanted. I’ll take them upstairs, and we’ll make them hurt. Scream. Cry. Maybe I’ll record it and send it all to you so you know what fate you chose for them. Now, what's your choice, Whumpee? Tell me.”
As they speak terrible word after terrible word, Whumper’s fingers continue to play with Whumpee’s hair. Twisting and brushing and caressing. Always so soft, so awfully soft in comparison to the nightmares they spit into Whumpee’s brain.
“Let's see what's more important to you. Your dignity, or their safety?”
A tear finally escapes, only to be brushed away by Whumper’s touch.
“But don’t worry. If you make the right choice, It won’t be all pain, baby. It’ll be about those big scared eyes and that delightful little quiver on your lip. About how gorgeous you will look when you’re barely able to walk, and how you will cling when you can’t think straight. And I’ll be there the whole time. I’ll take care of you.”
Whumper is right.
In the end, it isn’t a hard choice.
Whumpee closes their eyes and nods at the same time a soft, broken “okay,” slips out of their lips. It doesn’t feel like the lock of a door they were expecting. It feels like taking a step into the void, and knowing there’ll be thorns waiting for them when they fall.
Still, it’s with Caretaker’s smile in their head that they force themself to swallow when two round pills touch their lips. They don’t open their eyes until a bottle of water is held for them to drink from. It is only when there is no more chance for them to break and plead to be let go, even if they want to, desperately, that they let their eyes flutter open.
Whumper is waiting for them with a wide smile when they do.
“Let us begin then.”
And so they do.
Whumper brushes Whumpee’s hair and gently applies makeup to their face. When they ask Whumpee to undress and give them new clothes, they don’t hesitate to obey, and only when Whumper is closing their zipper for them do they realize how faint they feel.
When they are placed in front of a mirror, Whumpee looks at the shiny clothes but forgets what they looked like as soon as they are led away. By the time the door is opened and music first hits their ears, they are leaning against Whumper to keep standing.
They try to climb the stairs. Narrowing their eyes to concentrate, they raise their foot, but the world is filled with blurred colors and too-quick movement, and the only reason they don’t fall is Whumper’s fast hands holding them up.
Whumpee is almost grateful when Whumper chuckles and whispers against their hair. “Easy there, baby. Let me help you.”
They rest their head against Whumper’s heart when they are picked up bridal style, and stay that way until the lighting changes and voices fill the air.
They are placed on the floor, and with Whumper’s help, manage to keep standing, even though the floor refuses to stand still under their feet.
And then there are hands on their hands, squeezing and hurting, and Whumpee tries, they try so hard, but instead of the firm no they want to say, only a moaned “n-hng, I, I, d-don, wha-what’s hap-happe–,” comes out.
And then the world slips away, and though their body still moves, they are barely there anymore to see it.
-
When Caretaker’s doorbell rings, they don’t hesitate to jump out of bed and run to the door. They’ve been sending Whumpee messages all night without response, and concern rings louder than sleep. Only when they open the door and see the sunrise do they realize how early it already is.
And then their gaze slides to the figure leaning against their doorframe, head bowed and shoulders slumped, and their heart misses a beat.
“Whumpee?” Caretaker calls, reaching out their hand.
But before they can touch sparkly clothes they’ve never seen their friend wearing before, Whumpee cowers away. Caretaker retreats, but their heart races even faster.
“Whumpee, what’s wrong? Where were you, did something happen?”
Whumpee looks up, and Caretaker doesn’t need an answer to know what happened. Wide pupils, half-lidded eyes, smudged makeup and parted lips tell them all they need to know.
“Oh, Whumpee.”
There are stains all over their clothes, too. Is it spilled alcohol? Is it vomit?
“Oh, Whumpee,” Caretaker sighs again, taking a slow step in their direction, feeling a sad, involuntary frown settling on their forehead. “What did you do?”
Whumpee follows their steps with their eyes but keeps still. It is only when Caretaker comes close enough for touch and extends their hand that they wince and shrink into themself again.
“Honey, I can see you’re not okay,” Caretaker says as calmly as they can. “Let me help you.”
Another step, and this time all Whumpee does is close their eyes and let out a low whimper. Caretaker sighs again as they help Whumpee wrap their arm around their shoulders and lead them inside.
Whumpee is almost a dead weight in Caretaker’s arms as they help them get into the bathroom, to seat on the toilet and lean back against the wall.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Caretaker asks, crouched down in front of Whumpee.
“I, I, I don– don’t, W-Whum-per. They, they, they did... something.”
“Who’s Whumper, love?”
But all Whumpee does is shake their head no as tears stream down their cheeks.
“Okay, you can tell me later. Can you at least tell me what did you use?”
The look Whumpee gives Caretaker is so utterly lost, that they nearly start crying as well.
“Don’t… kn-know. Pills?”
“How about a shower, and then we talk more, huh?” Caretaker tries, nodding encouragingly. Whumpee swallows, but doesn’t nod along with them. Instead, their eyes dart around the bathroom, searching for nothing.
With a reassuring squeeze on their knee, Caretaker gets into the shower and turns on the faucet. As the water warms up, they take one look at Whumpee’s slumped form and walk over to the mirror.
Clutching the cold porcelain of the sink, Caretaker looks up at their own image in the mirror – tired and disappointed, but also patient. Worried.
“You can do this,” they mouth to themself, “Whumpee needs your help.”
With one last sigh, they turn their head to Whumpee and take a step in their direction. And then a step back, when something grabs their attention at their peripheral vision.
Caretaker stares at their image in the mirror again and feels their heart stop when they see their sleeve stained red. The sleeve where their friend’s arm had just touched.
It isn't alcohol or puke on Whumpee’s clothes.
It is blood.
“Whumpee,” they call, dropping to their knees in front of them. Whumpee jumps and meets Caretaker’s stare with wide, scared eyes. “You are bleeding. Are you hurt? I need you to tell me where you are hurt, Whumpee.”
But all they do is breathe faster and faster, pure helplessness on their face.
“If you can’t tell me, I need to find the source of blood on my own. I’m taking your shirt off, okay?”
Caretaker doesn’t wait for an answer, and Whumpee doesn’t give them one.
They don’t fight Caretaker’s hands when they pull the shirt over their head, even when a pained hiss leaves their lips.
Caretaker holds their breath when they see Whumpee’s bared skin.
Bruises color their entire torso, as well as long crisscrossing welts. Their arms are covered in small, rounded marks that look dreadfully like cigarette burns. Cuts, deep and superficial litter everything, some already closed, some still weeping blood. There’s barely any smooth skin left.
“What happened to you?” Caretaker breathes, searching for answers in Whumpee’s terrified eyes. “Who did this?”
All the answer they get is a soft sob and a cold forehead hitting their shoulder as Whumpee falls forward and nuzzles into their neck.
Caretaker hugs them back, careful not to touch or press on sore skin, feeling their stomach churn when their fingers bump into more cuts along their back.
“I’m here now,” Caretaker whispers against their hair, tears of their own rolling down their cheeks, “I won’t ever let anyone hurt you again, Whumpee. You are safe. You are safe.”
They stay like that until the bathroom is foggy from the warm water falling from the shower and Whumpee’s shoulders stop shaking, but when Caretaker helps them undress and oh-so-carefully cleans the wounds, there’s only drowsiness and chemicals behind the fear in their eyes.
They have no idea what they'll do once Whumpee comes to. Or what they'll do to whoever Whumper is if they get the chance.
-
Prompts from this list. Still taking them but I can't promise how fast I'll write it haha
#whump#whump writing#creepy whumper#intimate whumper#drug whump#noncon drugging#kidnapping whump#vomit mention#noncon touching#caretaking#implied torture#implied noncon#self sacrifice
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you’re somebody else | din x reader
A/N: ahahaha i couldn’t stop getting drawn to this prompt on the list, and since it hasn’t been requested yet i wrote it for me. 💀💀 i’m actually really happy with how this turned out too. 😳
after writing this, the tone/vibe reminded me of a short story i read in my fear and fiction class in high school called Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been? by Joyce Carol Oates which was basically a psychological horror that i want to spoil nothing of, so i implore y’all to read it because i’ve linked a pdf here. 🙏😈
(title is flora cash’s song of the same name which i listened to repeatedly while writing this fic.)
hope you enjoy! 💗
prompt: 10. “who have you become? i don’t know you anymore.”
content: this just might be the darkest thing i’ve ever written, dark!din, haunted!din, tbh the darksaber is a warning all on it’s own, gn!reader, depression, very bad mental spiral (that’s made worse by a semi-supernatural force), implied that din verbally lashes out at reader, kinda a character study, implied Very Bad Things enacted by din 😬
word count: 936
At first, it started slow.
Din passed Grogu over to the Jedi, teary-eyed and breaking, and watched as the elevator doors slid shut like eyelids closing when all the life’s been drawn from the body. The helmet went back on and the mask did too, but no one said anything about that then, not while Cara and Fennec shared smirks at a job well done, not while Bo-Katan silently yearned for the Darksaber in Din’s hand.
Grief took hold next. It filled Din like water poured into a pitcher, until he was only hours of quiet weeping, long sleepless nights, and louder stretches of screaming and punching that left him with a raw throat and gashes on his knuckles. Grief replaced everything then, it replaced time, food, rest, and everything that was Din.
You took the brunt of what was left of Din in the months directly after, painfully accepted everything the angry, broken, sad Mandalorian threw at you by always responding with an “It’s okay, Din” or a “You didn’t mean it”. You rolled with the punches as they landed, told yourself to be patient and considerate, reasoned that Din was hurt, and hurt people hurt people.
In those early months, the sting of Din’s vitriolic words would fade easily, like lemon juice on parchment, which didn’t really make it okay, but it was bearable. Forgivable.
But those were the early months.
In retrospect, you blame two major players for what happened:
One, yourself. You had every single opportunity to stop it while you were ahead, but you were either too unobservant or ignorant to see what was really happening, or (if you’re kinder to yourself) you were also grieving so maybe it wasn’t all too much of a surprise to miss a few things when your heart was also trampled on the floor. And as much as everyone else tells you “It wasn’t your fault” and “No one saw it coming”, you know damn well the red flags were waved in your face time and time again.
It makes you angry, it makes you guilty, it makes you weep.
It all comes down to the second variable:
The Darksaber. It was never a good thing. It was always some ancient evil, fueled by all the blood it’s shed and all the lives it’s taken, masked by the façade (lie) that it made warriors into kings, made verd into Mand’alor. It spoke the tongue of a wronged, hurting people, because there is no other way to ensure absolute control quite like telling white lies and half-truths in all the anger of a Mandalorian.
So it laid it’s seeds in Din the moment it passed from Moff Gideon’s hand.
You didn’t notice then, but Din’s hand held the Darksaber tighter than any of his other weapons.
Months after Grogu is when you started explaining away the shift in Din, how he became different. You excused his gloominess for melancholy. (Din would get this faraway look in his eyes, like he was remembering something terrible.) Told yourself it was part of the healing process that he was angrier, it just made him more... violent than he’d normally be on hunts. (Din beat his bounties to gurgling, bloody pulps.) You would pretend to sleep when he sat awake at night for hours at end just listening to him speak in low Mando’a. (Din was speaking to the Darksaber. It would speak back.)
“Din isn’t dark”, you’d convince yourself when you knew he had done or said something cruel, something heinous, “He’s just upset”.
And it’s true, Din was upset. But not like you thought he was.
It all came crashing down one night, when you started to feel like you could recognize Din anymore.
He was soaked in blood, splattered with it like a child’s painting across his cuirass, his hands completely crimson. (”Din, what happened?”)
The helmet spoke to you first, then it was lifted to reveal a face you that wasn’t his face, not anymore, because that face looked pleased with the murderous handiwork, and those lips spoke your name in an unfamiliar voice, and oh my Maker, Din, the smile didn’t reach your eyes.
They weren’t his anymore.
“Who have you become?” You ask, voice trembling and you can’t stop the cold shiver that goes up your spine, or how your heart sinks to the pit of your stomach, and it makes you focus on the queasiness there and the metallic tang of blood. Din doesn’t say anything, but he gets that faraway look on his face, somehow both coldly distant and shockingly precise, and it terrifies you more than anything ever has. The world stops, Din stares, the Darksaber rests in his hand.
“Cyare, I don’t know what you mean.” He replies and it’s not Din’s voice you hear. It’s lost the gentle timbre, no longer rumbles from his throat like rhythmic white cap waves to a shoreline, no longer the voice that you would hear in loving secrecy, when it was you and Din beneath the sheets, when the night was your sanctuary. No, you no longer hear Din’s voice.
“... I don’t know you anymore.” The whisper hangs in the air like a body from a tree, all dreadful and sickening. The room constricts and falls away, the walls crumbling to the black void of shadows that line the corners and curves of the stranger you once knew, the lover you’ve lost like a childhood toy to the wilderness.
“I don’t know you anymore.” You repeat, staring at the man in front of you, oh what is his name?
What is his name?
#star wars#the mandalorian#star wars din djarin#din djarin x reader#din djarin x you#writing prompts#angst prompts#would it be embarrassing if i drew fanart for this?#my own fan fanfiction?? 💀💀#because i realllyyyy want to
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Hey I love your work and I hope you're having a good day I just wanted to know if you could do a Ateez reaction to finding their wife and new born cuddled together in its crib
Thank you, my day is going well and I hope yours is too <3 AND Awww Ateez as dads though I cant :’(
I wrote this so that you both woke up in the middle of the night and you go check on the baby bc they were crying
Hongjoong:
Pretty much as soon as you said you’d be the one to go check on the kid he’s like zzzzzz
But if you’re gone for more than five minutes his body forces him awake
He just cant sleep right if you’re not there bc it’s like somethings missing
Immediately remembers that you went to soothe your crying baby and heads to the nursery
finds you kneeling on the ground next to the crib
you’d slid the one side of the crib down, and had your arms curled around your baby
your heads were touching just slightly
Joong goes so soft so fast
but he’s also so torn
like he’s got 3 things he wants to do
#1 being that he wants to get the camera to keep this moment forever
#2 he wants total you back to bed because you’ll definitely wake up stiff if you stay there all night
#3 he wants to sit right down next to you and join the family sleepover
so he takes care of the first option, snapping about a thousand pictures from several different angles
and then he resolves to sit with you for a while to enjoy the peace and intimacy of the moment before waking you up so you could head back to bed
Seonghwa:
Ateez as moms edition
every time you offer to be the one to go check on your baby in the middle of the night he feels so bad
like you’re home all the time and must be so exhausted from all the work that newborns take
but you know he’s exhausted from his own work and
to be honest, even if it is tiring, being with your baby is your favorite thing in the whole world (even in the not so fun moments)
But anyway, this time Seonghwa decided that he was going to go with you to the nursery
after a little snack and some soft cooing, the babies were out like a light
Babies? Plural? you may ask... yeah Seonghwa totally fell asleep too
and after a while you’d fall asleep too, leaning comfortably against the side of the crib, your pointer finger being squeezed tightly by your infant
after a while, Seonghwa will wake up just because being on the floor is uncomfortable
but he’ll see you and your baby sleeping so peacefully and he gets a little teary bc he feels like he’s witnessing the most beautiful thing in the world
overly at peace, and when he makes the decision that it’s time to carry you back to bed
he’s so reluctant because he could have honestly stayed there forever
Yunho:
okay Yunho is such father material like they all are but I just get such “he’s gonna be a great dad” vibes from him
BUT ANYWAY
anytime your baby cries at night; it’s like the bat signal for him okay
like Superdad to the rescue!!!
but you always end up needing to go with him bc... I’ll just say your kid can EAT alright
like no matter the gender, they’re gonna be big like their dad okay
usually he leaves you two alone when you’re doing your thing because he gets too soft and he wants to cuddle you guys while your feeding your baby
but your kid’s also definitely got a favorite parent... spoiler alert: it’s Yunho
so he is no longer allowed in the room for feeding time bc the baby won't even pay attention if they see daddy awww
after a little while he comes back in to check on you
could actually explode when he sees you, sitting on the edge of the crib with your head tilted downwards cradling your baby in your arms
and Yunho’s the type to decide he’s bringing you both back to bed with him
and that’s exactly what he’ll do
and he stays up the whole night watching you because he’s too full of love and he can't sleep because of it
Yeosang:
Yeosang as a dad... can you hear me sobbing???? I mean seriously-
so he knows how hard it is for you to parent while he’s at work right?
that means he’s always gonna volunteer to be the one to do certain things when he is home
like even the super unpleasant stuff like diaper changes or if the baby burps up; he’s like I GOT THIS
he tries really hard to be a good father and a good husband at the same time
but sometimes, you tell him it’s okay to let you take care of the unpleasant stuff
so you decided it would be your turn to go check on the baby this time during the regularly scheduled 3am waterworks
but after 3 minutes, Yeosang’s like I GOTTA GO HELP
even if it’s a one person job, he’ll find a way
he’ll walk into the nursery just as you’ve finished swaddling your baby after a diaper change
you’re smiling softly and letting your infant play with your fingers, laughing sweetly every time your baby gurgles with joy
Not wanting to disturb you, but also having an intense need to be a part of the action, he heads towards you
wraps his arms around you from behind and sways you slowly from side to side until you both decide your baby is fast enough asleep that you can retreat back to your own room
San:
I think San is probably the most excited of all of them to be a parent; and again I’m sure all of them would be happy I just get a stronger vibe mkay
so with him, he’s never gonna not get up and check on the baby when they cry
if you hear any noise at all over the baby monitor and start to get up, he’s already running down the hall
like we’ve all seen that he hates waking up but he’d sacrifice his sleep for his kid any day
on the rare occasion that you do beat him to the nursery though, he’d literally be smiling as soon as he saw you
always asks, “How are we?” because he loves to emphasize that you’re a complete family now uwu
“We’re all good, Sannie” is his literal favorite thing to hear
especially if he’s had a bad day, hearing that is really his light at the end of the tunnel
and that combined with the sight of the two loves of his life?
his idea of perfection come to life
could honestly cry about it, he really could
and sometimes he does, he’s just too touched
constantly tells you how grateful he is to have you
I also feel like San is the kind of man to thank you for agreeing to accept a baby into your lives
like you really make all his dreams come true
Mingi:
don't get me started, if the baby cries in the middle of the night he’s like UGH NOT AGAIN
like he loves the little gremlin but homeboy also loves his sleep lmao
totally feels guilty when you get up and go so he pretty much always pulls himself out of bed and practically crawls down the hall to help out
always makes you laugh when he finally makes it and just faceplants into the carpet mumbling, “I did it”
and he’ll look up you through glossy, half-lidded eyes with just the dorkiest smile on his face
literally looks at you and your baby like you’re angels
and, to him, you really are :’)
and he always makes sure you know it
no matter what you guys have to do to get the baby to go back to sleep
he’s gonna be peppering you both with kisses the entire time
will also casually pass out with his head on your shoulder
whenever people ask you how many kids you have, you’re like “two, including my husband”
but that’s okay, he’s always allowed to be your baby
Wooyoung:
literally obsessed with seeing you and your baby together
he’s dramatic about it too, like screaming about how someone needs to put you two in the Louvre and a bunch of cheesy nonsense
but can you really blame him?
and at nighttime, when he’s sleepy, he gets especially soft
and whenever he finds you snuggled up with your newborn he literally squeals and you’re like “SHHHHHHHHHH”
“whoops, my bad”
like no matter the circumstances, you can bet he’s still gonna be loud lmao
but anyway, he tries to be casual about his staring
it doesn't work though and you catch him just totally lost in his head looking at you and your baby
his eyes are so big like have you ever seen the cartoons where hearts like literally come out of someone’s eyes bc that’s Wooyoung
if you have your baby cuddled to your chest, he’s gonna put his head there too
but it’s so cute because you get to hold both of them and he gets to kiss your baby which is his favorite thing to do
Jongho:
okay Jongho is always gonna do that like shy smile, you know the one?
like where he’s so happy that his body cant even get it all out through a smile so he just sits there with his heart going BOOMBOOM
but he’s someone who I bet is kind of quiet in his affections
so he’ll just kind of sit and watch, but not in a creepy way more like in the “I don't want to interrupt” kind of way
but the second you invite him to join in the bonding moment with your baby he. is. THERE.
like to sing to both of you super softly because he’s just cute like that
will sit down with you and lean against the crib and just watch you and your baby slowly fall asleep together
smiling the entire time like that’s what a truly happy man looks like
like he’s so in love with both of you ugh
just makes him think about how he’d literally do anything for you whenever you need it
he’s ready to PROVIDE okay
like he’s got this protective instinct that just intensifies in moments like these but it makes him feel proud of his family
#ateez#ateez fluff#Ateez hongjoong#ateez seonghwa#ateez yunho#ateez yeosang#ateez san#ateez mingi#ateez wooyoung#ateez jongho#fluff#ateez fanfic#fanfic#ateez imagines#imagines#ateez reactions#reactions#ateez scenarios#scenarios
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One more before I go back to work
So I mentioned how I reworked my combat. What things I did to get the vibes I wanted. I go for a while so lets do a read more. Continue if you want DnD babbling.
First of all, I didn’t want to like.. completely change things from the written module because I like having that to work from. But one of the biggest things is the way I run my game, characters level based on milestones instead of XP earned. The way a lot of these dungeons are made is geared for long dungeon crawls with a bunch of low level mobs to go at the pcs and chip away and drain resources and give them XP. However, since I don’t deal XP, this needed to change and I’m kinda kickin myself for taking so damn long.
I wanted more focus to be on my bosses, on more important fights. Earlier I had built up to a big fight that I had pictured to be suuuper cinematic. There was this gigantic thunder bird atop a mountain the pcs had to climb in order to purify an elemental weapon (which I can get into if you folks are interested, lmk). I had set the scene, and the bird had come crashing down onto them. I pulled my punches a little too much and like.. combat came and went like it was nothing. It wasn’t the big epic fight I had pictured, it just... happened?
It sucked! I had spent so much time putting this leg of the adventure together and like it was just another Tuesday to my players basically. I was pretty bummed. This is about when I decided things needed to change.
So flash back to the dungeon we’re currently in. Before meeting Renwick, the party cleared out half of the top floor of the Sacred Stone Monastery, though its more like “cleared out” because they attacked when everyone was asleep (which I mean is smart and a good choice so I’m not gonna chide them) so they didn’t have many fights. This was the session before I changed combat. People were just goin through the motions.
This is the last of the cult strong holds tho. We’re in like... end of the adventure territory and I WANT IT TO FEEL LIKE IT! and going into a room of people with like.. 30 HP is fuckin boring. Like “ooo lets enter combat for 10 minutes uwu” and then loot or whatever. Okay and part of this is because one of the fights that happened in the first session, one of the commanders who’s room was broken into, like this was set up to be a really cool fight. Allow me to put it in your mind:
Dorian (bard/rogue) was checking out the door to her room, didn’t hear anything, so he picked the lock. He opened it a crack, but Hellenrae sleeps with one eye open. The moment she heard her lock open she was awake, and crossed the room to grab him, and pin him to the door asking “What the fuck are you doing in my room”. I can’t remember what he said in response (my b) but her response was “Wrong answer” and she punched him in the face to start combat.
LIKE HOW COOL OF A FUCKING INTRO IS THAT?
AND THEN DORIAN, FUCKING DORIAN, COMES IN WITH A CRIT, DOES 76 OR SOMETHING DAMAGE IN ONE HIT AND PRACTICALLY ONE SHOTS HER.
My dudes to say I was pissed is and understatement and thats when I decided things had to change. I had to roll up my sleeves and rework the rest of the entire dungeon. (It also doesn’t help that this place was like... designed for a party level 8 and the party is level 10 and has two rogues. Fuck me, right?)
First step was deciding how I wanted my combat. I wanted more focus on the big fights, and I wanted them to be more... I guess like video game boss fights? That part was inspired by one of my friends (friends lightly because I haven’t spoken too much with them but STILL I CONSIDER FRIENDS) Rein, who runs their fights like fucking Bloodbourne bosses. After they shared a few stat blocks with me and how they run their combat like. How could I not be inspired?
So I picked the fights from the module I wanted to keep and I beefed them the fuck up and wrote my own lore. Hence Derrek and Marco, from the summary. They were just no name guards. I wanted to give them more purpose and make this fight more intense. I’ll get back to this.
Once I knew the fights I wanted to have, I looked at the like... numerous cultists that were scattered elsewhere. These guys are fodder and like.. if I’m gonna make my fights bigger and more important, I don’t want my
party to waste resources on this small shit. They don’t need xp, so these guys serve zero purpose other that resource drain. So let’s fix that. I still wanted them there, because I wanted the place to feel populated! Tons of empty rooms? BORING! So this is how I’m doing things now:
The PCs walk in, have a DC check basically to see if they clear the room. If they don’t make it, they clear the room but alert people, and if they crit fail, they take damage. If they are being stealthy in their fighting, or are trying to be, I have them roll to see if they make noise. If they succeed they can check out the room, if not they hear reinforcements coming down the hall and we reroll the previous things.
My party seemed to like this so for now this is how we are going to keep going. They said it still felt like they had impact but still wasn’t bothered by going into multiple short initiatives. Plus, the party is level 10 they can dispatch these weenies super easy no need for proper combat.
NOW back to the big combat. Something I took from How To Be A Great GM, was just tell the players the AC they need to hit the enemies right off the bat. This way, instead of doing the “I rolled this do I hit?” its a lot more narrative. “Ok I hit, this is how I do that” and they go on to describe the cool shit their character does. If they don’t hit? I tell them how their blows miss. Much more visual.
Now the dealie with the Quarbo fight. I was like, k let’s think about this man. I decided he’s just some nerd with magic who tricked these two lovers into being his guards but also by tying their essence to his. What I mean by that, is that he was invulnerable as long as his guards lived. Meaning he could toss spells and insults the entire time with cocky bravado because he literally had nothing to fear!
But then his guards died and he was left, squishy and defenceless, after having mocked the party endlessly. Oops.
The rest you can read in my summary but like, ye. That’s that. It wen’t over well, the fight felt so much more epic, and it was exactly how I had imagined. I did do some quick re-writing on the fly because I wanted one guard to live a bit longer than the other for reasons in the summary, so I gave him a hulk mode and added more HP so he could cause some fucking trouble before he went down and honestly it went perfectly.
God even just remembering it... IT FEELS GOOD.
Also being commended for the one liner upon entering the boss arena? It felt SO NICE.
Which is to say, after Quarbo sealed the stairs and the doors, he said “I’d like to welcome you to your tomb.” and like that was just off the cuff. I’m still proud of myself for that.
#this turned out longer than i thought it would#thank u for reading#just dnd things#SFC campaign#DM thoughts
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the eighth hour | ot7
⇢ pairing: hoseok x reader
[other members - namjoon, seokjin, and jimin]
⇢ genre: (long ass) one-shot, angst, partial fluff, thebreakfastclub!au, highschool!au, badboy!hoseok + fosterchild!hoseok, jock!jimin, nerd!namjoon, and seokjin as just your classic seokjin, childhoodfriends!au, friends to enemies to lovers
⇢ word count: 38.1k
⇢ warnings: explicit language, underage marijuana usage, mentions of alcohol, mentions of sex, themes of bullying, themes of depression/anxiety, mentions of mental abuse, cliché high school tropes, mutual pining (as always), homophobic themes, mentions of physical violence, mentions of explicit pictures
⇢ summary: who would have guessed that five separate events could converge into one shared Saturday detention? what emerged as an even bigger, yet pleasing surprise was the bonds that could form despite the contractual bindings of the high school cliques that you, jimin, namjoon, seokjin, and hoseok were assigned to.
♪ playlist: apple juice - jessie reyez • around - niki • ivy - frank ocean • friends - bts • dont you (forget about me - simple minds ♪
a/n: holy shit this was super fun to write!!! i was going to make this a series but instead i just impulse wrote this as a super long one shot. anyway i hope you enjoy! <3 also the playlist really does match the ~vibes~ so i hope y'all give it a listen :)
8:00 - 10:00
You blamed timing. It had been the only scapegoat to somewhat reconcile your seething frustration, though there was always that part of you that scorned your own poorly executed decisions. Maybe if you hadn’t stopped to say hi and discuss something as unimportant as the temperament of the weather with your teacher in passing, or if you didn’t skip your semi-weekly coffee, or if you hadn’t spent as much time inspecting the new flyers pinned onto the bulletin board then you could have avoided this conundrum. Timing, however, was completely out of your control, making it ideal to place blame on. That and the troublesome deviant who had you being held accountable for actions that were not of your own doing.
Jung Hoseok. Your once childhood best friend turned bitter and drifted towards a life of immorality and mild misdemeanors due to his series of unexplained personal calamities.
Even the nonverbal idea of his name had triggered aggressive animosity in you. Well, it felt like hatred; the burn in your chest whenever you thought of him felt like hatred, but you never dug deep enough to figure it out.
It was shocking that you could feel this despise with such severity, but Hoseok had that particular quality about him that seemed to make anything possible, though you could never quite place what that quality was. And of course, your path intersected with his at the exact wrong time and the exact wrong place. That particular quality had drawn a treacherous curiosity to influence you to linger a few seconds too long, another poor decision of yours. To top it off, the exact wrong person had caught you in this perfectly timed and unfortunate situation and convicted you on the grounds of guilt by association to land you a Saturday detention. Mulling over these consecutive misdirections was punishment enough to drag you miserably through the rest of the week; the detention waiting for you at the end of it was simply the cherry on top.
Apprehensive questions had always been your mom’s go-to tick when it came to you. The car ride to school had been flushed with them being that this was your first detention, let alone run-in with authority, in your entire academic career and your annoyance to her queries was more fuel added to the already monstrous fire of regret. This had produced some odd concoction of eagerness to escape this interrogation. Though you had no real desire to start this long day, your mom’s questions were the closest to giving a reason to that.
Your mother pulled up two blocks away from the library where you would be jailed for the next eight hours, and she packed in a few more questions to delay your departure. You and she sat in the car, marinating in the discomfort, waiting for the minutes to tick by until eight o’clock arrived. Your mother looked to you with pity and guilt as if she were delivering you to a slaughterhouse, not aiding to relieve the guilt of your own harbor.
“It’s just detention, Mom. It’s fine.” And you wished you believed it as much as you wanted her to.
“Did I remember to pack the apple?”
“Yes.”
“And the water bottle isn’t leaking anymore, right?” Her worried voice and demeanor had not been subtle in the slightest for this question had been asked about eight minutes ago in this same car ride.
“No, mom.” The bite in your response had warned her to relent her questions.
“Okay, I’ll see you at four.”
“I’ll see you.”
“I love you, ___.”
“Love you.”
Stepping out of that car, finally escaping from the perpetual, suffocating questions had you identifying the crisp Winter air as a comfort. The fog decorating the school’s roof and treetops looked like it wouldn’t recede. It was abhorrent, not being able to get a glimpse of the sun before an epoch of detention stole your last few seconds of freedom.
Your deep inhalations had formed a few puffs of clouds mixing with the surrounding fog, and you began to prepare entry into the penitentiary that others called the library. Your heart had been pounding from the momentum of frustration with your mom’s doting. However, it hadn’t ceased even when you parted ways because of the dread of facing Jung Hoseok once again.
If the thought of his name was enough to send you into a hurricane-like rage, you couldn’t imagine what type of disastrous storm awaited you being confined with him for the next eight hours.
The walk down these couple of blocks was paced intentionally to stall the beginning of this tortuous Saturday. Your strides had slowed substantially as they carried you down the halls of your high school, past the bulletin boards that hammered more guilt upon remembering that was one of the fatal mistakes that led you here, then past the school’s cafe that drilled the regret even deeper in your bones.
As you approached the doors to the library, you gripped the cold handle until it grew warm from your hand. A bit of time to breathe, compose and mask your nerves granted you half an ounce of dignity needed to open the door and step through the threshold. You walked over to the two rows of three desks and exchanged a cordial glance with the school’s renown football star, Park Jimin, seated at the front right table, in a manner that disguised your guilt with indifference. Then, you settled in the seat at the table behind his, finding this the optimal place to draw the least amount of attention.
The quiet boy sitting in the back of the rows had reacted with a noticeable surprise to see your face in this setting. He looked as embarrassed to be here as you felt, however, while you refused to show it, he draped it on his expression with little to no restraint. Both of you did not bother with the formality of a nod or smile, but a simple acknowledgment for the lack of proper acquaintance.
Though you had never had a personal interaction with him, you still knew his name to be Kim Namjoon and that he was characterized by everyone who knew him as the nerdiest kid in school. Quite a cliché, though you had no reason to think he was anything beyond that since his rounded eyeglasses and turtleneck sweater certainly upheld the truth in that stereotype.
The remnants of your intruded sleep felt heavy in your eyes which numbed your endurance to stay awake. Soon after the bothersome exhaustion almost conquered you into a sleep, a disarrayed body had fumbled through the doors snapping the heads of you, Jimin, and Namjoon towards him. He stood in front of the door, glancing back to it as if he were considering a swift escape from the concerned glares and embarrassment of the scene he had just made. And though there had only been three others to witness the progression of him rattling the handles, pushing against it with just enough force to unbalance him, and then nearly tripping into the eyes of his peers, it had been just enough to elicit a sizable amount of anxiety.
“Sorry, the door um…” He gestured towards it then towards the handle, then after bringing that same hand to his head to itch away his nervousness, “the door was jammed.”
None of you sitting in that book-filled jail cell cared, much less wanted to know the reason he barged in to interrupt the silence, but the way he fumbled through his words had been far too interesting and entirely ineffective in dismissing the unwanted attention.
Jimin had found this particularly amusing as he choked down a few laughs as not to raze the other boy’s ego completely, but his efforts had just drawn more awareness that he was laughing at him. The lanky figure with red-tinted ears and cheeks scuttled with a low hanging head to the front table, next to the one Jimin was seated at, without another word as to avoid further demoting his dignity.
Dignity was a funny thing to everyone in the library. It was handled differently by each body during this Saturday detention. Some were trying to protect it, some had paid no mind to tend to it, some (you) were trying to pretend it was undisturbed, and one had felt the weight of his diminishing dignity as no heavier than a feather.
This one, the same one that tormented you with his mere existence, had shoved the door out of his way in a manner of excitement. He strutted through the room to suggest he had some sort of twisted pride to be here and that his dignity fluctuated from the various looks of disgust, annoyance, confusion, and attraction.
Hoseok didn’t offer you more than a glance, although the scan of his eyes could hardly be counted as any sort of acknowledgment. In fact, he glared longer at Namjoon who had done everything in his power to surrender any dominance, already in scarce supply, and appear meek to avoid an altercation with Hoseok.
The other boy, Kim Seokjin, who had previously made a fool of himself, waved at Hoseok expecting to make a quick friend through his naive opportunism. Hoseok responded by lurching forward with his fist raised level with his shoulder in an advancement of hostility. Despite Hoseok being about ten feet away from him and in no realistic position to actually hit him, Seokjin flinched. His juvenile bullying proved to be ineptly humorous to everyone else in the library, except Seokjin who successfully lodged himself deeper in embarrassment.
For some reason, you were agitated that everyone else’s presence but your own was enough to earn his attention. It was beyond reason to want this man’s eyes to meet yours, and yet when it failed to do so, there was an unmistakable disappointment sitting in the place where you wanted Hoseok to look.
You knew it stemmed from the unsatisfied hope that he wouldn’t act like he didn’t know you once, that maybe he’d let the guarded past seep through and guide his eyes to rest on you gently, as they often used to do. But what did that matter? You hated him.
There was some shame that followed how you counted yourself lucky that he sat at the desk right behind you, giving you a perfect trajectory to shoot him a snide look. You hoped it would arouse guilt that he had been the reason you were here and that he couldn’t even present the decency of proper eye contact, though he most likely found it flattering from the way his lower lip slid between his teeth and a twisted grin formed. The quick avert of his wandering eyes had replaced the heat rising in your body with more disappointment.
“Hey, tool.” The voice behind you passed over your head to the target sitting in front of you. Jimin turned back to assure Hoseok was audacious enough to call him that name, “Yeah, I’m talking to you.”
“What do you want, dickhead?” Jimin had been over this conversation before it even began, but he still played into Hoseok’s little game. He too had succumbed to that particular quality of Hoseok’s that had many people wanting to argue with him. Nowadays, it seemed to be the only way to get a bit of his attention.
“Ooh, dickhead.” Hoseok’s low scoff had interrupted him momentarily, and the toss of his feet on top of the desk and lean in his chair drained a bit of suspenseful tension into the air, “Those are big boy words. Someone’s been drinking their big boy juice!” His voice was caked in a sharp taunt that had Jimin’s fists contracting into themselves, leaving crescent-shaped dents in his palms from his fingernails.
“What’s your problem, dude? Just leave me alone. I didn’t even say anything to you.” Turning his body to face away was not nearly enough to evade Hoseok’s mission of infuriating Jimin just for the hell of it.
The boy, layered in a black leather jacket over a red flannel, mounted the desk and jumped onto yours then Jimin’s with a racket of stomps that echoed between the shelves of books. You looked over to the spot on your table where his foot landed, grimacing at the dirt residue of his shoe print and the whiff of nicotine Hoseok left in his wake. Your attention, along with Namjoon’s and Seokjin’s, was soon shifting over to Hoseok who slumped into the chair beside Jimin, all in deep anticipation of what the delinquent would do next.
Your focus was trained on his fingers that pushed through his hair, exposing his forehead, and if you weren’t so invested in his interaction with Jimin, you might have noticed the pesky butterflies flitting around your stomach.
“Can I help you?” Jimin didn’t give Hoseok the satisfaction of another turned head, making Hoseok greedy and frustrated with Jimin’s passive protest.
“I just wanna know…” The glance he shot to you sent shivers through your body, but you knew there was some mischief in this look, “You and princess over there are fucking?”
“What the hell?” These words had escaped from your mouth before you had the chance to fully construct a more dignified response. Jimin looked to you in attempts to apologize on behalf of Hoseok’s foul tongue. Seokjin’s ears had grown into a much deeper red upon hearing these obscenities and Namjoon’s eyes had widened almost as large as his jaw-dropped mouth.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? I don’t even know ___ like that.” Hoseok sat on the desk to face you with a smirk of such arrogance that it riled a combative sneer from your face.
“So, you’re telling me, you’ve never slipped him the tongue, ___? I swear I could cut the sexual tension with a knife.”
“You’re delusional.” Jimin cut in.
“Maybe. I couldn’t be as delusional as you, being concussed probably a hundred times from rolling around in the grass with your football friends.”
“As if a loser like you knows anything about me or my friends!”
“You like rolling around with your brain-dead guy friends?”
“What did you say?” What Hoseok was alluding to hadn’t been a reference to what Jimin perceived it as, though it had gashed against a rather sensitive spot. More so a personal, secretive spot and Jimin sewed his lips shut in fear to push Hoseok any further.
“Shut up, Hoseok! Everyone stop acknowledging him. He just wants attention.” Though what you had said was true, and everyone surely agreed on that, Hoseok had drawn in each of you and had you all completely wrapped around his finger in minutes.
You seemed to be spooled around it the tightest as your eyes were now at war against his piercing glare. A small ten seconds grew into eternity when you were under his gaze and the canopy of memories it seemed to hold, and when it was torn away from you there was a sense of relief and exhilaration tilling through you.
Hoseok would never admit to it, but your eyes had almost faltered his own, almost moved him to an obedience that would have him sitting down at his desk and shutting up. There was a bloated discomfort with his recollection of your power over him, especially uncomfortable with the fact that the years of distance hadn’t diminished it in the slightest. Nor had it given him the time to muster a tolerance against your gleaming eyes. This pushed him to look towards the nerdish boy sitting in the back.
“What about you, nerd? Ever gotten down and dirty? I’m sure you haven’t but maybe ___ could help you out with that.” Namjoon was stiff except for his hands that had been quivering the moment Hoseok began directing his torments towards him. Maybe it wasn’t the hollow comments that had angered you, but the fact that he still wouldn’t find the nobility in himself to face you when he disgraced your name in such explicit ways. Or the fact that each time he failed to meet your eyes, you only felt yourself wrapping tighter around his finger.
“You’re an ass, Hoseok.” Jimin muttered under his breath because part of him was too afraid to address him with full confidence.
“Jealous, meathead?”
“Didn’t you hear ___? No one cares for the bullshit that comes out of your mouth.”
“Yeah, that’s the point. If no one cares, then I can say whatever the hell I want.”
Someone did care, not that he had the mind or attention span to notice how even in hatred, you felt natural to be at his side again. Or rather, in between the crossfires of Hoseok and Jimin’s deafening stare-off. The letterman jacket covering Jimin’s torso had instigated Hoseok to flick the flap of his collar against Jimin’s cheek. He was swift to knock Hoseok’s hand and now his anger gave him the motive to speak louder.
“Don’t start with me again, asshole.”
Hoseok performed a fake shudder in the face of the confidence born in Jimin’s tone. The two have now risen to their feet and inches away from their noses brushing against each other. Jimin’s hands had repositioned into the same fists of enragement while Hoseok called Jimin’s aggression and raised him with his arms folding across his chest. Seokjin’s nails were being fervently trimmed by his teeth and Namjoon shifted to the edge of his seat. It was clear neither of their prideful masculinities would allow for them to subside from this standoff. Who would make the first move, however, had yet to be unraveled and thrilled everyone to oblivion in the dimly lit library.
Again, your eyes couldn’t be ripped from Hoseok and how his white tank top had clung against his heaving chest. The way his cocked eyebrow and ego had the strength of a crazed hurricane, one that swept you up in its winds with no trace of mercy. Still, there was nothing that could peel your eyes away from him, not even the rampant air currents thrashing through the library. Your focus had nearly distracted you from displaying your shameful affinity towards his arrogance and intimidation. Internally, you were sure you would have been salivating profusely with the way your mouth hung open. On the outside, you only stared, leaving the rest of what that meant up to Hoseok’s imagination.
Has it really been long enough to note that his shoulders broadened and his jawline sharpened?
Timing played its incessant role as the overly suspicious Vice Principal Donald Dickson walked in, ridding the library of what could have resulted in bruised eyes and busted knuckles. Jimin and Hoseok sat down upon hearing the tick of the door handle, before the supervisor fully walked through the door and set his eyes on this group of expectant students. A beat of silence clung onto the space between the five of you, now six including the Vice Principal, and Dickson took in the sights of what he perceived were cowardice troublemakers sitting in the desks before him.
“Hello, everyone. You’re here today because you did something wrong. A wrong that needs to be punished. And what better way to do that than wasting away your Saturday?”
His words had been spoken from an embittered tongue, eager to thread more guilt into each one of you. Truly the only thing more distasteful than his mustard colored tie paired with a navy blue collared shirt was his arrogance. In seconds, he squeezed the excess space between the five students, cramming you all, almost unwillingly, into a team against him. The surplus of space, flushed out by his own demean, drifted him further away. He stepped closer to the desk, specifically to the leather-coated boy slouched in his chair and leaned forward intending to tempt Hoseok into picking a fight with him.
“Welcome back, Hoseok.”
Dickson's arrogance began to singe the air, making the space smell rancid as if something had been rotting in this library for months.
“Good to be back, buddy!” His sarcastic chide sat horribly with Dickson, feeling this pet name as a challenge to his authority. And if something as trivial as the word ‘buddy’ stung him so, he couldn’t have been less prepared for the comment about to spill from Hoseok’s mouth, “How ‘bout we go for dinner after this, Donald? Oh, actually never mind. Looks like you’ve been eating enough for the both of us.”
Normally, his empty insults would have passed through Dickson’s head but he had been in a bad mood today. The heckling had sent him right over the edge and gave him the opportunity to take his frustrations out on Hoseok.
“It’s Mr. Dickson to you. And you just earned yourself another Saturday detention.” Said with the slam of his hand against the table. All but Hoseok jumped from the slap that reverberated through the halls. The underlying tactic to put his foot down, or rather his hand down, lost its effect on the one person it was meant for; Hoseok saw this as a reciprocated challenge and was always up for a way to reclaim his domain.
“Don’t be stingy, how ‘bout another one?” Doing the exact opposite of what Dickens wanted, testing his power even more, though to Hoseok his power was nothing more than a pathetic hunger for any sort of authority, something missing from his life outside of work. If bossing around children was the only outlet to feed this obsession, Hoseok saw to it to make this worth his while.
“Fine! You got one!”
“Can’t wait to see you again, babe.”
“That's it! All your Saturdays for the rest of the month are gonna be spent here, with me. You happy now?”
“Over the moon.”
“Hoseok, stop it.” Even though your plea had been a whisper, it was loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. Hoseok snuck a glance to your disapproving face. You’d been surprised to meet his unworried expression, despite arguing with Dickson and sacrificing all his Saturdays for the sake of knocking the vice principal down a few steps on the hierarchical ladder. His attention to you was stolen by Jimin.
“Dude, what are you doing?” Jimin had his head facing down in compliance as if he were setting an example for Hoseok. Just minutes ago, they were at each other’s throats, but Dickson had this vulgarity in his threats that excelled in earning him the title as the most hateable person known to humankind, of a much higher rank than Hoseok, and that forged some unspoken solidarity between all of you. If it hadn’t been for Dickson, Jimin and Hoseok would have broken into an all-out brawl. Instead, it smoothed the dynamic between the two boys to a shielding defense of one another.
“Shut it, Park. Or you’ll get one too.”
It took everything in your willpower to not scoff at Dickson’s insolence. You, personally, had quite a bone to pick with him as he was the exact wrong person that caught you, withheld the opportunity to explain yourself, and unjustly held you responsible for simply being in the vicinity of the crime scene. As much as you hated Hoseok, there had been nothing so compelling of your hatred than Dickson.
“Now, each of you will write an essay.” All five mouths groaned in response to this, “Yeah, yeah. You’ll write an essay whether you like it or not. You will sit here for eight hours, not say a word, not move unless it's to write your essay, and not even think about trying to leave.”
“What if we have to go to the bathroom?” This was a genuine question masked with innocence, however it doubled as a ploy for Namjoon to aggravate Dickson.
“Well, you’ll hold it!”
“Mr. Dickson, you’re definitely supposed to let us go to the bathroom.” You added.
“Even prisoners get to go to the bathroom.” A comparison laid out by Hoseok, quite fitting as Dickson seemed to treat you all lower than the dirt lodged between the ridges of his shoes.
“You don’t tell me what I can or can’t do!” Dickson grew red in the face, a sight for the sore eyes of the five prisoners in this library.
“So, you expect us to hold it all day?” Jimin tossed his own objection in this dispute.
“I expect you to do what I say, or do you three want to join your little friend next Saturday?” Dickson didn’t hold his tongue or restrain the volume of his voice that was barking this unreasonable demand. The wag of his fingers was as if he had truly asserted any real or respectable power over the five of you. Seokjin released the chuckle that had been brewing in his chest ever since Dickson began spouting his hollow threats.
“Something funny, kid?”
Yes, you’re making an ass of yourself, you thought.
“Nope just… thought of something that happened earlier today. Like, way earlier today, uh, a joke! It was funny, so…” Now you were all at the mercy of Dickson’s comical attempt to have students worship him.
Jimin’s head had buried deeper towards his chest to mask the tears forming from holding his laughter behind his teeth, while Namjoon utilized the cover of his hand to fence in his. You and Hoseok had been trading off with noiseless snickers that exhaled as huffs of breath when Dickson had turned his back to check the time.
“It is eight thirty-two. You punks have a good six and a half hours until four comes, so I suggest you take the time to work on your essays. If you don’t finish, you’ll be back here next week to do just that. You’re going to write about what you did wrong, and why it was wrong, along with a long, thoughtful apology for what you did.” Dickson paced back and forth in the front of the desks with the sets of eyes, minus Hoseok’s, following his body. Two things stood with a backless stance in yet another empty threat of Dickson’s. One, there were not any grounds for Dickson to mandate another Saturday detention if the five of you didn’t finish an unrequired essay. Hoseok had the pleasure of pointing out Dickson’s other incorrect claim.
“Seven.”
“What?” One could see the steam pouring from his ears and nostrils as he halted as if Hoseok’s retort acted as a hurdle placed in his path.
“We have seven and a half hours until four.”
“That’s what I said.”
Jimin’s eyes had rolled back at Dickson’s inability to ever admit he was wrong, a trait only painting him into a bigger joke. You shook your head softly because the stillness you were trying to maintain was too overwhelming to handle, and this seemed to ease the second-hand embarrassment raging through you each time Dickson opened his mouth.
“No, you definitely said six. You said ‘you punks have a good six and a half hours until four’. Then Hoseok said ‘seven’ and then you said ‘what’ and then he said ‘we have seven and a half hours until four’ and then you sa-”
“Enough!” Dickson exclaimed.
Seokjin spoke innocently to give a correction to Dickson. His shallow grasp of social cues often had his well-intentioned actions trilling off his tongue with a sting to Dickson’s pride. Though, nothing had done more harm to Dickson’s pride than the prance of his half delusional authority before the eyes of those who had their own reasons for being stuck here. None, however, had been as lewd as the tyrannical reasons that drove Dickson here.
“Watch your tone, kid.”
“Who else heard Dickson say six?” Hoseok asked after raising his hand high, followed by Jimin, Namjoon and you casting your concurring votes. Seokjin’s slow uplift of his hand was soon diverted to play off his affirmation as scratching his head. Hoseok’s smirk bloomed from the majority’s favor with him, and the one effortful but ultimately silenced support of Seokjin.
“Looks like the Is have it!”
“Whatever! I’ll be back to check on you all in a couple hours. No moving from your seats. No talking.” He felt the slight of each of your hands, depleting his once esteemed title of vice principal to a speck of dust that did nothing more than agitate the noses of unimpressed students. The stiffness in all your muscles began to deteriorate from Dickson’s reluctant retreat, having you loosening the clench of your jaw. Watching Dickson wrangle the handle of the broken door before a gruff exit had assisted in soothing your nerves.
Not long after he left, not even a few seconds after the door closed, Hoseok felt an itch for not-so-civil disobedience and scratched a sweet relief to that by walking over to Namjoon, who had been scribbling on the paper that should have been filled with the assigned essay. He snagged the paper from the pencil once being grazed against it and jerked his hand away to evade Namjoon’s attempt at retrieving the stolen item.
Everyone else’s attention had been forthcoming, and all found the contents of Namjoon’s paper much more worthy of their time than the essay was. Hoseok took a second for his own inspection as his lips curved to a quiet grin. Before Namjoon got the chance to explain it, Hoseok cruised along to the front of the room to behold to the rest of you the picture etched onto the paper.
“It looks like we got an artist on our hands.” Though it was heavy with teasing, there had been a cloaked adoration in Hoseok’s word. It was almost as if he were showing Namjoon’s talent off through the guise of badgering. You hadn’t known the man before you in the same way you knew him as a child, yet you still picked up on this through the lilt of his voice.
It dawned on you then; no matter how many years past and how the roads of change diverted you in life-altering directions, there would always be a piece of the inner child in you. Small and fainter than the drop of a pin, but still there. You saw the kind child that Hoseok used to be still rummaging around deep within, trying to find its way to the surface.
Hoseok took notice of your perceptive glare that had differed from the others; your eyes always whispered something more that made him equal parts elusive towards you and troubled that maybe you’d been able to crack open his once impenetrable veil. The crusted formation of his toughened skin soaked in your eyes, making it softer and easier to see through.
“Is that-” Your eyes squinted to focus on the detailing of the drawing, “Is that me?” The simultaneous glares of everyone onto Namjoon had caused a slight perspiration to fog the lens of his glasses.
It was unmistakable, the face and shadowing were a near perfect imitation of yours, but the sharpness of each line exuded a striking tenacity quite the opposite of the demure front you upheld. A tenacity that felt indicative of a desperation for something; to Namjoon, it was clear in your eyes there had been a facet in your life missing which left you feeling robbed. This tore through you like lightning, leaving you to discover the source of what had been robbed of you.
“Looks like I was wrong. The sexual tension wasn’t between meathead and ___, but bookworm and ___.” The blush on your cheeks wasn’t nearly as red as Namjoon’s entire face. “My sincerest apologies, please tell us how you and ___ fell in love. I wanna know every little detail.”
He’d considered various routes of excuses, such as the picture wasn’t of you, or that maybe he’d absentmindedly sketched your features simply because you were in the same room but there would be no avail in either. He knew Hoseok wouldn’t accept that, backing him against the wall of shared curiosity between the other four, so Namjoon resolved that telling the truth was far more becoming of him than protecting the last of his dignity.
“To be fair, I drew almost everyone in the room.” He slipped a few papers from underneath his notebook, accompanied by an exasperated sigh, all depicting his own interpretation on his peers sitting before him. Each one held some unfeigned element of you all, not of intention though also not of coincidence, that drained the multiple facades to ineffectiveness until they were completely impotent. Everyone had gathered around Namjoon’s desk looking for their own picture, and neither Jimin nor Seokjin were prepared to face theirs.
“Yo, this is sick!” Jimin had his portrait between his fingers, eyes scaling the led sketch that accentuated his more flattering features. It was pleasing in the beginning but as he examined with more scrutiny that feeling had been sullied into fear. There had been a glint of worry in the eyes of Jimin’s drawing that had his once excited smile fading into a humbled concern of the growing nuances this small detail suggested. Jimin was just glad everyone else was concentrated on their own portrait so no one would be able to see this unsettling vulnerability strewn into the drawing.
Seokjin’s was a rather accurate paradigm of his eccentric expressions and attitude. To his surprise, this was given a more favorable look to what most people thought were awkward tendencies; it had become the focal point of the portrait as if there had been some unadulterated goodness in his heart that Namjoon seemed to be the only one to see. And below that surface of the painting, there was a tired expression bleeding through the excited one. All at once, his burdens seemed lucid and bare within the positivity intended to circumvent those exact burdens.
“I didn’t know you drew.” Jimin broke the silence with what he believed to be a keen observation. Namjoon found it quite daunting of him to act like this had been some revelation that the rest of you shared.
“Well, you never asked. In fact, I don’t think we’ve ever had a conversation.” There had been an edge ruminating within the words Namjoon spoke that blew through the air and raised a few hairs on Jimin’s neck.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that we’ve been in art class together all year and my art has just now caught you by surprise.” The accusations in his tone shriveled Jimin into a corner of odd mortification for his ignorance of those who didn’t run in his circle. What made matters worse was there could be no proper objection to what Namjoon said, as he looked around to each of your faces trying to recount any memorable interaction with you all. It would be more fitting to call the rest of you strangers than acquaintances, let alone schoolmates, and least of all friends.
“I-” All words had been brushed to a place unworthy of being verbalized.
“Meathead has better things to attend to than talking to us lowlifes, Namjoon.” Hoseok cut off Jimin’s already lost train of thought.
You and the four others were now positioned in a circle, though some sitting on the floor and others finding a seat on top of the desks, you were all in this circle, together. The outside world had given you all the freedom to choose who you talked to, what kinds of people you associated with. Perhaps too much freedom that amounted in severed connections and missed opportunities to meet those who might serve as beneficial to your life. However in this room, in the crowded library which held that freedom from you all and granted you an even better gift of contingency, there had been an irresistible gravitation to seek entertainment through each other and learn what would have gone unlearned if not for the five different mishaps that led the five individuals to this room.
“I never said you were a lowlife!”
“Oh, but you were thinking it. Admit it.”
“Are you ever going to stop talking?”
“Are you ever going to stop using the entire bottle of Axe body spray or do you want us to lose our sense of smell?” Namjoon and Seokjin were more humored by this comment than you had been. Not because you didn’t find it funny, and it was all too true to foster any denial from Jimin and anyone in a ten foot radius of the boy, but because you kept busy wondering how the transition of the once sweet-tongued Hoseok had developed him to acquire such a thirst for belittlement. Or perhaps, why he had undergone this caustic transformation.
“Oh, like you’d ever be caught with me or Jimin at one of your parties with all your hoodlum friends.” You shot him this retort aspiring to sour his praise from the two other boys.
“You wanna party with me, sweetness? I think I can arrange that.” It was surprising, the sarcastic offer, and it suggested that he wasn't the one who initiated the drift of your friendship. That had struck some chord with you because you were certain it was all his doing, and subsequently cleared your tongue of a witty retort that would shut him up. He shifted from his crossed legged pose to dangle his legs from the end of the table that sat behind where your back had been. The tip of his foot had nudged against your shoulder blade in a tease to which you hastily swat his dark boot away.
“Fuck off, Hoseok.”
“You’re the one who brought it up! Don’t be shy, I’d love to see you get plastered with me and my, as you call it, hoodlum friends.” He had been a few more light kicks away from you landing your hand against the side of his cheek. To his luck, your resolve had kept your hands folded in your lap.
“In your dreams.”
“I’d party with you!” Seokjin’s idealism had interrupted your exchange with Hoseok as his eyes, now raked with astonishment, moved to the boy sitting diagonally from himself.
“I'm sorry, did you say something?” Hoseok asked. Jimin’s fingers pinched the bridge of his nose while you had surrendered to the foot still digging into your upper back to turn towards Seokjin as well.
“Um, just that I’d hang out with you.” A bit of regret had a stutter leaking through his words.
“I wouldn't want to interrupt your bible study with my hoodlum parties.” Thickly layered sarcasm was just another social cue Seokjin was wholesomely unaware of, or perhaps he’d caught onto Hoseok’s aim to insult but didn’t care about it as much as you and the others had.
“I’m not even religious and I can handle parties! I’ve been to lots of parties.” He had fooled no one in the library with that statement. Seokjin’s volume had tapered off towards the end, filling the quiet of his voice with even more regret. There was a force out of his control that had him spewing the first thoughts that popped into his head through an unfiltered mouth.
“Bud, you are the human embodiment of an unwanted boner. Stiff? Yes. Annoying? Check! Something no one wants at their parties let alone in their pants? One hundred percent.” The rest of you, but mostly Jimin, had given up on taking the high road. This was made obvious to Seokjin and Hoseok through the contagious laughter afflicting the three of you, and even Seokjin couldn’t resist the smile tugging at the ends of his lips.
“Hey Hoseok, come look.” Namjoon’s beckon was said seconds before a few more taps of his pencil against the paper. It wasn't in his nature to call out to someone like Hoseok, but the need for him to face his painting had given his words the momentum to be spoken.
His approach had been a bit too unsuspecting; he didn’t think to craft a strong guard for seeing his portrait that he’d been waiting for. That had been a grave mistake.
Hoseok stared at the page as if he had seen a ghost. Though it was not one of an unfamiliar face, the apparition had been the mirror image of him. With the glide of his pencil, Namjoon haunted the man with the impenetrable veil to a state of uncharacteristic lethargy. You were sitting right behind him, giving you the perfect vantage point to witness the picture of a man being stripped from his conceit. In the drawing, he was crying. This had nearly gone unnoticed from the obstruction of your vision by his shoulder.
Nearly, but it was the first detail that caught your eye. It was eerily familiar, like Deja-vu. Even if the others were to see it, they wouldn’t have distinguished how this had illustrated a portrayal awfully close to the innocence of a younger Hoseok, of which only you had been acquainted with, and he immediately crumpled it to a ball before you were able to collect any more of the details to your memory.
“What kind of shit are you trying to pull, huh?” His demanding question stripped the lighthearted atmosphere from the room. The cuff of Namjoon’s turtleneck joined the shriveled paper in his hand as Hoseok yanked him to a weak stand and an even weaker defense.
Jimin compensated for Namjoon’s frailty with a firm grasp on both of Hoseok’s arms followed by pulling him away to stop what could have been a brutal beating. The paper had fallen from Hoseok’s hand which went unseen because he was struggling to free himself from Jimin’s strong grasp, which was cultivated through his athleticism.
“Bro, calm down!”
“Hoseok, stop being like that!” Your voice had his scowl now directing towards you, still maintaining the weathered clutch on your heart. There was no ambiguity in fear. One thing often scarce in Hoseok's eyes, but you saw it then. You knew his anger wasn’t of shallow disliking to the picture, but what it exposed of him that he was trying so desperately to mask.
Seokjin had taken it upon himself to see what triggered the fumed reaction from Hoseok by picking up the paper and stretching out the wrinkles enough for proper inspection. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion as to why Hoseok would waste his temper on something as trivial as a few fictitious tears. With one more thrust of Hoseok’s shoulder, he escaped Jimin’s distracted hold and swiped the paper from Seokjin before anyone else had the chance to see it.
Hoseok wished you hadn’t seen it, as well as the other boy. The troubling fear in the painting, and how it reflected that particular quality onto him, though in an entirely new light. He wished it were gentler, the reflection; he wished it didn’t cut deep enough to carry a brutalizing truth. He wished it wasn't a reflection at all, that instead it was a misjudgment or an oversight. And he had no idea you saw past what Seokjin saw as just penciled tears on a paper. His shields of iron and skin were in no position to stand against your eyes.
They never were.
“What the fuck are you looking at, freak?”
“Hobi, don’t call him that.”
And with the utterance of the long-abandoned nickname, Hobi, it had sparked a sequence of memories to rattle through Hoseok’s mind. He was collapsing into himself, into the memories of you and your voice possessing exclusivity to the nickname that held a sentiment of which he’d almost forgotten. The scenes had tranquilized his boiling fury to a light simmer. Such nostalgia had that effect on his mind, as well as expelling the surroundings of the library from each of his senses and replacing them with sweet, untouched memories.
The fragrance of fresh linen and lemon crowded his nose, the same way it would when he would walk into the comfort of your home. Long ago, when his arrival required no invitation, but was an expected, weekly affair. And during tough times, it grew in frequency.
His nose would grow to associate the smells of linen and lemon with your home of pure safety, then into the arms of your mother whose delight had gone almost unmatched when she saw him. However, it never surmounted the ripples of joy you would feel when you were greeted with his arrival, and you believed you would never have to miss that feeling. This scent sailed him into the tragically estranged feeling of safety, now a malicious craving for it to return pooled in his chest; missing the feeling of safety he once had with you almost hurt more than the actual absence of it.
Though he wondered if it truly was the nickname ‘Hobi’ that swept him in a melancholic reminiscence, or the stark smell of fresh linen and lemon invading his nose. He wondered why it was that no other person had ever made him remember such insignificant details of his past that were too good to hold onto. He wondered if it really were the nostalgic scents and nickname, rather than the person who they reminded him of; all the good, safe things that left with you and your budding friendship.
The muffled voices of those around him were just enough to crack through the tent of reminiscence.
“It’s okay to cry, Hoseok. We all know you just act tough but inside you care about what others think just as much as the rest of us.” That comment had been restitution for Hoseok’s previous jab at Jimin’s body spray misusage.
“Yeah, I cry all the time! Just the other day-” Seokjin chimed with agility from the quickly fading regret.
“Please stop talking. Please don’t make me punch you.” Jimin’s interruptive threat crammed back the thoughtless anecdote about to spill from Seokjin’s mouth.
“Wait, I’d actually like to see that. Seokjin, keep going.” To Namjoon, the idea of a boyish fight between the two sounded far more entertaining than whatever story Jimin had stopped Seokjin from sharing. “Why are you so afraid of crying anyway?”
“Yeah why?”
“Tell us, Hoseok.”
Consecutive questions such as these held a violence equivalent to assault in Hoseok's mind. He’d been cornered, his eyes that once couldn't bear to rest on you before now seemed to plead with yours for a salve from these bombardments. And you couldn’t tell if you hated him or the fact that with one look, he had winded you tighter around his finger.
“Hoseok is just mad because he cried during Marley and Me.” You said, quick to scavenge for a decent distraction. Your memory of watching this movie with him about ten years ago had been far too riveting to keep to yourself.
In fact, you rationed it positively selfish to hoard something as enthralling as Jung Hoseok crying real tears, not like the ones on Namjoon’s drawing. And part of you, part of him too, knew this was done in favor of Hoseok to misdirect the rest of them from the actual root of his anger. Exploring the soul-bearing secrets he kept hidden beneath his thick skin was a venture overwhelmed by terror and discomfort. You felt this through that look glazing his eyes, and figured the Marley and Me incident was a worthy sacrifice to protect something far too fragile to tread on. The four of you were now swimming through a lake of laughter as Hoseok tried to suppress his annoyance, and especially his gratefulness to what you had done for him.
It began then, the struggle. He found the constant maintenance of keeping his skin intact over his heart forfeiting to your offer of kindness. As much as he tried to press the skin back onto himself, it would shed almost a bit too easily.
“What kind of heartless monster doesn’t cry at a dying dog? You’re all insufferable.” Hoseok stood up, turning away from the belly-aching giggles still erupting from you and the other three, “And I was eight years old. And ___ cried harder.” His trudge to the back of the room, away from the commotion of the drawings, was gorged in a strange distrust.
There was the possibility he had spilled one too many secrets with his long, catatonic silence after the way you called him that name. How you all had established a comfort to open yourselves to a partially amiable conversation together and that Hoseok felt like he was the one standing on the outside looking in.
Thus, leaving Hoseok feeling betrayed, distrustful, and fumbling over where to place the blame.
With himself, the full-fledged outing of his feelings that were ripped from his chest by his own hand without the consent of his mind. It felt unlawful, like he was unwillingly breaking his own rules. Or perhaps blame lied with the people who took one look at his leather jacket and paid zero caution when shedding a few layers of the deceitful front of his skin. What was left was the outer shell, the once impenetrable veil lying on the floor, and a man without his protective skin, open and raw and sensitive, though scared of vulnerability above all else.
The rest of you followed suit to return to your empty chairs, ignoring how the air was damp with a complex rigidity that none of you felt equipped to handle. No one, least of all you, had been sure of what to do with the discomfort that sterilized the air with nothing but the sounds of five syncopated breaths, longing for some release of this silent torture.
You were sure of two things.
First, you hated Hoseok and he showed his reciprocation of that through the flipped middle finger when you braved a glance back to him. Second, you concluded that the reasons pillaring your hatred for him had changed within two of the eight hours in this library. It was astounding, torn between being impressive and pathetic the way he’d roped you back into the sentiment of the young, inseparable children residing in the darker caverns of your hearts.
The younger you that handed him a tissue and a shoulder to lean on, a gift of nothing close to judgement, when you had seen him crying at that sad movie. The younger him that in many ways held a strapping debt over your head for rescuing you from numerous bullies throughout elementary and middle school and a long spell of loneliness from your lack of friends in your younger years. The two mellow hearted friends attached at the hip, and the heart, that skipped along the steps of life as if misery and loneliness were nightmares lived out by those who didn’t have a person like Hoseok in their lives. They were locked away for quite some time and remained that way due to the abundance of freedom that this library had suspended.
Because in the library, you couldn't run or hide.
Hoseok was sure of one thing, and one thing only. It was far clearer than the tainted air of the library along with the fogged arena of the outside world, and brighter than the way your eyes still outshined the shadow of his own pain; the irrefutability was beyond the depths of the ocean.
His heart had been broken, pulverized to a dust, for far too long and it was because of how dearly he missed you and the safety that accompanied you.
If you looked closely, you could see past his skin to his bones and all the secrets and scars carved in them.
10:00 - 12:00
Timing. What you thought was an incarnation of the devil itself, seemed to torture you through today like it had a personal agenda against you. The five students and their endurance of boredom had been eroded from the minutes that felt like hours and the confiscated cell phones leaving you all to the devices of screenless misery.
The silence continued stalking the air, still just as heavy and nuanced as before. You wondered why the quiet didn’t feel all that quiet. In turn, it was nothing less than an earthy rumble at this point, like the ground was ready to shake and knock every book from the shelves around you. Every time your eyes would meet with another one of your peers, they’d be instantly veered with a quick glance towards the ceiling or down at the blank papers sitting on the desks before them. Hoseok fell asleep long before you had the chance to read the hints of his mind that were lightly seasoned in his eyes, that seemed to have a way of avoiding you today.
Still without some of his skin, and now the loss of his dignity joined. Because of that, he was tired and needed to sleep. It had more or less been Hoseok’s melodramatic efforts to recoup for the loss that put him in a moped mood; you not being in his life was the little secret that fringed his heart far worse than Namjoon’s portrait.
Maybe if you would have let him know that yours and the others’ dignities had been left at the broken door of the library then he wouldn’t be as mortified. At the time, you didn’t feel like it had been your job to do so which was retrospectively an all too uncompassionate choice. A bad choice. Far worse than the ones you made to lead you to detention.
Seokjin and Jimin had been tossing crumpled pieces of binder paper and shooting them in the trash can with high spirits, the heavy boredom of detention being cut through by their makeshift basketball game.
“That's fifteen.” A gloat followed Jimin’s victorious fist shaking but soon to be shut down by Namjoon.
“No, that was fourteen.” He held the paper where two sets of tallies were marked side by side under the initials J and S.
“What? I was counting too and that was fifteen!”
“Ha! Read it and weep.” Seokjin teased.
“Jin, shut up! You've made like three.”
Namjoon checked the paper and confirmed Jimin’s rebuttal with a thumbs up. Your resting head on the palm of your hand shook with laughter at the scowl plastered across the boy's face, which had made a habit of blushing a bright red in regret of his comments.
Seokjin said nothing to this, instead proceeded to crumple four more pieces of paper now encased in his hand.
“Well now it's gonna be seven.” He had made this claim a bit too soon after the sling of his arm amounted to all four paper balls bouncing off the rim of the trash can and scattering onto the floor. Having all three of you laugh broke the fourth boy’s slumber, but he went about it calm. Hoseok’s eyes opened, quiet and slow, and none of you noticed he had regained his consciousness.
Dickson’s return had hushed the last bit of laughter along with the surprising enjoyment circulating through the third hour of detention. This time, Dickson was mindful of your collective vendetta against him which was why he had been armored with even more aggression than the last time. The mix of you four riding off the delights of playing with the little entertainment made available and Dickson’s heavily loaded disdain would make for quite a reactive outcome. There had been a lewd displeasure of finding littered papers along the floor adding to his frustration.
“Which one of you imbeciles were tossing around paper balls when you should have been writing your essays?” The unresponsive silence pushed him over the edge of annoyance, “Well?”
His earth-shattering holler had fully awoken Hoseok who joined the unconcerned teens in this noiseless stare off. A yell or a whisper wouldn’t have made a difference by the means of intimidation since none of you could take seriously a man who missed the step of re-zipping his fly after going to the bathroom. The five of you were urged to point it out, though none of you felt the need to bury him even lower in all of your regards; he did that quite adequately and consistently on his own.
“We all just really want to do well on our essays! What you call paper balls were the triumphant efforts of remorseful students, sir.” Any resistance to Hoseok’s humorous antagonizations towards Dickson were depleted by the second round of his arrival. Namjoon demonstrated his agreeance with a snide head nod joined by Jimin who also nodded some proof to Hoseok’s lie.
“Really? Is that true, Seokjin?”
“Yes, we all just want to better ourselves, sir.” Singling the evidently weakest willed student did not go over the way Dickson had hoped. He stood by Hoseok’s lie even if he couldn't bring himself to make eye contact with Dickson. There had been some unknown element of surprise that had Seokjin just a few steps ahead of Dickson and a few steps behind the rest of you. Still, he was far ahead of Dickson, whose temper seemed to be strained.
“What about you ___, any thoughts?” He asked you this as if there was any evidence for his disbelief. And he was right of course, to be disbelieving, but the derogation of his voice did render his correct assumptions as nothing short of foolish dictatorship. Again, there was space. It was the five of you, a dividing space, and then Dickson.
Space is meant to be empty, or it is not space at all, and Dickson’s unwelcomed invasion into it had made him the target of five unrelenting students.
“My English teacher says writing multiple drafts before turning in the final product is a clear-cut way to do well on essays.” Your eyes weren't level with his. They had been glancing back and forth from the desk to the unzipped fly of his pants that were now unfortunately a foot too close in your peripherals. Provided you had nothing to lose, maybe another one of your Saturdays, but even that seemed to be worth pointing the zip, or lack thereof, of his pants. “Sir, your fly is down.”
He hastily corrected this and his authority had been running too thin from the jabs sent his way, diluting any call to action he made into a watered down whine. It wasn't enough to spread over himself or each of you, making his second retreat taking place faster than the one before. On his way out, he tossed three out of four of the papers in the trash and kept one to inspect. There was no draft of an essay written on the paper, and for once he was right and it felt awful.
You would have felt bad, but no one could empathize with his fatal arrogance.
“You kids are a piece of work. I don't get paid enough for this shit. You better be done with these essays by the end or I swear.” And he didn’t finish whatever he was about to say before walking out of the library, hurried and belittled. Jimin was, of course, the first one to burst through the silence with giggles and the sound had doubled, tripled, and so on until all of you had been absorbed in a fit of laughter. Even Hoseok released a smirky chuckle, and felt attuned with you, Namjoon, Seokjin, and Jimin.
For lack of skin, one could assume. Or maybe he genuinely liked the way he felt around you and those who were on this team that was too diverse to give a definite label.
“___, I can’t believe you actually said it. God, I was going to but I thought he would have cried.” Jimin pushed out this appraisal through gasping for air.
“I couldn’t help it. It was right in front of my face! I think I have to go wash my eyes out.” You were rubbing your temples to massage away the increasing disgust upon picturing it.
“If anything, I thought Seokjin would’ve been the one to do it.” Namjoon said, keeping busy with another illustration.
“Nah, ___ handled that perfectly.” Jimin managed to level his breath by now.
“I wonder if your bite is as big as your bark.” Hoseok said, just to get another one of those annoyed glares, which seemed to be the only way he knew how to get your attention now. His affluence of communicating, especially to you, has been sloping off to quite elementary levels. Still, he did what he could.
“You wanna find out?” Your voice insinuating you wouldn't falter to his bereavements. Your eyes looked back to the smirk of satisfaction painted over his face, boiling a bit of frustration in your chest. Mostly, frustration with yourself for finding your eyes trailing along the length of his admittedly handsome face. Frustrated that, no matter how insufferable he was, you were undeniably attracted to him which made you struggle to suppress your own smile.
“Guys, look.” Namjoon held up a stick figure sketch of Dickson. It wasn’t nearly eligible to be considered a sophisticated piece or technically accurate to Dickson’s appearance. Though the elementary style of it had a stronger sense of accuracy than any proper portrait of Dickson would have. The grimace of the stick-figured Dickson and the detailed pants that included a dropped fly upstaged whatever ornate cross-hatched or contoured lines that had been applied to the four of your drawings.
“You have a talent, you gotta give me some lessons sometime.” It felt like Jimin meant more of this. Perhaps he had been referring to what Namjoon had said before. As if he were realizing his range of friends left Jimin destitute in the terms of social circles and in some way, Namjoon had been entirely unique from anyone he’d ever met. He didn’t want to be another cart in a train of unexpanded minds due to a case of the status quo.
Namjoon was alluring, to put it simply. Outside of his long undisturbed comfort zone.
“Well, you haven’t seen my art skills. I like to call myself the Van Gogh of our high school.” Seokjin did nothing but embarrass himself, but it had a normalcy you and the rest had grown used to. Now it was not just expected of him but looked forward to. Things were changing before the eyes of the five different faces with five different stories. Changing, yet at the same time, feeling as if things had been returning.
“Yeah, all you have to do now is cut off your ear!” Namjoon said sarcastically.
More laughter, more good feelings poured into the library that once felt nothing more than a temporary, barren jail cell and a source of guilt and boredom. It was full now. Full of something much warmer than before.
You were looking at Hoseok, now with a little less hatred. Seeing him smiling, laughing even, had softened your hatred to something else. It was still painful, and just as hard to identify as that particular quality of his. Whatever blame you directed towards him hadn’t been as hampering as this new feeling you got when you looked at him. He felt your gaze, louder than the chime of a bell, and wondered if he had shed enough skin yet to look back at you. To be filled with fresh linen and lemon and all the pieces of safety latched onto the exchange of glances that were not of the seniors in high school, but the childhood friends that long ago shared one heart.
Sadly, he didn't look to you, not yet. Not when he felt unready and unaccustomed to the ripe, underlying skin covering him now. He couldn't be brave enough to risk disappointing you with how his gaze might not have measured up to how sorry he felt for being the loose cannon in your life.
You looked at the clock that read it was twenty-two minutes until the third hour of detention. Watching time tick by had proven to slow it nearly to a full stop, so you took to the sights displayed by the library window. The fog was still heavy, trading the perimeter of the parking lot with thick invisibility. Somehow, you had acclimated to the unseen sectors of what was within the fog. You couldn’t see through it, all you could truly see was fog, but that was not as pronounced as what you felt and what you knew. There was, without a doubt, something beyond the fog; that was what you knew. And what you felt was consoled in knowing there was surely something, anything beyond the fog, thus leading your eyes to Hoseok, again. You looked at him, right at his face, at his thin skin, and knew there was something beyond the fog.
“Stop leaning against the table, you’re gonna knock it down.” Namjoon had been referring to the tower of dusty books gone unread for a considerable amount of time for anyone, even the librarian, to notice they were missing.
What, you wondered, could be more captivating than the mysteries hidden between the fog? To Jimin, Namjoon, and Seokjin, the antics of stacking books was that and more. There were about ten, maybe thirteen books piling taller than Namjoon. Though it had the advantage of resting on the already raised table, it was still admittedly impressive since Namjoon was on the taller side. Jimin stood on the table with arms flattened and extended to steady his balance and to still his body from any shaking that could derail their handy work.
“Yeah, Jin, stop leaning.” What Hoseok said was clean of genuine concern, made clear from how he’d bumped the table with his knee causing the pile to teeter side to side, yet not enough to actually knock it down. The other three boys held their hands toward the books as if the gesture would have actually saved it from toppling over.
“___, come over and help us steady the books! Hurry!” Seokjin’s request had you rushing over try and balance the stack wobbling nearly to a complete collapse.
“Do you guys wanna do something actually fun?”
If not for the almost bewitching inflection of Hoseok’s question, you would have maintained focus on keeping these towering books from falling. Though, he spoke with an implication that he possessed something that would whisk you away from boredom and you were still, a bit less unapologetically, reeled tight around his finger. So, your attention was spent on Hoseok until there was no more. Same with the others. All four eyes tossing an unrestrained marvel in place of a verbal answer to his question. The vigilant silence was enough to have Hoseok’s hand digging in the pocket of his leather jacket and pulling out a neatly rolled joint.
“No fucking way, we can’t do that in here… Right?” Although he wanted to sound doubtful, repulsed by the stick of weed between Hoseok's fingers, the question threaded along the end of Jimin’s doubt had a faint enthusiasm.
“Dickson’s stupid. We can just tell him it was a skunk.”
“I think we should really evaluate our actions before we do them.” By we, he really meant Hoseok. Seokjin tried to act in place of a sort of parental guidance, though he knew now how unlikely his influence would take effect.
“You’re right. Let’s see.” He paused and inspected the joint pinched between his fingers, “I’m bored, in fact, we’re all bored. I have weed, I want to get high, being high is fun. My evaluation says we should definitely get high.” Mocking the frail advice from Seokjin, Hoseok evaded the logic behind what the other boy had presented with yet another sarcastic remark. No one else argued, even those who were strongly opposed to drug usage, because there would clearly be no avail in discouraging Hoseok. Not to mention, deep down, all your inexperienced hearts had a slight curiosity for the coveted thing in Hoseok’s hand.
“That’s hardly an adequate evaluation, Hoseok.” Namjoon said, though he was already crawling with a rising inclination since a much less favorable boredom would have tormented him if he declined the offer. Jimin, Seokjin, and Namjoon drove through the traffic of worries and doubts and arrived at the destination where Hoseok was impatiently waiting.
“Fine, then I guess I’ll just enjoy this by myself then.”
“Wait! I’ll- um, I’ll go.” Jimin said and it was enough for Namjoon and Seokjin to admit defeat to their desires. Football season had not begun yet, neither the periodic drug tests, and there was a growing stress looming over them all that could be displaced by getting high.
The only one still fraught with a neurotic hesitation and clinging opposition that pushed back from the cohorts all in agreement was you. Marijuana had always deterred your fascination, even though you knew it was on the safer side of most drugs, and your virgin lungs feared it in the same way your stomach feared alcohol and your heart once feared Hoseok’s return in it. However, Hoseok had slithered his way back into your life and that wasn’t scary in the slightest. It was exciting and comforting, even, to be graced with his return and it made you question what else you had been missing out on.
“Alright. Dickson usually falls asleep around now because he gets tired after eating lunch. God, I hate that I know that. Anyway, this gives us the chance to sneak out to the second-floor bathrooms where there aren’t any fire detectors.”
The timing of his plan mapped out a perfect escape, however timing was never one to do you any favors.
As the others snuck past the ajar door to Dickson’s office, inside the vice principal was sure enough sound asleep, you remained in the library and watched the others, one by one, throw all caution to the wind. Hoseok’s stalled exit from the room was ushering you to a state of indecisive pacing. It was clear he was waiting for you, though Namjoon’s, Jimin’s, and Seokjin’s company would satisfy the quota for a proper smoking circle.
“You don’t have to come if you don't want to. The offer still stands either way.” He spoke tentatively and his eyes were habitually resting on anything, your hands, your chin, your lips, the floor, and even the fogged window, but not your eyes. He could resist the magnetism of your eyes because he felt like he needed to, but surrendered to the way his feet carried him a few steps closer to you. Enough steps to work a fast beating into your heart.
“I’m not going to pressure you. I wouldn’t do that, you know?”
You knew he meant this genuinely. The only thing thus far that came out of his mouth without the stain of sarcasm. It was because of how genuine he sounded that made the rattle between your bones far more feverish than the shallow, meaningless jabs he’d made to and about you during today.
Why does it hurt when you talk softly? Why does what should feel like soft fleece burn like the friction of gravel against my skin?
You branded these questions in the eyes unseen by Hoseok. It aches to know that you hated him all this time, and you just now realized his soft spoken voice had been reigned by you. Softly, like the inner child begging to be liberated from Hoseok’s protective skin. Softly, like when he said he wouldn’t do that to you, it came from a place in his heart ten years in the making and reserved wholly by you.
“I just…” His steps hushed you. The proximity of his body to yours had placed you in the eye of the hurricane, where it was quiet and calm and even softer than his voice. He radiated an energy that reminded you of something strong that was tired of being strong and on the verge of withering away; like a tall, old oak tree. Mighty, beaten down from the weather, and readying to lay in its tomb.
You always were able to admit he was attractive. Anyone with functioning eyes could see that. The delicious sharpness of his facial features made for quite a face to look at. He was damn near perfect. But when did he become so beautiful? How did his sharp features soften to become delicate and lovely? The duality of this man was flexible, ranging from rough edges to rounded, gentle surfaces.
You believed his approach was to lead his quiet, soft voice to your ears because one had to be close - very close - for another to hear such a gentle tone. But he wouldn’t have achieved such closeness if it weren’t for the fortitude of longing and the smell of fresh linen and lemon that emigrated from you. Nor the gentleness of his voice could have been procured if the other three were still here. When it was just you, there was no reason to be anything but honest and gentle and close. Resistance was now undone by being with you and the timing of it all. It was peeling away more of Hoseok’s skin down to the bone and he allowed you to do this. Finding a place, the library, with someone, you, filled the hollow chasm of his chest with an oasis one could only classify as safety.
I want you to stay here with me.
Wherever that thought surfaced from, whether it be the spirit of a younger you or the sentiment of the current you, it was too real to keep from choking back a few tears.
“___, I-” Before the words of an unbarred tongue expressed how he wanted to admit he missed you and lay out every reason for pushing you away in order to annul all the pain he caused both you and himself, Seokjin had peaked his head through the door quite similarly to the frantic way he previously exited it.
“Hey, are you guys coming or what?” His urgent whisper had melted the overwhelming feelings being exchanged through silent pauses and simultaneously reconstructed the wall that severed your friendship, or whatever you had with Hoseok.
“___, you’re not coming?” Seokjin sounded friendly in his disappointment. If it weren't for the fact that what he was referring to was smoking pot then you would have joined simply because his tone had flipped into a sweet, inviting plea.
“No, sorry. I think I’m gonna hang back. Someone’s gotta keep watch for Dickson.” Hoseok exhaled with relief that you didn’t come. He didn’t want you to feel pressured and at least he could accomplish doing that.
The skin retraced its steps back onto Hoseok. And when you looked out the window, for you didn’t want to watch Hoseok leave you again, the fog was impervious. The tepid steps of his departure sounded similar to that of a ticking clock. Each tap moved time forward and Hoseok away from you.
When you looked back to the emptiness of the library, you wished you could follow him. It was too difficult. Not the walking itself, and joining them had only been one staircase away, but the following aspect of it. To follow him, to chase the man that left you like he did years ago, like a decomposed afterthought, was difficult because you feared to be met with dry rejection. You’d rather not venture off into the fog, and stay unharmed in the clearings.
Hoseok should have, in the wise words of Seokjin, evaluated his actions before making any official commitments to them. His constant neglect of this crucial step had led him into quite disturbing situations, including this one.
It was a few minutes after the joint had been smoked to the stub of the filter. Hoseok tossed it in the toilet of the large stall they occupied. For the most part, the boys were silent and enjoying their highs. And Hoseok was silent as well, but his thoughts were under completely different circumstances. They were blaring around in his head with a sharp ringing.
The memory of you, his awareness of missing you, seeing you again, and finding that his ability to look into your eyes long expired had been a taxing precursor to getting high. It was a first to have his emotions heightened taller than a mountain because of his intoxication; most of the time it numbed his emotions and the world around him. Though, there is a first for everything and Hoseok was clamming up from all the guilt, loneliness, and longing ensued by the Indica making its way to his brain.
They were all talking by now, describing how they felt or if they were feeling any buzz at all. Namjoon was the first to be hit with a wave of high and he unceremoniously stood up to wash his hands because he insisted that he could ‘feel the germs crawling on his hands.’
Jimin and Seokjin were the next victims of the unspared joint. Jimin had been repeating the word “woah” until it was devoid of all meaning.
Hoseok slipped under the spell last, but his high wasn't fermenting in the same light-hearted ways as the other boys’ highs. His harnessed a colossal weight that was an ounce away from being too much, from sending him into a fight or flight reaction. The stressor could only be the pent-up emotions that were billowing from his chest so wildly that there was no chance to inhibit or ignore it. Hoseok was not as high as the others, but high enough to send his dignity into the unreachable air. Soon, he couldn't tell if the discomfort in his skin was because of his high or his new discernment for this stifling barrier.
The depth of this emotional hole was deeper than that of a dried well, and had left Hoseok to be somewhat of a benign lump to the conversation at hand.
“Guys, I think I’m peeing. I feel like I’m peeing. Am I peeing my pants right now?” Seokjin rose to a panicked stance, spinning and bending to check if there was any wetness seeping down the pant of his leg. Namjoon, who was still washing his hands, and Jimin had fallen into a debilitating laughter. Though even in a state of sobriety it would have perpetuated a hearty laugh, their elevated reactions were that of the high they were still riding, and based on Hoseok’s observations, wouldn’t be coming down from anytime soon.
“Holy shit. Dude, just pee! we are literally surrounded by toilets.” It was a difficult task, but Jimin managed to squeak this out between his giggles.
“I can't pee in front of you all! I get… I get pee shy.” They all noted, Seokjin was an exemplary companion to get high with.
If Hoseok weren't entrapped in his thoughts of you, of fresh linen and lemon that seemed to be far more pungent than the remnants of weed wafting in the bathroom air, he would have tallied Seokjin as one of his go to smoking partners. Nothing deemed lucrative to distract him from what really mattered to him:
Fresh linen and lemon and you, and his damn skin.
“You guys may make fun of me for my axe body spray but at least it’ll cover the weed smell.” Jimin gloated, hunchbacked and head lowered to check if the scent of weed clung to his clothes or hair.
“We’ve been in a closed room for like twenty minutes. Obviously, you’re not gonna smell the weed. ___’s probably gonna tell us that we smell like a walking dispensary.” Namjoon said with a chuckle.
“Now you smell like Axe body spray and weed.” Seokjin hadn’t stopped patting down the inseam on his pants to make sure nothing was inordinately wet while throwing in an additional jab.
“We should be heading back soon.” The faucet finally shut upon hearing Hoseok’s suggestion. “You three go ahead first, I’ll hang back so Dickson doesn’t catch me with you all. God knows he would be way angrier to see me walking around with you three.”
Namjoon dried his hands and nodded with red glazed eyes covered by partially deflated eyelids. Jimin stood up and yawned from the weed-induced drowse blanketing his own eyes and Seokjin’s eyes still scaled the expanse of his pant leg with hulking paranoia.
In a line, they left the bathroom to house no one but Hoseok, the pungency of weed, and his memories. In Hoseok’s eyes, they were blindsided by one thing and one thing only.
Ten years ago…
White faded to grey in the clouds hanging above your inattentive eyes. The sandbox with worn plastic digging tools and a red bucket was the only part of the world that mattered to you. Soon, everything else blurred into nothing. You liked the sandbox not for the majesty of castle building or the sandy canvas to carve the visions in your young, creative mind with the swipe of a finger, but because of its smallness and how there was no room for others to play in it if you were in it. That was undoubtedly a strange reason to enjoy a sandbox, especially since youth usually carried along with it a craving to meet the first friend you could find and stick with them through the trials and tribulations of elementary school. You were harder to please in the sphere of friendship, leaving you to take to the sandbox where there breached no worries of finding a companion.
Your finicky little heart made you a feeble target for young, boyish bullies. The pleasure of picking on the loner of the grade often satisfied little boys of their brutish desires. You’d always been a bit docile, and perhaps too much for your own good. There was no need to fight back and usually their torments were no more damaging than paper cuts that would heal in less than one or two days.
Today, however, you were proud of the sand replica of the Andes Mountains, which was quite accurate in your own opinion. Having it grinded down to nothing, to a footprint of a bully’s unforgiving torture was the last straw.
“What are you gonna do about it, loner?” One boy asked.
“Ha ha, good one!” The others cheered on his infantile belittlement.
You didn’t think words sanctioned a fitting reprimand for their actions which led you to throwing a handful of sand, aimed at their face. It wasn’t enough to do any physical damage, but it had been more than enough to elicit anger and fill the opened-mouthed laughs of the three other boys with the specks of dirt and other fine sediments. One boy cupped a clump of sand around a medium-sized rock and pelted your arm with it.
Hoseok, who had been sitting a few yards away, turned to see where the pained yelp originated. When his eyes laid on you and the way you had been rubbing a rock-shaped red mark on your left arm, he felt the muscles in his legs moving him before his brain told him to help you. Quite heroically, he leapt between the blockade of three boys and you, fists clenched and eyes narrowing to push the little roughness he had in his soft facial features against them.
“Leave. Go pick on someone else.” Hoseok warned with an edge that had two of the three boys tutting their heads down in shame.
“Oh yeah? What are you, ___’s boyfriend?”
“I’m the guy who’s gonna beat you up if you don’t leave.” It had been the conviction in his voice that held all the power. The voice of an angel to you, and to them, the voice that made picking on the defenseless loner not worth the trouble. They all retreated to kick around dirt at each other giving Hoseok the chance to turn around and check your arm’s injury.
“Are you okay?” He sat down next to you, and to your surprise, there was just enough room for him in this tiny sandbox.
“Yeah, it’s just a bruise. It’ll go away.”
“I’m sorry about those guys… I- I think they’re dumb jerks.” This little slight towards them was quite modest in comparison to how Hoseok spoke in his later years. It wasn’t intended to insult the bullies necessarily, but to show he was on your side. That you didn’t have to play in the sandbox alone anymore if he was lucky enough for your picky taste in friends to acquire a bias towards him
“Yeah, major jerks. They ruined my Andes Mountains.” You were shoving around some sand to piece together the broken sculpture.
“Why the Andes Mountains?”
“I don’t know. They’re cool! They’re super tall, have you seen them?” In some way, it wasn’t the mountains that were feeding your excitement and the discussion, though short, was much longer than anything you experienced before Hoseok. Not only did you ward off the few people that stumbled into your sandbox, but many kids began avoiding you altogether.
“No, but I’ve seen pictures of other mountains.”
“I’ve seen them! They’re big and rocky and they go alllllll the way up to the sky!” Your arms shot up to mimic the mammoth Andes mountains.
“I’ve never seen a mountain like that but I’ve seen a volcano.”
“Woah! Where?”
“It was on some beach. I don’t really remember.”
“You’ve been to the beach? I’ve always wanted to go! The beach is like one giant sandbox.” Hoseok chuckled at your fascination. If he could travel back in time, he would have befriended you long ago so you wouldn’t have to wish to go to the beach. You would have already been there - with him.
“It’s so fun! I found a jellyfish on the shore and threw it back into the ocean and it didn’t even sting me!” Now you had been laughing at his whimsical personality.
“You’re weird… I like you.”
“Could I- Could I help you?” Hoseok asked this, already preparing himself to an untimely demise of his efforts to befriend you.
You paused. Your empty arena of friends had gained a candidate well-suited for your liking. Even as a child, you knew the trope of ‘boys who bully you only do so because they have a crush on you’ was just a way to excuse the brazen attitudes of entitled little boys. Hoseok wasn’t like any of those boys. He was kind, he spoke gently when he asked to play with you. He fit into the sandbox with you and you didn’t mind the company.
The answer was clear.
“Yeah sure. Grab a shovel!” You didn’t bother looking at him, though his eyes were immovable from you.
“If you wet the sand it sticks together better.” He said, attempting to prove himself an asset to your sand mountain construction.
“I never thought about that. Thank you.” This piece of advice was the first of many gifts this boy would give to you.
One could assume the rapid advancement of your affection towards him could be due to how easy it was for younger children to build attachments with one another. However, that could not single-handedly explain the way you already felt close to him and how when he wasn’t in the sandbox with you, the vast space was not comforting as it once was. Not in the slightest. It could not explain how you and him never fought over petty things such as sharing the red bucket or whose sandcastle was better. He, without fail, insisted yours was always best. How your fondness of him only grew whenever he handled you in a much more tender way than he handled the bullies, no longer coming around to throw rocks and mean words at you.
“Wanna have a playdate?” You proposed in an uncharacteristic lapse of valor.
“Um…” The hesitance wasn't because he was opposed in the slightest to this offer, but the little details of his life that often got in the way of building normal relationships, “Yeah.”
“Yay! I just have to ask my mommy first. She will probably want to meet your parents.” You said while molding the sand into a pointed mound.
“I don’t…” He stilled his fingers against the dampened sand, hoping it would calm the fast pace of his heart. “I don’t have parents. I’m a foster kid.”
You didn’t give an immediate response, instead turning your attention over to the boy who was unable to move from mortification. It confused you that he felt ashamed of this, your young, well-intentioned mind unaware of the negative implications and stigmas that surrounded being in the foster system. You simply smiled.
“Well, that's ok! Mommy will just be happy I’m finally having a playdate.” You said, shearing away the depth to this aspect of Hoseok. He was surprised, and also comforted in the fact that him being a foster child was no bigger of a deal than the color of his hair or the size of his shoes. As if this trait of his was something normal. He felt normal with you, and his inexperienced heart couldn’t decorate the thankfulness he felt with the right words.
“I’m Hoseok, by the way.”
“I’m ___.”
And the rest was history.
With him, the world didn’t matter. The end of recess didn’t stalk your mind. The threat of mean boys had become unthreatening. The lonesome life that you were comfortable with now felt like pins and needles against your body. The idea of friendship that once felt like pins and needles was comfortable, with Hoseok. To think, you had been fooling yourself into believing you were okay with being lonely and that you would have never come to terms with the emotional poverty that being alone subjected you to if it weren’t for him. Because with him, you believed the byword adults would regularly preach ‘sharing is caring’. You nursed a considerable affection towards Hoseok to care for him and had now realized you had far too much space in your sandbox to not share it with him.
“Thank you for being my friend.” You said, in the wake of all the goodness of friendship he had introduced you to.
In sixth grade you weren’t worried about a new school or leeching onto a clique. The burden of belonging didn’t barge in on your life like it had most of your peers. You had the privilege of being best friends with Hoseok. He told you on the day of your fifth-grade promotion that middle school wasn’t so scary, not when he had you. There was nothing for you to do but trust in him, not because you had to, but because you wanted to and because you knew he would always be honest with you.
It was you, Hoseok, and the little sandbox against the world… until it was not.
Unlike the end of elementary school, the end of middle school was met with no such promises of the kindling allegiance Hoseok used to assure you of. You assumed it was because his consistency in your life now went without being said. However, you learned this was a terribly incorrect assessment.
The start of high school was when everything changed. The seasons cycled through right before your eyes, and you weren’t ready for the new semester of school that Autumn brought. What you had been even more unready for was the gradual disappearance of Hoseok from your life. When he’d been drawn to certain promiscuities and stopped coming over for the weekly visits and soon forgot the comfort of fresh linen and lemon. You wanted to ask him, or rather, plead that he wouldn’t drift. The only certainty in your life was becoming more and more unseen and, in his place, an evasive fog to renounce him from your vision altogether. There was nothing for you to do but let him go, not because you wanted to, but because you had to.
Because he stopped looking at you and forced a cold divide between you two without negotiation.
Eventually, you made friends though not nearly of the same caliber as Hoseok. Most of your connections felt shallow and a bit forced and you knew there was no way in hell you would have let them into the sandbox with you if you were a kid again. Not in the way you let Hoseok; you hated living with that knowledge.
It was horribly painful the way he tore the plant of his body from your life. He’d buried the seeds and began to fertilize your world with companionship and intimacy. He grew with every step that you grew, however the bud of your friendship hadn’t the chance to blossom before he ripped out every root tangled within the inner workings of your life.
He had abandoned you in the dark night of doubt and confusion and aloneness. Half of your broken heart was somewhat glad he didn’t tell you why he had done this because it would have been devastating to find out he simply didn’t like being around you anymore. That horrific thought that the need for you to be in his life grown to a rusted nonessential was second to aloneness in being the worst thing he left you with. The other half of your heart was dedicated to wishing he would walk into your life again.
Why would he do that to you?
And more importantly, how could he do that to you? He knew there were no two things more fitting for each other than the two of you. So how could he dispose of the one thing that meant everything to you and leave it to rot in the soil with the rest of the broken, decaying promises?
There was a reason, and he forbade himself from telling you. He was so ashamed of his bones that he decided to cover every fond memory and every scar that turned his skeleton textured with permanent divots with endless layers of skin.
The half of your heart that longed for him eventually merged with the other half that felt nothing but complete abandonment. The sandbox was of single occupancy once again. You hated him for that.
Present day
Hoseok’s eyes were full. Not of bloodshot vessels along the whites of the eye and not of worry that Dickson would catch them. They were full, almost outweighing the irises, with none other than melancholy and tears. Real, wet tears. He could blink away the tears and wipe them on the sleeve of his flannel, but he couldn't disengage the melancholy, the utter sadness from infecting his eyes.
Looking up at the tiled walls of the bathroom, there waxed a bitter disgust in his chest for going so long, far too many years, looking at anything that wasn't your eyes. His labored efforts to keep away from you, not even allowing himself the option to explain the purge of you from his life, was bitter. Disgusting. It filled him with more guilty tears.
He wasn’t crying for himself or the pressing torture he had endured for the majority of his life. He was crying for you. He was crying for the fact that he couldn’t tell you all the reasons he’d left you and tarnished the purity of your smooth skin. He was crying for hurting you, he was not oblivious to it.
Yes, he was crying. The portrait held a valid hypothesis of the future. An older Hoseok, crying for fear of losing you. For you.
He waited a few minutes longer, giving enough time to account for any sudden stops or distractions that might have been littered in the path of the other’s transfer back to the library. Hoseok stood, checking the mirror that the tears were dried, and the melancholy was clouded with a redeeming fog, and then made his way back to the library.
No one, not you, not even the thick skinned Hoseok could be immune to the commands of timing. It was unavoidable, the misfortune that timing would always sweep over the lives of you and Hoseok. Dickson was second to timing on being an unavoidable force of annoyance and persecution. Walking down the extensive, closed hallway gave Hoseok no possible divergent path to escape the hunt that Dickson seemed to be on.
“Well, well, well. Look who we have here? I’m disappointed to say I’m not surprised to see you breaking the one rule I enforced.” The completely irrational and dictatorial rule that he had been referring to, of course, had Hoseok’s rejection of it written all over the way he strolled through the halls.
Any number of excuses would have cushioned the blow of Dickson’s repercussive actions about to be set in a meticulous line. He could have said he honestly needed to relieve himself or that he was feeling nauseous and needed some air and a quick lap around the halls. But he didn’t want to make excuses for himself.
Hoseok had been parading around this Saturday as if he had enough skin to protect him against the external forces of you, Dickson, even the other three boys. He was tired, reaching the apex of a tall cliff, climbing and climbing to what seemed like an abstracted end without the comfort of a hand to hold or a shoulder to lean on during this tiresome journey. And now, he just wanted to let his body fall down the agglomeration of his own barricades.
“I was smoking weed in the bathroom.” His defeat from trying and his apathy towards Dickson’s belligerent blows left him on the bottom of the cliff. There was no use in standing, in climbing again. No use but to fall and wait for the day to end.
Dickson took this vulnerability to his advantage. He was all too quick and far too eager to sink his teeth into the thin skin on Hoseok. As he was drinking the juices of all the power he felt entitled to, his thirst grew morbid, thinking the only way to quench it was to swallow every last drop of dignity from Hoseok’s body.
“You, Hoseok. You act like you’re top dog. You do whatever you want, whenever you want, and what does that leave you with? You’re never going to be satisfied. You’re gonna end up empty and broken just like the family you never had.” This was beyond crossing the line. Dickson had stomped over it, pummeled it into mush, spit his dirty hatred in it, and perverted every aspect of Hoseok’s life that had once been latched safely behind the line. “No wonder you’re such a troublemaker. You’re desperate for any sort of attention or authority because you never had the father figure in your life to set you straight. And even if you did, even if the world gave you every privilege and shortcut to living a better life, you would still probably be empty, broken, and useless to everyone around you. What are you gonna do? You’re gonna graduate in a year and I can safely bet you have no plans. You’re going to end up a nobody. A loser. Just another unwanted orphan.”
The Hoseok four hours ago would kiss his knuckles against Dickson’s lip before he had the chance to finish grinding him to a pulp with those words. The Hoseok at twelve o’ clock, four hours older, was tired and swept in his anguish of losing you, or perhaps letting you go, or even worse, pushing you away. The tonnage of all these put his head into a haze and he couldn’t see Dickson, not that he wanted to. He couldn't see you, your eyes, even when he fell to his knees and begged the universe for that. He couldn’t smell fresh linen and lemon, only the faint memory of them which was quickly fading. The fog was surrounding, enclosing, imprisoning him but for what crime? For being the one who never seemed to be at the right place at the right times?
“Get your ass back to the library, Jung.” Dickson let this command roll off his tongue as if he’d been dubbed a place on a shiny pedestal. As if anyone in their right minds would have honored him for degrading the most fragile parts of Hoseok and shredding the sensitive skin of the man already fallen to the base of a cliff.
Wordless, visionless, Hoseok walked in a slump past Dickson to the library. Though, this book-filled prison felt safer than outside. Because it had you, it had the memory of your laughs and your eyes. It had the people who, though annoyed, still cared to give him more respect than he deserved.
And everyone, especially you, were increasingly worried about the amount of time it took Hoseok to get back. The others almost settled on the conclusion that he had been caught and put in some sort of solitary confinement by Dickson. Toes curling and hands fisted, you prayed that he would return. You prayed and it cleared all the hatred from you, still leaving a few stains of resentment for him. You resented him, but hated? Not in the slightest.
It was shocking, more so than your hatred of him, how in just four hours your animosity transformed into something tame and a little bit bruised and quite dramatically opposite of hatred. In hatred, one wants nothing to do with the other. In resentment, one seeks resolve with the other. You wanted him here and you wanted his eyes to make contact for longer than thirty seconds to make some sort of amends.
“I’m guessing what's worrying you right now isn’t your essay?” Namjoon tacked a concern in his question and through the way he had been staring at the empty seat behind you, there was no doubt he was talking about Hoseok.
“I don’t know why I care. He’s the one who decided to leave.” The low hanging grin was the best ‘I’m fine’ face you could pull. It was no use against someone like Namjoon who, within seconds, painted a part of you gone unvisited by anyone, including yourself. “He probably ditched. He can never commit to anything.”
“Ouch. Didn’t know you took detention so seriously.” You and him were well aware that these questions were void of their surface meaning. The connotations strung onto his every word had encoded his knowledge of what was really going on and he was about to get it out of you. “You and him were friends in middle school right? I think I remember. You guys would always eat lunch together.”
You were about to correct him and tell him you’d actually been friends since the first grade, but you decided against it. What were you trying to prove by saying that, anyway?
“Yeah, well, that was a long time ago.”
“Sorry, I didn't mean to pry.”
“No, it's nothing you have to be sorry about. It’s probably nothing he has to be sorry about either. It's just me setting my expectations too high and disappointing myself.” You paused to stilt the quiver in your voice about to crack through your words. No one had ever asked about what happened with you and Hoseok. No one had ever cared enough to even wonder. This was a first for you.
“I don’t see it that way. I think he’s lonelier than he lets on.” Namjoon wasn’t sure of what he was trying to prove, but he certainly harnessed more emotional intelligence than you had assumed.
You suddenly felt guilty for doing the lazy thing of resigning him to a label, a slightly dehumanizing one at that, without even having one full conversation with him.
“Sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?”
“I don't know. I’m not sure why I said that, but I just felt like I needed to say sorry. You’re a good guy, Namjoon.” The grin bubbling from your lips was not a front this time. You were genuinely, profoundly touched by the way he’d shown you compassion about the Hoseok situation like no other did.
“Thanks, I guess.” He chuckled at the randomness of it, but knew you meant well and that you fully knew why you were apologetic. Feeling seen past the stigma pinned on his back, he knew you only meant well.
Right when you were about to give up and mark this as another self-designed hope that failed to be upheld, timing came to your aid.
For once, it did and it brought Hoseok with it.
“I just got chewed out by Dickhead.”
Despite the sting, the way he rubbed against the raw wound left by Dickson, it felt better than admitting it hurt him so. To make light of his deepest cuts and sprinkle a bit of his own salt in the wound, well, that was what Hoseok specialized in.
Seokjin, still riding on the waves of his high, walked over to Hoseok and wrapped him in a hug as if he had been gone for days. Hoseok stood still, he didn’t return the hug, nor did he shove Seokjin off of him. It wasn’t because he fancied a hug from this strange boy, but more so he felt too awkward to move or even react.
“Dude, we thought you died. We thought he killed you.” Eventually, Hoseok gathered the resolve to lightly nudge Seokjin from his personal space.
“Well, I’m alive so you can stop hugging me.”
“Hoseok, what happened? Did he get you in trouble?” You sounded far more concerned than the rest. You really wanted to know if he was okay, but you found that it filtered through your throat with an overly mild expression of that. Still, he caught this, along with every other subtlety in your voice, and wanted more than anything to tell you the truth.
No, he thought, He did something far worse. I would have rather taken a lifetime of detentions than to have been forced to witness the sickeningly honest criticisms Dickson threw into my already melancholy, tearful eyes. How he left that interaction unscathed and I was drenched in the pain of facing my truth.
But the words didn't come out. He didn’t feel like anyone would care about what he said anyway, and he didn’t feel like dragging you into more of his issues.
“He just got all worked up about his no leaving the room policy. The usual ‘how dare you go against me’ sort of speech. I honestly didn’t really pay attention.” His eyes trailed to the floor.
“What a dick. Sorry, man.” Jimin said while yawning, unrecovered from the Indica induced drowsiness.
“Yeah sorry, but I’m sure you got in a few good comebacks, right?” Namjoon asked.
“Yeah, for sure.” Hoseok would have otherwise been boasting about the way he fired back against Dickson. You were expecting that, and when it failed to come you knew something was wrong.
Namjoon had been drawing a new picture while he asked this. Absent-mindedly enough to not notice Hoseok’s shaken behavior. The sketch was of the five of you, sitting in a circle. It was laid back, with a touch of delight that shed the new bond forming between you all into a visible light. No one in that room would have guessed this Saturday to turn out the way it did, however none of you really cared for the alternative outcomes. You were all just glad you were living through this one.
The one that was encapsulated by the painting, the erasure of circumstantial union by a wave of perfectly crafted comradery. This wasn’t some deep insight of Namjoon’s, not like the ones in the individual portraits he drew. This was not of blind guesses or improbable hopes. This was clear to him, to you, to everyone.
There were no such distractions to clamor your notice of his timid mannerisms. The way he walked a bit too quietly to his desk as if someone had stripped him down to nudeness for all eyes to witness. And just like before, when he first walked into the library, he found his seat without a single glance in your direction. Though, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel frustrated with him. Not when his worries were more real and devastating than his portrait.
This time it was different on two accounts. One, your ambition for him to look to you was not so you could relish in the guilt tripping stare he would be met with. The reasons you wanted him to look to you now was because you wanted him to know he was seen and was anything but alone. Whatever Dickson said or did was not a burden he had to shoulder on his own. And two, he didn’t sit behind you, didn’t try to avoid the unavoidable. He sat right next to you, in the scant space of your table, and there was enough room for him; even in the smallest spaces, there would always be enough room for him anywhere you were.
The scenery of him was bringing it all back. The sandbox, the mountains of sand, the young savior with the heart of gold. The love of having him by your side and the pain of his gutting absence. The roots of him were sliding back between your veins, once again seeking habitat for the bloom of friendship, or something more.
Look at me, you wanted to say. I’m finally able to see you again. Can you see me? We’re all here, Hoseok. Jimin, Namjoon, Seokjin, and me. We’re all here, waiting for your eyes. Waiting to see the bones beneath your skin.
“Hobi, are you okay?” This time you made sure your whisper only touched Hoseok’s ears.
“I don’t know. I don't know anymore.” He couldn’t see you and he had no idea you had been waiting for him, in the fog, all this time.
One week ago
The text read that the study group you had been invited to join, courtesy of your friend Lisa, had a study session on the second-floor study room. It wasn’t to hang out, just to study, and you wished it would be more than that. At least a part of you did. The other part of you, the one still hung up on something that happened long ago and the same part of you that liked to play in the sandbox alone, didn’t care that most of your friendly interactions had been surface level.
One day, you’d meet with a few friends for coffee, or another you’d meet up with a group to study, and the more you hung out with people, the less personal friendship began to feel.
Friendship without Hoseok began to feel like a business exchange, or a mechanical interaction that had become overproduced and of less quality. Like pulling the same lever repeatedly, until it became a boring chore. Not to say you didn’t appreciate it. Though shallow, trite, and forced, it was more than Hoseok ever gave you these days.
But the text made you feel lonely, like an add on or an afterthought. Simply someone to fill an extra seat at the table. You wanted to feel like you weren’t just going through life without connecting, but connections were placed at such a high standard, thanks to Hoseok, that they were hard to come by.
Your teacher passed you through the halls, you tried to avoid eye contact but that made it even more obvious you didn’t want to talk to her. You both exchanged a cordial greeting and flung a few thoughtless comments about the weather into the mix to prevent any awkwardness. It was raining, you said. The rain looked like it was going to clear up, but still looks foggy out there, your teacher responded. She walked to her office and you returned to reality.
Your reality. Alone.
You stared at the bulletin board and the dozens of neon colored flyers for new clubs and campus organizations. Band? You were hardly the musician. Physics? Barely passing Chemistry answered that quickly enough. Chess? You’d rather be lonely. Maybe it was pathetic, but you wondered why there wasn’t a club for finding people. No underlying activity, no common hobby shared amongst the group, just a club to help a few lonely souls feel a little less lonely. For people who had a hard time meeting friends and an even harder time keeping them. Where was that club?
You walked past the school’s cafe, not needing the caffeine to wind yourself up over the impeding awareness of how alone you felt today. Monday. The day of reckoning it seemed. When you felt alone, as you did today, your thoughts could only gather memories of Hoseok to cheer you up. To remember that once you weren’t so alone, it definitely felt better than remembering you were alone.
You and Hoseok had been diametrically opposed ever since the gradual end of your friendship. He’d become somewhat of a rebel and you stayed humbled and quiet. The once parallel lines of your souls running along the span of seven years together had diverged, his line east and yours, west, by the time you hit the eighth year.
Today, all alone, you decided to start walking east. Not that you were looking for Hoseok necessarily, you were simply hoping to find something, or someone. It was that decision, along with the various others, that had you walking east and trying to get home before the rain fell again. You could have been surrounded by a group of classmates by now, who were half discussing the contents of the next Statistics exam and half meandering about what they were going to do this weekend, but that wouldn’t change the fact that you felt alone.
Just like the one who played in the sandbox, you’d rather be alone while feeling alone. Though solitary walks in the rain meant you weren’t of any access to distractions. You began to wonder, which was never a good thing in your case, why you felt alone? There must be something wrong with you. Everyone else seemed to get along with the idea of friendship no matter the depth of them. You had concluded maybe ‘sociable’ wasn’t programmed in your DNA because sometimes you found yourself absolutely hating the idea. But that couldn’t be true because there was a part of your life that you spent loving the idea. Not just the idea, but the real deal as well. What could it be then? What was the reason you walked alone this Monday afternoon?
There he was. The moment you saw him you knew he was the reason.
“Hoseok.” You hadn’t felt those syllables in that order fall from your lips for quite some time, only hearing it in your head made him seem nearly unreal. But he was real, so was his name.
He had a cigarette stuck between his lips, then soon his fingers, leaning on the seat of his jet-black motorcycle. You were walking closer to him, slowly, like the way one would approach a wild animal so not to scare them off. Your steps drew you back to first grade again, and proximity wise, you were just as close to him as you were in the sand box. However, your hearts hadn’t even been in the same country.
“Do you need something?” The worst part about what he said was the fact that he didn’t mention your name. As if your name hadn’t crossed his mind in four years unlike how his was practically branded between the wrinkles of your brain. As if, to him, losing you was nothing more than a check off of some to-do list, a chore, a burden he was just trying to get over with. So, it was absolutely pathetic what you thought immediately in response to what he asked.
I need you.
“You smoke?”
“No, I just like holding cigarettes in my mouth.” Your eyes rolled to this, feeling a shockwave disassembling the Hoseok you remembered in your head. He was entirely new, not the boy who liked to go to the beach and played with sand, and you had a hard time recognizing him with this new skin he wore and the fog that, as your teacher guessed, was thickly lurking through the air.
“How are you?” You thought this was a dumb question because you knew he would answer with some short winded, meaningless ‘good’ or ‘fine’ or maybe he wouldn’t even say anything at all, leading to a fateful dead-end to this dragged out conversation. It was enough to make you equally eager and exhausted. If you could call what you felt for him with words, it would be hate. Probably.
His face looked paler than it had before, and his hands looked like it would feel like ice if you touched them. You used to touch them all the time, and they were warm and looked just as warm as they felt. If you touched them now, would they be as cold as his voice? Would he even let you?
“I’d say I’m quite annoyed that someone decided to interrupt my peace and quiet.” He flicked the butt of the cigarette to shave a few ashes off the end of the stick. You just shook your head at how he didn’t hide the way he dodged your questions with insincerity.
“Sorry, jeez... How the tables have turned.”
“What?”
“Oh just that,” You paused to wonder if him asking what you meant was some subtle indication he wanted to continue talking to you but you settled your bets on that being wishful thinking. Besides, you hated him so why should you care? “Way back when, I remember the roles were reversed. You were the one interrupting my peace and quiet.”
“I distinctly remember saving your life.” To you, no matter how desperate it was, any sort of mild banter with him was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, treasured with the memories stored in your chest. This was certainly the case being that in almost four years, the little he said to you now was the most he’d probably ever say to you in the rest of your lifetime. You took what you could get, after all, beggars can’t be choosers.
“Okay, calm down, you saved me from getting sand in my hair and down my pants.” You laughed and took a subconscious step closer to him. Carefully, lightly as not to scare him away because Hoseok looked stiff and distant minded when he saw you move towards him.
The mumble was registered clearly by Hoseok from the way you watched his partial scowl transform into a barely intelligible smile. You saw it, despite how small it was, and you missed the way he looked when he smiled at you. You missed knowing why he smiled, since right now you had no idea what prompted him to curve his lips the slightest bit upwards. More than that, you missed being the reason he smiled. That was selfish, maybe, and far-fetched from the looks of the gaping distance he seemed to be as comfortable with as you were uncomfortable.
“Li-”
“You-”
“Oh, you go.” His and your eyes were both fixed on the cigarette twirling between his fingers. And though you haven’t talked to him in a while, you knew that the tapping and twirling of his fingers was one of his habits to soothe his nervousness.
Was he nervous?
You wanted to carve the part of your brain dedicated to overthinking, specifically when it came to Hoseok, out of your skull. You hated the fact that you overanalyzed his every movement down to the twitch of his ears more than the fact that you cared enough to do so in the first place, and you hated that more than the man himself.
“You shouldn’t put that stuff in your body.” From the way his eyes didn’t move from the cigarette, it felt like you could have said nothing at all. He brushed it aside as if he was never intending on listening to you in the first place.
No, you thought, not Hobi. He would care, I think. He has to care enough about himself to keep his body healthy. And for some reason, above all the other overthought thoughts, that one seemed to scare you the most. If he didn’t care about you anymore, and he didn’t care about himself, then did he care about anything at all?
“Mm.” His gruff response fit unfortunately well with his hand, the one with the cigarette, that was moving towards his mouth again as if it were some act of defiance against you.
Your hand moved to curl around his wrist, which began a new set of overthought thoughts about how rough his skin felt against your hand. Soon, you found your thumb grazing softly along the underside of his forearm. It was you double checking to make sure this was the same skin as the Hoseok you knew before, an accidental gesture born out of instinct rather than methodic planning, something that, if he asked, you wouldn’t be able to explain. For the time being, you did everything you could to investigate where his new nihilistic attitude had bloomed from.
Before the ten second mark of this abnormal, slightly familiar contact, you channeled every neuron in your body to signal your hand to let go of him. He seemed blind sighted enough for you to snag the cigarette out of his hands and into your own.
“Do you want a hole in your neck?”
“What are you doing?” He didn’t sound as angry as you expected him to be. Moreover, he looked worried which under sighted your awareness of the deft approach to reach for his cigarette back.
“Like I said, the tables have turned. Now, it’s me who’s saving your life.”
Before you could throw it on the ground and flatten out the flame with your shoe, you braced for the unforced mistake of looking into his eyes and seeing nothing. All that was sitting in the socket of his eyes was a lusterless fog. You wanted to see his eyes more than you wanted him to care, which was an odd transition being that his care had been the top priority ever since freshman year. Your hands were gloved by warm cotton, but you would have taken them off to hold his hand and make them warm with yours.
“Hey!” You thought that was just in your head. Maybe the voice of reason to advise you from holding his hand because that would be extremely weird to do to an estranged friend. But it wasn’t a voice of reason that stopped you, it was quite possibly the worst person to stumble upon this encounter. “No smoking on campus!”
You turned around and saw Dickson’s manic expression then immediately turned to the cigarette that was in your hand.
Shit.
“I can explain! It wasn’t-”
“Can it, ___! No excuses.” Dickson’s eyes trailed to the pack of cigarettes that the one in your hand was sourced from. He didn’t say anything, just shook his head and reached into the pocket of his blazer to pull out that notorious pink pad of detention slips. With nothing more than a smug grin flashed like bright headlights against you and Hoseok, one that you would grow to hate more than anything, Dickson turned and strut away with long strides and an elevated self-esteem.
“Looks like I’ll be seeing you this Saturday, princess.” He smirked. To you, it was a mockery and some sort of reprisal for taking his hand and his cigarette soon after.
“Fuck you.” You turned away to walk a petty five or so yards away from him before some gravitational force pulled your head to turn back to him. To see if he was watching, perhaps waiting for you to walk back over to him but sure enough he’d kicked his leg over the seat of his motorcycle and started the engine long before you walked halfway towards where you were left to do nothing but watch him leave. He became smaller and smaller, hazier and hazier, and then unforeseeable in the fog.
You watched him leave, and you were almost sure you hated him.
One week ago
[Hoseok’s POV]
It was enraging and inconvenient for the weather to fog up right as school let out. Hoseok had more trouble driving his motorcycle when there was too much clutter in the air that disoriented the view of the road. He rarely stayed on campus for longer than he needed to, but it looked like he needed to. On the brighter side of things, Hoseok didn’t have to return to his foster house that smelled of old, wet, rotting rags and sounded of strained but persistent screams of his foster parents.
Even sitting in the fog, sucking in the burn of nicotine, was better than going back there. Days similar to these, days intruding his week more often than not, he found himself stuck between a place he wanted nothing to do with and a place he could envision through a pixelated glare that brought him warmth, quiet tranquility, fresh linen, and lemon. The arms that would meet his body and wrap him snug against another body, then the excited face of yours that met with his equally excited face.
It was a shame he could only live out these delights through an array of distant artifacts far too old to expel the loneliness from his heart.
Monday was whirling him through a pool of memories he’d rather keep covered up; it was winter and there was no need to swim in such a pool unless he deemed the risk of freezing to death a tenable substitution for smoking cigarettes in the fog. But it was not a matter of whether he would willingly dive into the pool, rather it was whether or not he could keep himself from falling in or even being pushed in.
Hoseok hadn’t seen your face in nearly four years. Of course, he saw you around the campus, strolling the halls or sitting in the cafeteria. He hadn’t seen your face, however, the way he used to look at it before high school. When he was a child free to flagrantly admire what his heart fancied as beautiful, there was no remorse or guilt from the way his eyes brazenly printed the details of your face into his memory. The creases at the sides of your mouth, the ends of your eyes that were pushed closed by the force of your cheek, and the number of teeth visible when you would smile had been graphed out like a mathematical equation; he was of the few that could solve it between the interval of two seconds. He knew where the inner portion of your eyebrows began and how far down the tip of your nose rested on your face along with the lining of your hair scaling the top of your forehead better than he knew any geographical map studied in school.
Most importantly, he studied your eyes more meticulously than he had his own eyes. Not your arms, or hands, or even the support of your legs could carry as much as your eyes. Hoseok liked to look at them when you smiled because they held the softness of a blanket after a tiring day burdened by a snowstorm. He could see it so clearly, a vast cloth in your eyes made specifically to wrap around a body in need of warmth.
But when you were angry, they held the wildest fires that would burn down anything in their line of vision. No matter how difficult it was to look at your eyes when they were sad, he was familiar with the molting roses that made your tears look like wilting petals; it was unsurprising that even in sadness, you shed beauty from your eyes.
To him, you were the most beautiful being he’d ever gotten the chance to see.
He loved seeing your face, even if the only way he could do so now was through the partially disfigured memories of his younger self. He was sad to say he had no current frame of reference to jar in his mental gallery of you. There was no way he could look at you on the will of his own because he was afraid to unsheathe the distance and repression set to protect you from him
There was no way, because he would have probably fallen in love with you all over again.
He was about to leave, but a gust of wind blew him towards the decision to smoke one more cigarette before surrendering to the house that smelled and felt quite the opposite of one place he truly considered his home.
And then he saw you. Walking slowly, and you looked so frightened of him. In all fairness, there was no reason for you to look at him with anything other than repugnance and unease because he turned quite jagged over the years.
You, however, were a relic of the past. Like a highly revered piece of art in a museum of grandeur, with the flawlessly manicured, picturesque beauty that couldn’t be bothered with the touch of Hoseok’s calloused hands. He could only stare from behind the velvet roped boundary that kept his body from melting into the art of you.
“Hoseok.” Your voice doubled down on the apprehension that tensed your walk up to him. He pulled the cigarette from his lips, feeling it inappropriate to have such a foul thing in his mouth if he were to greet you.
You looked so beautiful. So different from the thinly spread memories of your face; your cheeks had grown into maturation but still maintained a soft innocence. When he looked in your eyes, he did not see roses or raging fires or warming blankets, in fact, he could barely recognize them let alone see what they were holding. It hurt more than the smoke battering his lungs.
Get your shit together. Get away from ___. He reminded himself in an incriminating manner.
“Do you need something?” How he had the ability to keep his mind wrapped around you but spewed words forcing you away was beyond any comprehension. Nonetheless, he did it, simultaneously scolding and applauding himself for not reverting to the version of him that would have greeted you with a soft hug or loving smile.
“You smoke?” The disappointment packed into your voice put him at an odd with himself.
Finding the frustration plowing through his chest, he processed these self-aggressions through a misdirection onto an unsuspecting victim. One he never thought deserving to be the target of his projected anger, but then again, it was the only way to hinder your warm hands from digging beneath his skin.
“No, I just like holding cigarettes in my mouth.” He exhaled relief, along with the rest of the smoke inhabiting his lungs, that you had rolled your eyes. His charade was fooling you into annoyance, keeping you just out of his reach where you belonged.
“How are you?” Or maybe this act of his was not working as well as he thought, since you padded these questions down like you had nothing better to do. Hoseok began to feel worried, the brimming loneliness was about to unleash through the conversation you were, for some reason, trying to initiate.
If you were to go away, it would break me again. But, at least, it would keep my skin intact.
“I’d say I’m quite annoyed that someone decided to interrupt my peace and quiet.” He freed his cigarette from the ashes bunching at the end, hoping you would mimic this riddance. Maybe you would see he had burnt your body to an ash, and sooner or later the entire cigarette would fall away to black dust. If you saw that, would you finally have the sense to leave him?
He couldn’t stand looking at your eyes. To behold such beauty, suspended from any chance to have your body against his was nothing less that torture to him because he was so very cold, and you looked like you harbored enough warmth in your fingertips alone to cure him of it.
“Sorry, jeez… How the tables have turned.”
Hoseok bit down against the side of his cheek hard enough to steal a bit of blood from his gums and to keep him from asking what your eyes were holding today, and if you would be so kind as to give him a piece of it to feed his empty, starving eyes.
So, he settled on:
“What?”
“Oh just that,” Hoseok panicked in the span of your brief pause. Could you notice he was asking for a bit of your eyes and warmth? He was fucking everything up as usual, he thought. “Way back when, I remember the roles were reversed. You were the one interrupting my peace and quiet.”
The jig had not been up yet, thankfully.
“I distinctly remember saving your life.”
“Okay, calm down, you saved me from getting sand in my hair and down my pants.” When you stepped close to him, the film of fear once guarding your walk was scraped clean which led to more silent punishment for letting his selfish indulgences of your company get the best of him.
His muscles couldn’t resist the smile bubbling under the thick skin on his lips. Not even skin, or fog, could hide the smiles that never seemed to run short with you.
And it was the step, or how miserably trapped in the purgatory he felt, or how he smelled fresh linen and lemon exuding from your hair and clothes that pushed him into the pool of memories he’d been walking around, but avoiding submergence.
It was deathly freezing. Now, he was fully submerged in the fluid-filled vat of your memories, however. It wasn’t the bone chilling frigidity of the water that had him reaching his arm out and gasping for air, but the enticing warmth of your body that stood above him, as if you were waiting for him to reach to your aid, for you to fill his depraved lungs with linen and lemon tinted oxygen.
“Li-”
“You-”
“Oh, you go.” He believed it was better that you spoke.
“You shouldn't put that stuff in your body.”
The broken levers and switches and pulleys which made up the inner mechanisms of his body found your banal suggestions as the only surge of kindness his old machinery had felt for a while. He’d heard it before; the Health Education segments, the anti-smoking adverts, the doctor’s orations tunneling out of his ears as quickly as they entered. But your words were caught like traffic in his head, so much that it blocked all entry of a fiery retort to pass through his mouth.
“Mm.” He mumbled because you were right. He shouldn’t be smoking; he shouldn’t be doing a lot of things but some of his actions felt out of his control at this point of his life.
Unprepared could not describe the intense degree of shock Hoseok felt when your fingers wrapped around his wrist so attentively. He was reaching his arm out, waiting to be removed from the cold and isolated pool he’d fallen into (or perhaps pushed into by you), but he never expected his hand to be met. He predicted he would spend eternity reaching to no avail, left to drown in this chilling pond of memories that rendered him frozen in the world of the past. Instead, his body reunited with the dryness of the air.
Hoseok hoped you couldn't feel the embarrassingly quick speed of his pulse with your thumb that rested right against his artery.
“Do you want a hole in your neck?”
He would have responded with: Could it be any worse than freezing to death?
“What are you doing?” His expressionless visage, one labored with hiding his worry, had fallen away from his face.
The way the cigarette looked in your hands had him nearing a faint. To him, it felt like an accessory, like a bracelet or a belt, like it belonged in his hands. But when you held it, the small stick looked like it was going to leave permanent stains of corruption along your skin. It was absolutely abhorrent in your fingers. Any second, your entire body would be lurking with his repulsive residue and he thought it would kill him before it killed you.
“Like I said, the tables have turned. Now, it's me who’s saving your life.”
That was the tipping point for him. The surge of tender nostalgia. The last bid of persuasion he needed to grab your wrist instead and press his mouth against yours, warm and wet and gentle. And he would have done exactly that, he would have kissed you and offered his last breath to your lungs if not for the unexpected saving grace that arrived in the form of a bitter vice principal.
“Hey!” Dickson’s approach was followed with the inevitability of detention. Hoseok only knew this to be true because even when he wasn’t smoking on campus or doing something that would elicit a detention, Dickson always found a way of weaving in reason to prosecute Hoseok. “No smoking on campus!”
“I can explain! It wasn't-”
“Can it, ___! No excuses.” Hoseok was in his own world now, counting down the seconds until the pink slip of detention would be presented in front of him on a rusty silver platter. When Dickson walked away, he found it fitting to begin breathing once again.
“Looks like I’ll be seeing you this Saturday, princess.” The mischief in his smirk bred the annoyance back into your chest, which was his goal of course. Before he got the chance to enact his sinful deed to close the space between your lips and his, he hopped on his motorcycle and wheeled himself to a safe distance.
Cold and lonely, but safe.
He had the rest of the week to figure out how in the hell he was going to spend an entire day with you without looking into your eyes and breaking through the already vulnerable skin.
12:00 - 2:00
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.”
About two minutes after Jimin’s head took a dive, landed against the solid wood of the table, and snapped back awake, he looked a bit confused and tried to reattach himself to reality.
“Does anyone know what time it is?”
“Twelve ten.” You and Namjoon answered in unison like you had been keeping track of every minute that passed since eight o’clock.
“Time isn’t real.” The still high and rosy cheeked Seokjin mumbled out through a cluster of thoughts bumping around the otherwise empty space in his brain.
“I’m going to punch you.” Hoseok said, feeling sensitive to irritation after the denigration he had just undergone courtesy of a washed-out vice principal.
“Hoseok.” Your tone was a punishing command that needn’t more than the one-worded sternness to make Hoseok huff lightly in adherence.
“It’s been,” Jimin paused to count with his fingers, “four hours already? It honestly hasn’t felt like it’s been that long.”
“Well, you know what they say.” Namjoon commented this with no further explanation as if Jimin had any actual clue to what the other boy was referring to.
“What? What do they say?” Jimin responded, expectant for the explanation.
“I know. Is it that time isn’t real?” You tried not to laugh at Seokjin’s re-utterance of his thoughts that were polished over with an intoxicated glaze, knowing your approbation to him would further aggravate Hoseok into actually punching Seokjin.
“How are you still that high, Jin?” Namjoon said through a soft chuckle.
“I don’t know it’s kind of freaking me out now. Am I gonna be high for the rest of my life?”
“No and no. It’s that time goes by faster when you’re having fun.”
“That’s rich.” Hoseok took it upon himself to point out the irony and wicked hypocrisy of the insinuation that Jimin was having, of all things, fun with the four of you.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jimin had almost forgotten Hoseok seemed to get the most satisfaction out of picking at Jimin specifically.
Jimin wasn’t the easiest target since he was the furthest from a social pariah, Seokjin and Namjoon filled that slot, but he had both a namesake of being a star football player and a pyramidal structure of friends to lose from Hoseok’s unforgiving tongue. This made it much more satisfying to Hoseok.
“I just would have never guessed you would get off your high horse for a few hours to join the rest of us lowlifes. Consider me flattered.” This wasn’t the first or last sarcastic remark to whip tirelessly against Jimin however it was enough for Jimin to feel deserving of answers.
“Where do you keep getting this idea that I think of you guys as lowlifes?”
“Oh, you wanna know?” Hoseok said, finding the clutter of denial Jimin had congregated around himself both ignorant and audacious. Even Namjoon and Seokjin found it astounding how gullible Jimin was towards his own refusal to admit an all too terrible truth.
“Please, enlighten me.” In the simplest terms, Jimin was in over his head to take on such a challenge with the amount of overzealous egoism in his voice. It felt like an affront, the ignorance shrouding him, to the experiences of the minnows that had to walk the halls with their heads hung low in order to avoid an unsolicited and traumatizing attack from the sharks of your school.
As much as Jimin didn’t want to acknowledge it, he was a shark, and the rest of you were minnows.
“Why don’t you tell everyone why you got detention?”
Jimin stiffened to a stone-like manner. It was petrifying to even move, let alone speak on behalf of his actions that led him here. He didn’t have his posse of dim-witted friends to protect him, nor the freedom of avoidance being trapped in the library. There was, for once, nowhere for Jimin to turn to other than the four faces of those deserving of his explanation.
“Well?” Hoseok coaxed.
“Damn, was it that bad?” Seokjin was worried he placed too much hope on Jimin’s shoulders. He wanted to believe Jimin was one of the good ones, or better ones at least. That out of his friends, Jimin would be the one to do the right thing because it would have been nothing short of betrayal if he relinquished himself to the cowardice of the ‘follow the leader’ mindset plaguing Jimin’s group of friends.
Perhaps it was the razing hues of the cheap fluorescent lights in the library, but there was a strange brightness illuminating this room in particular. Out in the halls, it was darker and easier to miss the faces of passing students. So dark that when you first stepped into the library, your eyes felt a slight burn and was forced to readjust to seeing with clarity for once in quite a long time.
In the library, there was no way to miss their faces. Maybe if you closed your eyes it would have been easier and the burn of the lights infiltrating your retinas would be boiled down to a grazing sting but now wasn’t the time for closed eyes. The rarity of brightness and clarity was too good to return to the blindness of the halls and the fogged space of the world outside. It was safe to keep them open, just for now.
“Don’t tell me it was one of your dumb football friends who put you up to something.” You said as if you already knew this to be true.
“They’re not dumb.”
“What? Are you trying to defend them? Defend yourself?” Hoseok said and it was not caked in indifference or sarcasm. It was angry and driven by some demented sort of care for Jimin to take accountability for his actions; it was as if he knew Jimin was better than that but he wouldn’t admit this even with a gun to his head.
“No! It’s not that. It’s just…” Jimin had reached his breaking point. There was nothing left to hide. Not when the library was so damn bright that it singed his vision enough to well a few tears to collect at the base of his eyes. “They’re fucking cruel. I don’t think dumb people can be as cruel as them.”
Jimin’s eyes were spaced out to the floor as if he had seen a ghost, or many ghosts in the form of the untracked amount of students that were swept into a relentless attack by those Jimin dared to call his friends. Those who he stood by, even if it cut through every moral instinct in his body. The most shameful ghosts were the ones sitting before him, listening attentively.
And the most haunting ghost of all was none other than himself.
“Jimin, what did you do?” Namjoon, walking on eggshells or rather shards of glass, asked this of him apprehensively knowing how overwhelmingly displeased you all would be with his answer.
“I didn’t have a choice! I-” The tears once held at bay on the bed of Jimin’s eyes had now been pushed over and down his cheeks from the guilt crowding the space where they once rested. “You know my friend Connor right? Well, I don’t know if I can call him a friend. Not anymore at least.”
The four silent nods didn’t give him enough time to construct the strong foundation of courage he needed to build upon this. However, Jimin had exhausted the last of his courage. All there was left for him, for all of you, was to be vulnerable. To be welcoming of his pain seemed to be the only source of strength to say what was needed to be said. What, for once, he felt like he could openly admit to.
The library was bright. He began to feel seen because of it and the noiseless juncture gave him a chance to be heard.
“I, um, I made the mistake of leaving my phone out. God, I was so fucking stupid. I can’t believe I did that.” He took one deep breath to energize himself, “I, uh, I got a text from Kim Taehyung and,”
Jimin had been instilling frequent pauses between what he was saying. Talking, especially to those whose opinions held a measurable importance to him, was the most difficult thing he had to do. Jimin spent over ten hours in the beating sun, extrapolated his muscles of their ability to move with the intensive workouts he had to do for training, ran over seven kilometers nearly every other day, and shoved an integral piece of his heart to a place of hateful and regretful shame for his whole life. But this, the uncomplicated act of talking had twisted into an unsolvable maze with Jimin placed right at the center.
“Connor looked. He- he fucking looked through my texts.”
The mention of Kim Taehyung, the only uncloseted person in your grade, had given you all the information needed to know why Connor looking through Jimin’s texts was not just an invasion of privacy but an infestation to the immunity Jimin built against how he loved; who he loved. The boundaries had been set and had been wrongly trespassed over, and to someone like Connor, that didn’t register as a violent act of homophobia. Jimin didn’t have to explain the contents of the texts for you all to know that it was far beyond platonic.
Suddenly, everything made sense to Hoseok. Being that he was the only one who knew what happened, but not as much to know the reasons behind it had him feeling almost as guilty as Jimin.
“You don’t have to explain yourself. I didn't know all that.” Hoseok had given Jimin an opt out, a shortcut to escape from the maze Jimin was still wandering through, which was his way of apologizing and clarifying he would never cross that boundary, the boundary that Connor ravaged with a hateful heart.
Jimin turned it down. He turned down the shortcuts. This wasn’t a journey that would be accomplished by taking the easy way out. Sometimes, one must run right into the eye of the hurricane to be freed from the shackles of self-despair.
“No. I need to tell you guys. I don’t want you guys to think that...” Jimin pushed past the final wall, realizing the very mask meant to protect him was the thing that had been turning him into someone he couldn't recognize when he looked in the mirror. “I just… I want you guys to know.”
The low social status of the others in the room wasn’t why he felt like he could be honest. It wasn’t the fact that even if you all knew, it would have been diluted to an unverifiable and petty rumor because no one took what the delinquent, the loner, the nerd, and the freak said seriously. What motivated him, or more fittingly, what inspired him to be honest was your gift of listening, not just hearing to hear, but hearing to care and understand Jimin.
“I’m gay.” And he finally found the end of the maze. “I’ve never said it out loud before. It sounds weird coming out of my mouth.” What he expected was awkward silence, a few uncomfortable or disapproving grimaces, or a complete rejection of what he revealed himself to be. These expectations weren’t met, by the grace of God or more likely the grace of those who listened with care and understanding. And Jimin cried harder.
“I don’t think it sounds weird. I’m so happy you shared that with us.” You said in place of the expected rejection, and you smiled in the place of the expected turned back. “I’m proud of you for being so brave.”
“You are?”
“We all are.” Namjoon added to the support.
No longer did Jimin feel the need to rely on the fractured confinement of the closet, but on the open, warm support of the four others and the brightness of the library. When he gathered the reactions for the four of you, the soft expressions directed towards him, he knew he was in a safe place. Even Hoseok, without outwardly smiling, gave him more acceptance than any of Jimin’s football teammates would have given him.
“No disrespect but what does that have to do with why you got detention?” Seokjin’s bluntness corralled Jimin back on topic, even if it wasn’t the most empathetic way of going about it.
“Oh yeah. Well, Connor started saying all this shit about telling everyone if I didn’t um…” It felt like the words coming from his throat weren’t hot air from his lungs, but jagged rocks scraping the sides of his windpipe, “If I didn’t beat Taehyung up then he’d tell everyone and leak our conversations.”
“Would people finding out about you two be so bad?” Seokjin asked naively.
“You don’t understand. There weren’t just messages.” He had been fidgeting with the end of his shirt, engulfed by the regret of how he handled things. Though, his choices had made him a parcel between deciding on the lesser of two evils and this was never a fair advantage. “There- there were pictures too. He threatened to leak them and I… well, I thought I was protecting Taehyung from him, but I was being selfish. Weak. I was protecting myself.”
“Jimin, that’s not fair. Connor put you in such a fucked up position! God, how fucking dare he?” Your face was red with anger. Hoseok had been tracing the distress lines on your forehead and between your brows with reverence because it was too heartbreaking to look at the defeated expression tolling Jimin’s. “You know Connor also sent around my friend’s nudes after he was begging for them. He’s fucking vile.”
“There has to be something we can do to get him in trouble.” Namjoon had already been willing to risk having to voluntarily interact with Dickson to rat Connor out. However, Jimin objected strongly.
“No! Then word would get out. You don’t know half the shit my teammates say about gay people. There’s no way they would let me stay on the team. And my parents don’t have a clue. I have no idea how they’d react.” Jimin brought his forearm to wipe away the tears still spilling from his eyes. “I’m scared. I already lost the one person who I really cared about in this damn school because of that asshole. I can’t lose anything else.”
“Why would you want to be on a team with people who hate gay people? Or be on the same team as the guy who literally blackmailed you into beating up your boyfriend.” Jimin didn’t take too kindly to Seokjin’s unthoughtful assertion.
“You wouldn’t understand. I- I’ve built my life around football! I wouldn’t have any friends and my whole future is riding on my football career. God knows my grades aren’t enough to get me accepted into college let alone get a scholarship. You don’t understand the social pressure of not being a part of something.” Now, it was Jimin who made thoughtless assertions against Seokjin. “Someone like you just wouldn't understand.”
“Someone like me?”
“Do I have to say it?”
Internally, you pleaded with him not to say it. Namjoon already knew the hurtful assumptions Jimin had placed upon the four of you this whole time.
“Well, you're the one who brought it up.” Seokjin retorted.
“Say it, Jimin. Admit you think of yourself as better than us just because you're popular and on the football team.” Hoseok spat with a determined bite to his words.
“Fine! Someone like Seokjin is an outcast. It’s true, okay? It’s not my fault he doesn’t get the pressure that I’m under.” The admittance was torrid and vain but nonetheless true to Jimin’s prerogative.
“Are you kidding me? You don't think all of us don't understand the social pressures of feeling like we don't belong?” He was never one to argue or get upset about things. He often felt like he had no place in ever standing up from the many instances when he’d been pushed to the ground for his entire life.
Seokjin, and Namjoon too for that matter, have been casted as a sort of boot licker trapped in between the cogs of the social hierarchies in high school. Being at the very bottom, on the receiving end of the brute force from those who are lucky enough to be a part of something, hadn't been easy. They didn’t get the leverage to misstep or speak out, and their consequences had always been enforced with an expensive debt of hiding what was really on their minds.
“You don’t think I see and hear the way people talk about me? I’m a freak, a low life, a joke. No one wants to be friends with someone like me. And yeah, I guess I am the joke of the school! The inside joke that everyone is a part of except for me. I've never had the fear of not belonging because that was a given ever since I started high school. At least you have something to lose. I never had that and I have to pretend like I’m okay with it all! I have to pretend that everything people say about me or make fun of me doesn't affect me. In fact, I feel like I have to constantly make a fool of myself because that’s the only way anyone pays attention to me! That's pathetic! If I didn’t, if I just shut up or if I-” His voice cut off momentarily from the lump impeding on his throat, “If I were to just disappear… or… if I were to die no one would care. And I have to pretend to be okay with that. But I’m not- I- I just hate it.”
You didn’t have to look at his eyes to know he had also been crying. And he was right, everything he said. The way most people disregard him and when they do acknowledge Seokjin, it’s only to place hate or insults to titillate their sick amusement. It brought you to tears in the most gut-wrenching way, because part of you attuned to his loneliness. His feelings of unimportance, that if you were to fall off the face of the Earth one day, your tombstone would be just as undeclared and forgotten as your once beating hearts.
“Do you know how many death threats I’ve gotten in my locker? Yeah, they’re probably empty threats just to piss me off or scare me but they still affect me. I- I start to believe maybe I should be dead. I just… I just want to be seen.”
In some way, Jimin felt decided for just like Seokjin did. Decided by external forces that he should be manly, straight, and nothing beyond what had been expected of him. Though the oppression of heteronormativity chained around his neck was vastly different that the shackles that kept Seokjin at an arm's length away from ever making a true friend, there was a communion within the unwelcomed and pervasive loneliness.
And that kind of loneliness drives someone to a deep and unyielding kind of depression. The damaging isolation from having no one to tell you they love you when you feel unloved ricocheted against your insides, and it begins to feel like a hunger but a million times worse.
You couldn’t feed it on your own. You just have to wait for someone else to want to feed it, to want to love and accept you. But no one could wield such compassion when they were too occupied with fitting in, until now.
“I don’t think you’re a freak or a joke. I’d never make fun of you, and I would notice. If you left, Jin, I would notice.” Namjoon said to give Seokjin shelter and company in feeling out of place. He felt it too and it was heavy, crushingly heavy.
“I think we’re all just pretending to be okay. Pretending that living and existing doesn't hurt and that every day doesn't leave a scar on our body in some way. Being alive when you are pretending is lonely because it isn’t you who’s living and existing. It’s the shell of you, and the real you has to watch from a distance. That distance is so lonely. And when you try to crawl back into that shell, and maybe become whole again, you just can’t. You’re stuck because you've been hurt too many times to feel safe in your own body. I’ve felt it, now I know Jimin and Seokjin feel it. Even ___ and Hoseok, I know you guys feel it too. I wish we could stop. I wish we didn’t have to pretend. If we could stay in this library, together, we wouldn’t have to. But the end of the day will come and we’ll all have to go back to pretending, won't we?”
A speechless agreement filled the air.
“I don’t. I don’t want to feel lonely anymore.” Seokjin said.
“Me neither, I don't want to go back to pretending. I want to be able to love who I want to love.” Jimin looked to Seokjin, scared and unsure of whether or not they could face the world again. Oddly enough, comfort surfed over fear and uncertainty because they were not alone anymore. To be in a state of apprehension with those who take time to understand one another lightened the load tenfold. If one can be lonely with other lonely people, then maybe they weren’t alone after all.
In this library, bright and giving, they certainly weren't alone.
There was nothing to say or refute. Hoseok had in fact been pretending, his skin just as fake as the leather jacket covering him. Though now, unlike when he saw his portrait, he felt the absence of his skin to be freeing. He felt uncomfortable in his skin; he wanted it off completely. Being strong, pretending to be unhurt led him to come crashing down as hard as he did when he faced you again. You and all the mistakes he’d made and Dickson’s hostile attack in the halls. Perhaps weakness is a form of healing.
Letting the guard down just enough to let the kindness of another’s heart in.
“Do you guys… to me, you guys are my friends.” Spoken with an intentional rephrase and delivered without an expectation that the four of you returned this projection of friendship, Seokjin felt less alone than he did in the dark of the hallways that, although physically narrow, were wide enough to have him walking through alone.
“You’re my friend.” You said this quickly, to not give any chance for silence to settle doubt. You were his friend, truly, more so than the friends you made to fill the Hoseok sized void in your life. “I don’t have a lot of friends either.”
“Me neither.” Namjoon said.
“I mean, I have a lot of friends, but I think it’s all bullshit. I think you guys are the only ones close to anything real.” Jimin said through a smile.
And though Hoseok had come to realize what it felt like to be seen, to have his bones exposed to the eyes of the understanding, there was still that adjustment period. Letting go of the habitual usage of rudeness and sarcasm as a defense mechanism against the rawness of being human with other people was not an easily dropped reflex.
“Wow, well this love fest was certainly something.”
How could he do that? How could he reduce the trauma and bravery piled between the five of you to another crass, insensitive comment?
“Oh, god. Can’t you just quit it already? Can’t you take anything seriously?” You were well beyond the brink of holding your tongue. Beyond the point of patience that was placating your owed explanation for Hoseok’s drastic change and unannounced desertion.
“No, that part of my brain died a long time ago. Sorry to burst your bubble, princess.”
“Oh, is that what your excuse is?”
The other boys sensed there was some unsaid history between the two of you which placed them as silent audience members, serving a watchful mediation to this long-awaited performance.
“What’s your deal? Calm down, it was just a joke.” His insensitivity came from a place that grew used to pushing you away and stonewalling the idea of emotionality, yet another defense mechanism brandished to become second nature to him. And with the attentive eyes of the other three, there was no chance of loosening the skin and veered away from showing his bones. Hoseok knew exactly what ‘your deal’ was but he didn’t have the slightest idea of how much his feigned indifference packed more dirt in your wounds.
Or at least, you hoped he didn’t. It would have made it far worse to know he was aware of the way he hurt you.
“What’s my deal? My deal is that you don’t care about anyone! You never cared about me and you made me believe that I could trust you. You’re just an asshole, when you get down to it. You have no heart.” You spat, feeling the heat rising just as quickly as your body which collected the strength to take a stand.
He too stood up, facing you and it overspent the little energy he had to look into your eyes as you said these harsh things, unhidden in the library’s brightness. Of course, you didn't believe anything you just said. You knew he cared, or at least he did once, and that he had a heart, no matter how emptied of love it felt in his chest. His heart was there, beating slowly as if waiting to stop completely.
You were speaking through the frustrations of trying to reach out to someone who held their guard up stronger and mightier than a brick wall and seemed to want nothing to do with you.
He didn’t know this. Hoseok was up to his neck in regret and guilt. He was tired, and his heart was weary from doing its job of maintaining his breath. A breath he didn’t feel worthy of harboring anymore. He had been tired for a while now and just wanted to be vulnerable, like the rest of you. However, no matter how many times he thought it over or talked himself into it, the skin just seemed to regenerate faster than it shed.
He wanted to take you in his arms, never let go, tell you where it hurt and hoped you would love him there in the same way you would when you were young, and when his heart didn’t fully understand the hefty price of being the unwanted orphan who dragged misery into the lives of everyone associated with him. He wanted the sandbox, the Andes mountains, Marley and Me, the first grade, the aromas of linen and lemon, and you all over again. But he knew, he never stopped wanting that.
“You don’t know that, ___! You don’t know anything so how dare you make claims like that about me when you don't know half the shit I’ve been through!” He was screaming, though not so much in the literal sense. The high pitch of his voice was him trying to talk over the secrets that he kept from you. It seemed like the only thing that would drown out the loneliness itching to be liberated was his hurtful words. It sent you into a rage
“Then tell me! Let me help you or be there for you! Stop running away. For once in your life stop running!”
“Why would I tell you of all people?” The true meaning behind this was unclear through his spiteful tone and sandpaper skin. The one person he wanted the best for, he wanted to protect, wasn’t the person to dump all his problems on. Not you. Not your kind eyes and soft, warm hands and skin. He couldn't drag you under the bus with him and make you solve the unsolvable. To put you through that, it would have been better to drive a dull sword right through your chest.
You wanted to slap him or shake him. Shake the secrets out of him and place him right under the bright lights of the library. You wanted to reach into his chest and pump the slowly dying organ with your own hand so he could keep on breathing.
“I hate you, Hobi. I fucking hate you.” You said this and you said his name. The name owned by your tongue that carried too much sentiment to mean anything of hatred. Both his name and your hatred flew through the thick fog surrounding Hoseok, but only one of those two met with his skin and melted it off his bones completely.
“I hate me too.”
He couldn’t let you, or anyone see him cry. So he ran, just like always. Hoseok walked out of the library, right into the dark halls, but it was him running again. Running far away from you just like he did over three years ago.
It seemed like he didn’t reveal nearly as much as Seokjin and Jimin had. Even Namjoon, with the few words he’d offered on his place in the grips of loneliness seemed to be loads more than Hoseok gave.
But to you, it was enough. To you, his silence and grim avoidance told you everything you needed to know about Hoseok.
Dry eyes, dignity, skin, the defensive masks once mounded over your faces were nowhere in sight of this library. Becoming emotionally undone and disarmed was nothing more than becoming honest with yourselves and others. It came just in time before those mighty walls broke down to leave you all sitting ducks to the much harsher grasps of your peers’ judgements
It felt like symbiosis. The mutual giving and receiving between those who had been pretending, but were worn out by the last few hours of detention. To give the skin that covers and protects and hides the things unwanted by most of society. The things often put to shame or denial or negligence and root loneliness deeper into one’s body. And to receive a mindful ear that cares and listens, empathetically, to the words locked away, as well as a place where these insecurities and inner torments can be put to rest through the form of words.
No longer were these secrets kept. There was no one to shun or misunderstand or commit the crime of breaking the bones of those who stand out to fit in the mold of what was considered acceptable or worthwhile.
Four out of five coats unworn, laying in the center of your circle, safe and understood.
The question remained, if and when the fifth one would be shed?
Namjoon broke the tense silence.
“Are you going to go after him?”
If it was your freshman year, you would have been racing out of those doors before Namjoon had to ask. The you of the past would have climbed over the Andes mountains, the you of elementary school would have swam across the vast oceans to drag him back into your life. The you of the past, the one that had only a sandbox and Hoseok, would have gotten to the door before he had and blocked any exit from this room.
But you were not in the past, and Hoseok was already gone. Namjoon had to ask whether or not you would go after him and that meant there was a chance you had given up, for good this time. There was a chance you wouldn’t go after him.
“I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.”
Five years ago
For the better part of a year, Hoseok tumbled through life without any cadence for feelings and emotions. He was an adolescent boy, after all, and each week brought a new challenge to his plate that left little room to focus on the chaos of his life and guidance of his heartbeat. This week, he set his sights on getting you to race him on your scooters down the steepest hill in your neighborhood.
Dusk was orange and warm, sending its hues along the streets and faces who were under it like an important message one must read with the utmost care. Hoseok liked this part of the day specifically because the end of the hour would take his tired body into your home to eat dinner with you and your mom. He saved that for later and for now, he and you were occupied with scraped knees and tired knuckles from gripping the handles of your scooters, and a hill rolling down so far it seemed like it would take a lifetime to reach the bottom of it.
“Come on! We’ve been practicing for hours! You can do it!” His scooter was edging to slip off the slope and down the hill in eagerness. Yours stationed a foot behind with your helmet strapped snug around your chin and a grip around the handles so tight, you left the divots of each finger on the rubber padding.
“What if we die?” You looked at the back of his head soon turned to become his face as he peeled away his determined glare to a soft reassurance. Wheeling back to align the front of his scooter with the front of yours, he was left to subside to the beatings of his heart, fed by the sun placing itself on the crest of your helmet and the luminescent rays drizzling like a serene waterfall down your face and body.
He never thought about beauty much, being that he was no older than thirteen years, but seeing you under the aging sun had put it at the forefront of his focus.
“If we die… then you’re mom’s gonna be mad. So, I won’t let that happen.”
“Hobi!” You swung your arm that braised the bone of his shoulder not without a laugh at his rather playful response to your worries.
“Trust me. We don’t die. And whoever gets to the bottom first wins.” Your laugh served as a catalyst that quickened the pace of his heart. Whatever it was trying to tell him in this moment, it was surely of sizable importance being that it sent waves of warmth through his cheeks and down to his legs. The challenge now hadn’t been the epic scootering down the hill but putting his heart aside long enough to last the rest of dusk.
“Wins what?” You asked with intrigue.
“I don’t know. A piggyback ride all the way home.” Tired legs and a heavy head convinced you this prize had been worth the risk of falling, akin to dying in your perspective. Your head turned to the hill, looming over the intersecting street at the base of it, notifying Hoseok that backing down was no longer an option.
“Alright. Ready, set, go!”
Opening your mouth didn’t come with the expected release of terrified screams but laughs of thrilled enjoyment. The wind was cut through by your body, now rocketing down the gradient that felt much less steep than it looked, and you commended Hoseok for convincing you to tackle this seemingly trifling challenge.
“This is so fun!” Your yelp was lost in the rapid descent, but Hoseok, a few feet ahead of you, had been in range of your acclaim.
It was then when the young adolescence in his brain was overtaken by the guidance of his heart. His own tired body became alive and light. When you said this, the joy in your voice made the decision for him to discreetly apply pressure to the metal brake of his scooter with his heel, to realize he couldn’t make you carry him home.
Not because it was tiring for you, but he wanted to see the look on your face when you won. He needed that smile and the warm blanket of your eyes that would heal his aching muscles and tired body. And it was your open-mouthed smile and celebratory hops, along with the showering glints of sunlight and the end of dusk that turned his loss into an incredible win. His covert efforts to draw this joy from you came from a place none other than pure love.
“I won! Hobi, I won!” Without a second to spare, you ran and mounted his back with legs wrapped tight around his torso and your arms snug, but not quite choking, his neck.
“Alright, fair is fair.” Though, it wasn't fair. Not in the slightest, and Hoseok made sure of that.
The feeling of your soft, jaded breath against his neck was energizing, and every so often you would give his body a tight squeeze when he was struggling to trudge back up the hill, as if to thank him. And you were because you knew he let you win. You squeezed him in your arms, keeping firm to the memory of him and this triumph gifted to you. Though, it was not as great of a gift as Hoseok was to your life.
“Thank you, Hobi.” Your soft whisper was followed by an even softer kiss on his cheek, damp from the sun and the hill and the piggy-back ride. Soft enough to communicate to him the gratitude in your heart, which translated and directly manifested into his lungs now fanned of all the burning once inflaming them; his face sporting quite a bashful smile too.
He was not tired, not when he was holding you because it felt more like you were holding him. Like you were always going to hold onto him.
The neatly lined houses had little to no variation. Individuality in this small, suburban town was like finding that needle in the haystack. To him, your house was that shiny little pin. Your house was a home, and he saw that through the partly uncurtained windows that gave him a view of the scene inside. Most of the time, you were already seated by the sill, waiting for him to arrive.
You and Hoseok had arrived at the base of your driveway, staring up at the small incline that looked like it was taller than the Andes Mountains themselves to Hoseok.
“You know how I said we won't die?” You turned to his lightly blushed cheeks upon hearing this to see he was smiling. “Yeah, well, I think I’m going to die.”
His pearly whites cemented with metal braces and strands of his unkept hair stuck in the sweat of his forehead were sightly. You began to laugh, looking at the goliath hill separating you and him from a home-cooked meal courtesy of your mom, then back at the odd, awkward boy who had yet to discover the wonders of deodorant and properly fitted clothing.
Hoseok wasn’t all too desirable in terms of the traditional realm of attractiveness. His arms were lanky, unable to place themselves naturally at his sides without looking uneven, and his posture did him no favors either. And you took in all five foot five of him, before he hit a spur of growth, and thought he was the loveliest little thirteen-year-old in your grade and in the whole world.
“Come on, you know my mom won’t allow that. I got you, Hobi.” You weaved your hand through his, pulling with all the force your muscles could exert to haul him up the driveway. You made it to the top and your hand didn’t let go of him. Your mind was trying to deny the twists and turns of your stomach and the fast pumping of your heart any credence.
When all else fails, you must listen to your heart.
Both you and Hoseok discovered in your very young, inexperienced lives that hills and driveways and scooters and all the other trivial barriers were no match to hearts.
It was in first grade that he knew he was going to be your best friend. It was by eighth grade he knew he loved you. So much he’d carry you with bruised knees and broken arms to the ends of the earth.
2:00 - 4:00
Hoseok’s memories of you became sort of a mosaic. The little pieces of you were, singularly, a bit insignificant in the time they were being experienced. Often overlooked, and taken for granted, he couldn’t realize the beauty they captured until he stepped back. With distance, he saw the full picture, the ethereal mosaic had brought him a far and lonely appreciation for the past.
All throughout the day, he didn’t want to look into your eyes like he did the day you convened with him in the parking lot where he was smoking. His fluency of your eyes had unraveled with time, leaving him feeling illiterate in the language of you and completely lost. When he felt lost, he wanted his heart to guide him again, but it would instruct him to return to you and replenish the deserted friendship. However, from what everyone told him, even Dickson, he wasn’t worth the effort.
You had been staring at the door opened and closed by Hoseok, waiting to be opened and closed by you. As if there were a part of you deciding on letting him go, you tapped your hand against the table synchronically with the seconds ticking by on the clock. The door had eroded the rest of the library away, along with the three sets of eyes staring earnestly at you.
“So, are you gonna go or what? We have like two hours left and God knows whether he actually stayed on campus or not.” Seokjin sliced the wordless atmosphere with heavy hopes you would make any indication of your next move.
“Seokjin, shut up! ___, don’t feel pressured to do anything.” This overlaid Jimin’s pounding urge to hoist you up himself and throw you into the wiles of the halls.
“What? ___ clearly wants to find him.”
“Well, he clearly doesn’t want to be found. He’s such a child, honestly, I shouldn’t waste my time.” You knew you only said this to try and talk yourself out of the decision which had been established by your beating heart the minute Hoseok walked out. The obvious desire to follow him had been expressed through the discomfort you felt for tearing your eyes away from the door; you were guilty, above all else.
Each tap of your hand could have been a prelude to your inevitable pursuit of the man who, in fact, did want to be found. It was effortful but insincere to attempt leveling the scale between the two options of chasing or letting go; the opportunity of Hoseok was a weightier one than the life without him, executed through repetitive, passionless motions. You were bored, repulsed by the way you had lived out each moment of your life just to wait for the next and the next until your life was over.
“Come on, you know that’s not true.” Namjoon added, “We’ll cover for you if Dickson comes back. I really think you should go.”
“Yes, please. Go.” Seokjin placed his desires proudly once again.
“In all honesty, I think you should go t-”
“Enough! I’ve already gone down that path. All I ever got from it was unheard voicemails and ignored texts.” You were still looking at the door, and still trying to talk yourself out of it - and still feeling guilty.
“Love is hard, I get it. But-” You didn’t let Namjoon finish his well-thought out life lesson that would have coerced you into going after him.
“What? I don’t love him.”
“Ooo, ___ and Hoseok? Fire and ice. Rain and sun. Winter and Sum-”
“Seokjin, don’t you have an essay to write?” You cut his words down as well, finding none of their entertainment in your inner psyche appropriate. They were placing themselves in your mind, but to them it wasn’t so much of a locked door than a door wide open with its secrets spilling out faster than the tick of the clock and the tap of your hand.
“Well, he clearly loves you. I don’t know him that well, but I can assure you he doesn’t get like that around just anyone.” Whatever ‘like that’ meant, you were annoyed that you knew exactly what Namjoon was implying. It didn’t stop you from perpetual, stubborn denial.
“He doesn’t love me.”
“Oh… Are you being- Is ___…? Are- You’re stupid.” Seokjin’s words crumbled to near incoherency due to his complete astonishment for your lack of judgment. Perhaps if your belief that he didn’t love you was a genuine judgment, then his assessment would have been correct; you were being stupid.
“Well, fuck you too!”
“What he means to say,” Namjoon’s pause was to shoot Seokjin a disapproving glance, “is that it's really obvious you guys are into each other. I don’t know your history but there are definitely some unresolved feelings.”
“If you’re not gonna talk things out with him, at least tell him to come back so Dickson doesn’t get him into even more trouble.” Jimin’s addition only vegetated your inclination to find him again.
It made sense. It was rational, reasonable, and therefore possible. You couldn’t let him get in trouble. You were just doing him that small favor. In your head, it caked over the real reason; to know he still cared or to see his eyes looking back at you, and figuring out what was the wedge that drove you and him apart. Maybe this would somehow re-cultivate the half of your heart still hanging by the thread that tethered you to him.
“I-” You stood up, walking towards the door that was about to be opened and closed, and looked back at the three boys now favoring much more satisfied and slightly smug looks on their faces, “Oh, shut up.”
Jimin held his hand, palm facing the ceiling, in front of Namjoon who greeted it with a victorious high five. Seokjin held his pencil up to signify you that he could now peacefully start his essay, to which you smiled warmly. You couldn’t thank them out loud, because you had nothing to ‘thank’, or so you thought.
You were just making sure Hoseok wouldn't get in trouble. That’s all it was. Then, you opened and closed the door and began the chase again. This time, however, the fog that once hurdled your vision was easy to sift through with the loud beats of your heart navigating you through the moors of the hallways.
You turned left, then stopped to ponder on turning back and going right instead. Hoseok didn’t make this easy and you wouldn’t have expected anything less from him. Eventually, you just let your body wander the many halls for about ten minutes before you decided on furthering your search to the roof of the main building.
There was a new revenue of motivation that moved your legs forward. Before, they were struggling to keep up with everything life hurled at you. Now, it was far more determined and self-assured because you were moving towards a goal. You wanted to find him, and this time everything you had faced, all the loneliness, self-blame, forced smiles and friendships couldn’t keep up with you.
The stairs proved to be quite a test for your determination, and you passed with flying colors, heavy breaths, and inflamed hamstrings. You were lucky to push through the door and find him standing, staring off into the expanse of the fog. Towering over the haze had you realizing the entire school had been submerged, not just Hoseok and you and the library. Everything was under that sheet of blindness except for, as of now, you and Hoseok. The roof served as a platform to look upon the fog and stand safe from the numbing effect it debilitated on those in it. You knew he heard you. The perk of his ear as you ungracefully fell through the door to the open air told you he knew you were there.
You stood a few feet behind him, and he offered only the view of his back facing you. There was a line to be crossed if you were to go towards him, place your hand on his shoulder, and ask him to face you. Whatever line that was, you knew it was Hoseok who set it and you wanted to know why.
“It’s cold out here.”
He said nothing, but did provide the tenuous gesture to turn his head, giving you a side profile of his face. In turn, wiring through your eyes was the stains of what could only be deduced as tears along his cheek.
“Aren’t you cold? Let’s go back inside, Hobi.”
Hoseok couldn’t look, doing so would only invite you to join him. It would plot his every desire along the pavement and undress how much he wanted to have and hold you. But you were no one’s, least of all his, to hold.
“Dickson could be back any minute.” Your footsteps towards him raised the clarity of your voice. You were doing a fine job at hiding the real reason you came up to get him, both from yourself and Hoseok. It pinched his weathered heart that you had just come up to warn him about Dickson.
“Okay.” He answered curtly to bitter the atmosphere and showed no sign of leaving.
“Well, I’m not leaving here until you get your ass down there, so, you’ll be getting me in trouble too.” You crossed the line which felt more like walking over a burned bridge, and placed yourself next to him with perfect access to see his face.
He was even more beautiful standing above the fog.
You leaned your elbows next to his on the ledge of the building. His eyes, glistening from the tint of resisted tears, plowed over the treetops peeking through the top layers of mist. It was difficult to tell whether or not he was listening when his eyes were busy whispering secrets to everything in the far distance and the close proximities. To everything but you.
“Why?” Hoseok’s eyes were nudging towards the direction of you. He wanted so badly to look at you, to brave a glance but he was so cold out here that he had frozen over into ice.
In this ice, he couldn’t move or even breathe for that matter. Looking at you and not being able to move towards you was an unnecessary torture of which he'd rather not look at you at all. So, he remained in his calcified state, eyes edging dangerously close to you.
“Why what?” Your eyes moved away from him, to the fog instead, trying to see the ground below. “You’re staying up here, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m staying with you.” Hoseok was shocked that you said this with such decisiveness; it was difficult to decipher whether this proposition came as easily as it was said. The lonely glades of mist were entrenched by a new plurality, like a double-edged sword ready to cut through the veil of secrets. The more you would push through Hoseok’s skin, the more it penetrated your own.
“God! Why can’t you just leave?” He removed himself from the ledge, pacing over to the space in the middle of the roof. Thinking this would suffice the desperation for distance was a gross miscalculation. You too pulled away from the ledge that overlooked the foggy plains and placed your steps consecutively with his.
“Don’t you see I clearly don’t want you here?” That lie tasted much more sour when spoken out loud.
“I don't! Okay? I really don’t. I don't understand… I- Why did you leave? What the fuck did I do?” Your voice had matched in elevation with your frustration; you were not referring to him leaving the library, but to his cold departure from your life over three years ago. And with that, was the unending pursuit of him.
“___, you just have better places to be. So go! Stop staying with me. Jesus fucking Christ! Look at me!” His hands angrily emphasized his sharp features that would surely draw blood if you came too close. “You shouldn't be hanging around with someone like me.”
“Is that what this has been all about?” You stood paralyzed; your body was stunned from this all too underwhelming reason. You were hoping that this wasn’t it, there was surely a much more redeeming explanation for how he ripped your heart right out of your chest. The thought that this was the reason for the cut tie had cornered you in a fiery rage. It made you furious. “Are you fucking kidding me, Hobi? That’s what this is about?”
What better place to be than right here, with you? You knew he would not be generous in giving any further explanation, so this question remained in your head.
“Yeah, actually, it is.” A shiver riddled its way under his jacket. He turned towards you, finding that revealing the truth which cemented him into a miserable, solitary life was not as climactic as he expected. Nor did he expect it to be revealed in the first place.
But it was, unceremoniously, rolled onto the roof. He had nothing to hide anymore so he looked at you. Your eyes, that he could finally see since you were above the fog, were close to tears. Years and years of denial and repression compounding against your heavy heart now alleviated, but it was not the least bit rewarding. You thought he was absolutely delusional to believe the gesture that his abandonment was rooted in the effort to protect you, when all it did was hurt you.
“No I-” You swiped your hand against your cheek, though it was useless as tears soon replaced themselves on your face, “That’s so stupid. That’s- You think I care? I don’t give a fuck about what you look like or what you do, Hobi. Don’t you understand I-”
“No, you don’t understand. I’m not good.” His voice wavered through his throat, releasing more as a cry for help than an assertion of truth.
“How could you say that?” You did him the favor of taking the strides towards him. The initiative fell to you and your body moved through instinct to close that distance Hoseok kept trying to re-establish. His body was weak up close; when there was no space or fog and the jacket draped over his body could no longer keep his skin collected along his bones, he was weak and it was far more relieving to see him vulnerable.
“You were the best thing to ever happen to me. You were the only little first grader that wanted to be my friend and not just that. You showed me that someone could actually want to be my friend. You gave me so many years of happiness that would have been dreadful without you. I would have hated life without you. And I do! I hate life without you, Hobi. I’m so lonely.” You were unsure how you came to finally reveal every message your heart pumped through your veins and up to your brain for all these years, but you were glad it happened.
It wasn’t Hoseok’s lack of effort that kept all the good things he’s done under the rug of unimportance. It was the mounds of contempt the world held for kids like him. The stigma of abandonment and undesirability that was clamping down on any part of him brave enough to reach out, making it difficult for any feelings to be shown without irreparable harm or discouragement.
“You don't mean that.”
“I don't mean that. That’s it? That’s all you can say?”
It was, for the moment, all he could say. The feelings of unworthiness facilitated utter shame of himself like congruent figures now inseparable from each other and had molded a cage of confinement around Hoseok. His body was trapped under the scrutiny of everyone who expected him to fail, and one day he was afraid your eyes would join. That one day, you would look upon him with nothing of warmth, love, or admiration. Nothing of the eyes populated with blankets and storms and bountiful roses.
“You’re so fucking persistent!”
“Why are you pushing me away?”
“Because!”
“Tell me why! You know I deserve it.” The conversation metered out with a lot less organization and structure, which was the result of many untouched feelings released between the two of you. The blizzarding words were combative and destructive as well as reparative and conjoining, but most of all it was grievously uncivilized.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Three years. Three fucking years, Hoseok. I’ve wasted three years of my life blaming myself for losing you. Blaming myself for being lonely. God! I'm so mad at you! I'm so mad at myself for still loving you!”
And there it was. The last stroke of courage slipping from your mouth into the words spoken through an unfiltered and unrestrained heart. It was beating fast right now as if it had been unmoving in your chest for the past three years. Finally beating again, you felt all the blood return to your limbs in waves of pricks along the expanse of your skin.
Hoseok was not ready to be cast into the shallow, yet inescapable oasis of your testament. The remoteness of the past three years had him crawling through an emotionless desert, purged of any source of water or food or nourishments to keep his thick-skinned body functioning. The moment he was presented with a bit of the revitalizing water, Hoseok, like many starving people, dove into it too much, too fast.
He felt the atrophied muscles in his legs gain traction to glide towards you. The force was a savage agent of his tightly packed emotions which erupted the moment you said you loved him. He loved you, he knew that now, and his body wouldn’t allow him a second longer to sit desolate and starved.
Without stopping him, his lips planted roughly and passionately against yours. You were wrapping your arms around his neck before the logical sense of what was happening had been granted permission into your conscience.
Your heart, his heart, were guiding and deepening the kiss, only tangling you tighter into your dedication for him as much as it was twisting the confusion and unanswered questions into a larger, messier knot.
His tongue slid against your lower lip, assuming an entrance to slip himself into your mouth. Your jaw hung slightly agape and gluttonous at the way his lips spilled such tender movements against yours. His hands were running along your back fervently, holding your body firmly in place, like he was trying to keep his own body from disassembling.
Your lips were moving messily against his, though unchoreographed, they moved with a near perfect synchronicity. Refinement had seceded to your hunger to taste him. His mouth was sweet and hot, gentle and forceful, loving and angry, and the light pinch of his teeth that took your bottom lip between them had you moaning lightly into his mouth.
Then, everything once expounding into inexistence flooded back into reality. You divorced yourself from him as every empty promise claimed their demands to be fulfilled. The push against his chest was strong and it had to be in order to dissect that long awaited act of closeness.
“What the hell?”
A long interval of silence tormented the rooftop since Hoseok could only explain himself through guilty looks directed at the concrete floor. The surface upholding him was solid, of course, so it was strange that he suddenly felt like he was sinking into the ground below. His hand ran through his hair, trying to bring himself to words. To say anything or do anything other than take you in his arms and hold onto you so that his body wouldn’t sink beneath the roof’s malleable surface.
“I’m sorry.” And that was not good enough for you. Not when he kissed you like he loved you and didn’t let you fill three years with desperate, lost hopes.
“Sorry for what? For kissing me or for giving up on our friendship? Or for breaking my heart? Or for making me feel like I did something wrong or wasn’t enough for you? Or for making me think that everything built between us was just my imagination?” The list could have lengthened into an unplanned admittance of all the pain he caused you, however, it wasn’t the time for you to speak.
It was his turn.
“I guess I was just…” Afraid you wouldn’t want me anymore, “I guess I just didn't see it that way.”
“Stop lying.” You said and could only hope he wouldn’t revert to his evasive and insincere responses. Your hand came to rise and press against his chest. There was nothing to testify what came over you in this moment, but you wanted to feel his chest and know his heart was still beating. That, like yours, it still sent life throughout his body with its consecutive pumps. It was.
Ever so harshly pounding away at his rib cage as if it were trying to break free.
“I never… I never had anyone care.”
“And?”
“And I didn’t wanna drag you into my shit.”
“What? What the hell are you talking about?” Your hand moved from his chest to his chin, holding it in place so he couldn’t get the chance to look anywhere but into your eyes.
“Don’t be stupid, ___. My life isn't exactly picture perfect. From the beginning, my parents didn’t even want me.” He felt like he was being held emotionally captive by the years of trauma he had endured. Of the cycle of abuse and repression that crushed his will to feel anything at all. He was trying to break free. Despite all these facets of struggle, he spoke gently to you and it made your heart bleed empathy for his pain.
“Listen, there’s always that kid that everyone knows is trouble. Everyone knows that they’ll end up in a bad place. You know what I mean... That was me. I was that kid. I didn’t wanna drag you in that shit with me. You think I wanted to push you away? I had no other choice!” To you, he did have another choice. He could have stayed with you, but of course, he had no idea.
Hoseok looked at you so sadly, with eyes begging to be loved and a voice softened by his tender, bruised heart. He felt so isolated. The imminence of his downfall became prevalent ever since he began to pay attention to the judgmental whispers of teachers and parents on open house nights when he showed up parentless, or when he was the last one at extended day care when everyone else’s parents came to pick them up from school. Paying attention to detail was the wrench thrown into his life, unhinging the naivety, and drilling in its place the knowledge that society had ostracized him for being an orphan.
Maybe it was because you loved him so much, and it was blinding. You didn’t see much of the world outside of the lens of Hoseok, but you didn’t feel the need to see such a place. Your figment of him was always in a good light; you couldn’t fathom shedding darkness or disappointment or repulsion anywhere near him. So, when he said this, you were completely oblivious of that dehumanizing label many teachers, parents, and fellow students grouped him under.
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t.” He jerked his head away with a scoff. Though to no avail, your hand still mounted onto his chin.
“No I mean,” Your head turned down, attempting to process this information into coherency, “I don’t understand how anyone could see you like that.”
“See, this is exactly why I can’t be around you. I’d ruin you! You see the best in me and that's the worst thing you could do.”
‘Ruin you’? You still didn’t know what that meant.
“Were people really that bothered that you were an orphan?”
He said nothing. He simply looked at you as if you had pointed out an observation so universally accepted that it went unneeded to be discussed. Like it was a given to cast someone like him off, or to repeat his worthlessness until it was purged from a tongue bored of belittlement and moved onto the next victim of verbal assault. He was simply one of the dominoes falling into place. Falling on top of each forgotten and neglected child.
“You wanna know what Dickson said to me?” He paused, not to wait for your permission but to prepare himself to recount the hurtful things still pronging against his open wounds, “He told me I’m unwanted. He told me that I was going to end up some loser not even worth considering a part of society. Basically, I’m damaged goods, ___, and you shouldn’t be hanging around me. You actually have a chance to make something out of yourself. Don’t waste that chance on me. I can’t let you do that.”
“You know that's not true.” Your hand moved to his cheek since he slipped too easily away from your grip of his chin. You held him in place, you held him with you.
“Why shouldn’t I believe it? ___, think about it. I am pathetic. My own parents didn’t even want me. And my foster parents told me I was just a financial asset. That my only worth was their monthly foster parent check.”
It was crushingly difficult to hear such punishing words coming from Hoseok. That he not only had to endure the unfeigned demoralization of those who saw his worth to be instrumental but that he had come to believe them. He came to resent himself for a choice that was not his to be made but still suffered every waking day for it.
“And I guess I thought you were going to leave me behind like everyone else seemed to do. Like everyone eventually just wants to get rid of me.”
“What?” The core pillar of your relationship with Hoseok relied on his permanence in your life, so hearing him fear what didn’t once cross your mind took you back as well as your hand. “Hobi, how could you think that?”
He shrugged distantly.
“Don’t. Don't you dare.” Almost out of nowhere, your soft cries were emulsified by the dryness of the air and turned into a heavy sob. But, it was not out of nowhere. It was from somewhere deeply upset that you let him think so lowly of himself all these years. That maybe, you hadn’t fulfilled your job as his best friend. “First of all, don’t you dare say that about yourself and second of all Dickson is a piece of shit.”
“___, please don’t cry.” He was urgent in his request.
Not over me. Don’t waste your wilting petals of tears over my corpse.
“You thought I would leave you? You weren’t protecting me from whatever inferiority complex you’ve carried around your whole life. You were protecting yourself.”
“It’s not like that.” He stepped towards you, trying to ignore the wince worthy pain when you dodged him as if he were a bullet. “___, I love you.”
You were astounded by the signals so contrasting of each other that they led you to a plight of hysterics. You had to let out a flustered chuckle at the way he told you he would be heading left then turned right when you were already walking on the opposite path.
“I love you.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“I love you.”
“You have a fucking horrible way of showing it.” Your arms folded over your chest and he realized it was his turn to keep your gaze locked with his. To chase you and to be put in the position that he forced you into three years ago. “I can’t understand you.”
“I was weak. If your hands were covered in blood would you walk up to something good and clean and force your stains on it? Would you leave disgusting prints of yourself on something so pure just because you were the only person in my life that didn’t see me as just an orphan?” Hoseok drowned himself in his words, but obtained and kept a soft hold on your cheeks with his hands.
He was unable to register how distorted his perception of himself was in your eyes, feeling as though everything he said drowned his lungs with waters that almost choked him from speaking at all.
There was a borderless delusion which fraught the comparison Hoseok just explained. It fell close to thoughtless and hollow, the way he reduced you to some virginal, helpless and unattainable prize on a pedestal; he subjected you to some paradigm of pristine stature that wouldn’t have the good nature to be anything less than empathetic for him. Though, you were not the image of purity or unmarred of pain and suffering; he was the reason for that.
“I'm not some little innocent kid. I know bad shit happens, but I’d never let that change the way I see you.” Filling the vacancy of your heart wasn't all too touching. You were distraught, distrustful, of everything in this world that led Hoseok to such a destructive mindset. To ruin the sweetest boy and subject him to undeserved misery. “You’re not just an orphan. You will not let that define you, you hear me? You are you. You are Jung Hoseok. To me, you will always be Hobi.”
The most frustrating part of this was tied between the fact that no real blame could be placed on one contender and the difficulty of understanding someone’s story when it went untold for far too long. Perhaps you had been pretending his pain didn’t exist because it was easier to see him as a stone-like, uncaring heathen. It was easier to cover your deep grief for losing him with hatred, but it did nothing to solve the division between you two; at the end of the day, you were still lonely and you still needed him. Wasting three years away to bitter resentment was nothing compared to knowing the truth of it all but having no power in redirecting yourself to compassion rather than anger.
“I should have been honest. I was scared.” He said. “I just thought I could never be enough for you.”
The fog was fully cleared. Your eyes panned from the edge of the roof to Hoseok’s needful gaze and down his addicting lips. All this time, he was just as alone and just as afraid, existing no less than a car ride away from you and still light years from ever being able to garnish his defeat with an admittance that he needed someone.
What more was there to say? Hoseok could have droned on about the way his foster parents stripped him of innocence and tossed him into the frigid hands of self-reliance or how he felt himself sinking into failure when the world of no mercy pulled him by the ankle and dragged his thrashing body through life without the guidance of someone who knew what was best for him. He could have explained how every unmet expectation put him against the world, in constant competition with not just everyone else but himself. Fighting against his need to be cradled and cared for with his resistance to tenderness enacted to thicken the skin on his body so the weaponry of an orphaned life, unearned glares of contempt and disapproval, and predisposed low regards wouldn’t dig as deeply.
He could have relayed all his nights lost to wondering why he wasn’t worth keeping. Why a child without the slightest clue how to dress, or bathe, or speak, or trust was turned away by the very people who brought him into this world and had to figure out all these lessons on his own.
It was the depletion of his own self-worth that drove him to loosen his grips, and how that was not of apathy but instead caring too much to let himself get in the way of your opportunely life. Letting you go was a loss that came with a painful imminence.
He said none of this because you looked at his eyes and he looked at yours. Through the clean air, the ripe and unhazed space among reuniting stares, he saw what your eyes carried. It was an ocean. A place of immeasurable depth and complexity, never still and constantly giving the sand something to shelter and love. A wide body of life and water that replenished the seared collection of bones under the parched skin of Hoseok’s flesh.
In loving you, in gazing into you, he let the water diffuse his skin until he was skinless, fully bone.
“I never stopped.” You redacted the fact that you were referring to loving him, because the unsaid implications were communicated much more beautifully and accurately than what the entire collection of the English language could attribute.
“Me neither.” Hoseok paused, dropping his hands from your face to his sides knowing with full confidence you and your gaze would remain with him, “I don’t know what to do.”
“About what?”
“I hate living. It's terrible. Everything about my life is terrible and I hate it.” His face turned wet quickly. Seeing this brought a natural desire to hold him again and to cast off his despair with your loving touch.
“Am I terrible?” You asked, hoping your words would serve as that gentle caress.
“No, how- Why would you say that?”
“Because I’m a part of your life. You might have gotten rid of me once, but I’m here to stay. Am I so terrible?”
“No. You’re wonderful.”
“Can you look at me and tell me I’m wrong when I say I need you in my life just as much as you need me?” The stagnant exchange of undeterred eyes was a comforting overture. A beginning that was not quite new, but a dormant adventure ready to be reborn into fruition.
“No.”
“So, I’m going to tell you. Hoseok, I need you in my life because I love you. Because no matter what people may say, you’ve brought nothing but love and happiness into my life.” The words, like a needle and thread woven into him, stitched the fabric of his heart back to fullness. “Do you understand? I believe in you. I will be there for you. That’s what friends are for.”
“You’re my friend.” It constituted both a question and an irrefutable statement.
“Yours.”
“Mine.” He smiled softly, a gentle disparity against his tears.
“Life won’t be so terrible. I promise. If we have each other. If we have people who care, life is not so terrible. You have me, Hobi, you have someone who cares.”
There was no profound revelation with what you said. Nothing that was original or unordinary; it was quite common to be told you were cared about. One could refine your words to about three, maybe four, with the same tact. But that is exactly what made it original and unordinary to Hoseok. Countless people said the words ‘I care about you’, trillions of times and in hundreds of different ways and languages. It was said over and over again but Hoseok was never familiar with the comfort of being on the receiving end. To be cared about, and to be told he was cared about was quite revolutionary, and a completely profound rarity to him. And to him, these words were invented by your caring tongue; the first utterance that transformed the radical concept of care into something plausible.
Sometimes, that’s all one needs. To be told they are cared for. Sometimes it’s enough to clean the bone of its wretched, heavy skin.
“What’s going to happen now?” You and he had migrated to look out to the fog ejecting itself among the trees and stretching all the way to the horizon. The trees were sitting so close together yet far enough for fog to slide between them. You wondered if the trees knew that they weren’t alone.
“At this point, it's up to you.”
Once again, it wasn’t said. The beautiful things were expressed through silence because it somehow fertilized the sincerity with greater effect. Verbalizing them would have tainted what was kept clean and loving inside the warmth and safety of your hearts. You never knew to have such a connection with someone where the most important things that should be said aloud were somehow louder when they weren’t. Somehow, with the gentle brush of his arms against your sides as he was embracing you from behind, it was louder than words.
There was a stillness encompassing every piece of this moment. A stillness of the air, of time, of the two bodies placed above the fog. You and Hoseok were arrested from reality, lounging in the freedom of each other’s presence. The bright orange sun permeated through the grey clouds, reflecting specks of light along the faces of you and him. Seeing your skin once again carrying soft ornaments of the sun’s rays returned him to the only place he felt like he belonged: your heart. Being taken away from the chaos of life, Hoseok felt that this Saturday fell within the bounds of eternity.
“Are we going to be okay?”
“Together, we will be. We have each other.”
You took his hand in yours, fingers sliding together. His attention was stolen by you, or maybe it had belonged to you this whole time and was simply being returned to its rightful owner, still soaking in the sweet rays of the sun. He had no facetious, obtuse comment to tack along the tenderness of the roof. For once, he was vulnerable. It felt euphoric, like his heart truly began to pump life blood into his body.
“Okay.” He readied himself for the new world he was about to embark on, though this time, it was hand in hand with you.
“Ready?” You took a few steps back, towards the stairwell, your arm pulling Hoseok along, “I got you, Hobi.”
He nodded, no longer afraid of the dark halls. His narrative was not a singular venture. There was a partnership, a force of love perhaps, that pushed him to step forward.
Hoseok once feared no one would get to his bones; to see the skeleton of himself underneath the epidermal armor. After many years and many layers of skin, no one had attempted much less succeeded in exposing his bones that yearned to be seen by the eyes of someone brave enough to face this quagmire.
And by chance, by timing's watchful eye, you had done just that. Lovingly exfoliated each layer of skin, washing away the scars and bruises of everything they had endured, and held his bones bare in your hands. Standing in the glimmering ocean waves of your eyes, feeling his bones, purified of all grief, against the air and conflated four years’ worth of the lonely, blinding fog once surrounding him.
Standing in the sandbox once again of double occupancy.
“I love you.” The words cascaded off his tongue with the same grace and earnest of what being in love felt like. Hoseok couldn’t do a lot of things and had quite a bit of trouble expressing himself for these past few years, but his love for you was something that couldn’t be anything less than accurate and sincere to do his heart a bit of justice.
“You said that already.”
“Are you going to say it back or not?” He pulled you in by your waist, leaving you no other option than to oblige the requests he flew into the air.
“I love you, Hobi. I do. I love you.” Your hands lifted to his face, and his cheeks were warm. Though soft skin covering it, you could feel his bones. They were being caressed, loved, touched by your hands.
He closed his eyes, trying to remember the last time he felt this at home when he wasn’t in your home of linens and lemons. His face shifted to the side to press his lips into your palm.
“I love you.” He said again, seeping into skin, printing the words into your bones. Hoseok had to repeat it, just to hear you say it once more, to make sure it was all real. That it wasn’t just him that was melting into the art of you, but the art of you touching him, coalescing with him.
“I love you.” Tears of his face were brushed by your thumb and they didn’t feel like the sad ones shed before. They were a sweet and gentle ode to everything he’d ever wanted since the moment he asked to play with you in the sandbox.
You were crying as well, holding him in your hands. Holding him. You could not see the fog, the only thing rapturing every sense was Hoseok. Your lips pressed lightly against his, feeling him smile into the kiss, and that drowned out the crisp, punishing air that pricked chills against your cheeks.
Hoseok knew he was going to be okay.
The two of you made your way back to the library, greeted with three suspenseful eyes, trained against the doorway partly from apprehension that Dickson would return and partly from hoping you and Hoseok would make a swift return. They, too, cared and wanted to see if Hoseok’s skin had finally shed.
“Heeeeey.” Seokjin drew out his coy greeting to tease you and Hoseok for the all too noticeable gesture of holding hands. Jimin and Namjoon were captured in the physical intimacy that you two casually displayed as well.
“You two took your sweet time, didn’t you?” Namjoon said to the pair of smiling faces now returning to the table behind Jimin without further explanation. He was implying the long absence of you and Hoseok was not delayed through a reprimand from Dickson but by your own insatiable desires for each other.
“I found this idiot on the roof. Took me a bit to convince him to come back down here, but I did it.” You turned over to Hoseok who was investing his efforts in rearranging himself back into an outwardly tough manner.
“Oh, I bet you had to do a lot of convincing, huh ___.” Seokjin’s comment was met with a light slap against his shoulder by your hand for his lewd teasing, and the way his fingers imitated quotation marks when he said the word ‘convincing’.
“Hey! I actually had to convince him. This man is very, very stubborn.”
“Yeah, ___ wouldn’t leave me alone so I didn’t have much of a choice.” He stared at his hand once being held in yours, trying to shovel over the smile simmering on his lips. Jimin shifted to face you and Hoseok, eyes squinting to slits from reading the overwhelmingly happy expressions on your faces.
“So, Dickson came back.” Jimin said, smiling widely.
“Oh shit. What did he say?”
“We all pretended that we could see you and he was the only one that couldn’t see you guys. It was hilarious, you should have seen his face.” Seokjin intervened with his own account of the story. Jimin turned to him and burst out laughing harder than when Dickson walked like a defeated soldier out of the library.
“He was like, ‘You kids need to learn respect. You mess with the bull, you get the horns’ whatever that means. But he didn’t even end up doing anything because he knew we wouldn’t snitch. But, damn, you should have seen his face.” Jimin’s hand covered his mouth during the process of him laughing and wedging in pieces of the story in between.
“That sounds like the dumbest cover up ever, but I guess Dickson is somehow dumber than that.” The count of five smiles amounted to each of you hunching over with laughter at the vice principal’s idle reactions to the detentionees displaying a clear sign of insubordination.
“He is. He really is that dumb.” Namjoon said during a pause from whatever he was drawing.
“Well, either way, I appreciate the effort. And Hobi does too, even though he won’t admit it.” His stubborn disavowal of expressing appreciation contrived through rolled eyes that then landed onto the four others accompanying his space. Though shadowed through his many apathetic modes of emoting, he found this Saturday detention not only bearable, but enjoyable. He found himself attached to other people after severing all ties from actual intimacy. Being connected and vulnerable was an easier way of going about his life. And, he didn’t realize it then, but he planned on keeping it that way.
“Hey guys?” Seokjin tossed aside the Dickson debacle with this conversational prelude, “What’s gonna happen when we go back out there?”
“What do you mean?” You asked, absentmindedly reaching over to grab Hoseok’s hand at the mention of leaving the safe space of the library. He responded to you with a gentle, reassuring squeeze that eased the contraction of your worried muscles.
“We’re still gonna be friends, right?” The prospect fell into consideration as the five of you were moved to silence. After a few exchanges of ambivalent and uncertain glances, Namjoon worked in a soft smile to soothe the frightful thought of returning to the harsh reality.
“Yeah. We are.” His confirmation spoke for the rest of your benevolent agreement.
“Well, I better see you guys at all of my games.” Jimin set this expectation as a receival of the newly polished friendships, grooming quite a bit of fondness being that the four of you knew more about Jimin than his own parents. “And, we’ll be sure to go to Namjoon’s.... Art competitions?”
“Not quite, but I appreciate the thought.” Namjoon laughed.
The commonalities that were once so obscured between you all had become clear by the arrival of the eighth hour. Though there were many obstacles placed to stint any form of connection between five polar adversaries, you all found a salve from the relentless feeling of loneliness through each other. Your essays were never written, finding Dickson’s call for another Saturday detention of probable cause. Even if you were to write an essay on what you did wrong and why it was wrong as well as why you were sorry, there would be no truth unveiled in it. You all found that living unapologetically had been a far more effective catalyst for growth and maturation than any half-hearted essay assigned by a man with no credentials to call himself a student administrator.
There was that phrase, "down to the bone", that had hung over Hoseok's mind for quite a bit today. Some say it implies when you've spent all you had, and are left with the poverty of dry marrow. That, to him, was a mutilation of the phrase which he couldn't accept.
This colloquial, "down to the bone", could not be a reference to having nothing left. Not in his case at least. Not when he felt so full of safety with nothing but his bones under the home of your eyes and hands
Hoseok looked at you, then to the other three and knew things would be different. Eventually, things would get better, he just had to wait long enough for those better things to come.
You found each other, and that was all that mattered.
A week later, you met up in the campus’ cafe with Jimin, Namjoon, Seokjin, and Hoseok discussing the rather insignificant topic of which contestant was going to be eliminated from the reality television show you had all been keeping up with.
“Hey, did you guys ever actually write that essay Dickson told us to write?” Seokjin asked, knowing he had failed to do so.
“Nope.” Jimin said unregretfully, almost with a prideful twist.
“Of course not.” You replied.
“Well, I might have written something on behalf of all of us. It wasn’t an essay per say, more like a letter to Dickson.” Namjoon said smugly into the cup of his coffee.
“What? What did you write?” Jimin put forth the curiosity shared by the four of you.
“Oh nothing too special.” But, of course, if it was anything of Namjoon’s doing, it was something entirely special.
You decided not to further pry on the specifics of what was written, rather sipping your coffee and learning not to regret how the hot liquid burned your tongue. Those eight hours spent in the library gifted you with a wider perspective. Maybe you burned your tongue on this coffee, and tomorrow you might miss the bus to work. Or, sometime in the near future, there would be a new store in the mall that lured you away from the errands set to a schedule and you would have to rush back to work a few minutes late. You learned that these small misdirections in life happen, at the exact right time and the exact right place.
The grateful receive of every moment, deliberate or erroneous, was like a single grain of sand. One grain might pinch out some annoyance. Ten was too textured to ignore. Dozens and thousands padded down as a sandbox where two childhood friends could play. And millions of grains of sand, of gratefully received moments, cultivated a soft shoreline; a place where the deep blue tides had a comfortable bed to tumble onto when it was tired from the tempestuous ocean. Where the contents of the ocean could spill along the wet sand, and it would humbly the tired water’s offerings. A place where a mass of misty, opaque air could roll in, cover every inch of the ocean and would blind the eyes.
But, never the heart.
The hearts, joined since the first grade, were free of scars because of the plethora of love that continued to flourish even in your absence. Love always keeps the heart safe.
Timing was a fickle arbiter, always tearing you from one thing to the next and the next and the next, but somehow leading you to exactly where you were meant to be. It has a way about itself, inevitably delivering you into the lives of those you were meant to be with.
With Jimin, with Namjoon, with Seokjin.
And once again with Hoseok.
-----
a/n: thank you so much for plowing through this long, angsty one shot! i am so happy to finally release this and hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed creating it. as always, i would love to hear feedback from you lovely readers!
#bangtanarmynet#btswriterscorner#btsgoldnet#bts fanfic#bts one shot#bts fluff#bts angst#bts x reader#jung hoseok#hoseok x reader#hoseok angst#hoseok fluff#hoseok fanfic#bts ot7#bts high school au#hoseok bad boy au#namjoon x reader#jimin x reader#seokjin x reader#hoseok one shot#bts writing#rubycoast#the eighth hour
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Main six with an MC that sleep talks? Like cryptic short lines “Not the closet man” or stuff like that if it makes sense.
Hi thanks for requesting I hope you like it! (Also I think it’s canon that the Mc sleep talks (in asra route I think unless they changed it.)
Main six with an mc that sleep talks
Asra
He can, will, and has had full on conversations with you, but at the same time is also terrified of waking you up, so if you’re a light sleeper, he’ll casually ask you how the ‘closet man’ is doing over tea the next morning
He also laughs him self silly if it’s something really ridiculous to the point where he has to leave the room over even go outside to stop him self from waking you up. Bonus points if he’s laughing due to something you said in a sleep conversation with him
It used to be canon, that you could communicate with asra through dreams ( I quite frankly really miss that pointless scene, to me it felt like a little bit of lore that’s now gone, but anyway-) for the sake of this headcanon I’m just gonna say you can still communicate through dreams- if asra can tell your getting distressed through your sleep talking, he’ll just pop in during one of your dreams and check in on how your doing, and just be there for you, espically if he thinks it’s a nightmare
Not part of the headcanon, but did you know, that if you and a person vibe hard enough, telepathy is actually possible? Which includes going into each others dreams, so technically that last headcanon should be possible regardless, but moral of the story is : if you and your homie know like everything about each other, and we’re to like mediate at the same time, you could enter each other’s minds if that makes any sort of sense I also heard it works best when you take shrooms just be safe- (if your really Intrested I could make a post explaining it better, but google may be your best bet because I’m not always factually correct, nor am I good at explaining things, if you couldn’t tell)
Nadia
She finds it very cute, very endearing. She’ll always stifle her laughs when you say something incredibley stupid, but some times a giggle or two sneaks out regardless. She isn’t the type to really talk to you while your sleeping (she has once or twice) but she will ask you about what you were talking about in your sleep if she remembers
On nights when you won’t shut up, and she has a meeting early in the morning, she’ll gently run your arms or your sides or your back, trying to get you to calm down a tiny bit, so she can get some rest too, even though you seem to be enjoying your self In your dream state.
If she can tell your having a nightmare due to what you were saying, she’ll call the servants to bring you in some water, or tea, and gently wake you up so you could talk about it, while she holds your drawing circles in your back.
Julian
“Didnt know it did that-“ all jokes aside, he’s a little taken back,not that he minds he’s just surprised that’s all, but he finds it adorable nonetheless. He is the type to talk to you in your sleep, but talk a little too loudly and wake you up (by accident of course)
After a long day of work, if when he goes to bed, your mumbling things in your sleep, he’ll sight to himself and mumble things back to you, half asleep half awake, just holding you, enjoying himself in the peace and not so quite. But frankly he doesn’t mind, he never liked quite anyway
If he thinks your starting to have a nightmare in your sleep, he’ll try to engage you in a ‘sleep conversation’ to try to change the topic to something your not so distressed about. (Granted I’m not sure if this is possible, but I do know that when we sleep there are eight(?) stages we go through, the one we dream in is where we are the most alert or awake we are, when we sleep so it should be possible) He doesn’t want to wake you up, he’s lost to much sleep to nightmares, he doesn’t want you to have to go through that too.
Portia
She’s a giggling mess honestly. The more ridiculous, the better. Her laughing also wakes you up most nights, and if were being honest, you probably get so used to hearing her laugh that you just sleep through it.
In a modern au, she would normally sleep with the tv on because the noise helps her sleep, but when ever you sleep over, or the two of you start living together she doesn’t need it on ever again, your sleep talking is the only noise she needs. Plus she likes the sound of your voice better.
If she can tell your starting to have a nightmare she holds you close and tells you it will be okay, that what ever your dreaming about isn’t real and that the ‘closet man’ isn’t out to get you, but if it gets too bad, she’ll wake you up, and the two of you talk about the crazy stuff you said earlier in the night
Muriel
It makes his heart feel funny, his face turn red, and his palms are more sweaty than usual. He thinks it’s the weirdest thing ever. But that’s good! Because one major take away from Muriels character is that he thinks weird=cute. As he should
He isn’t the type to talk to you in your sleep, being that he’s not much of a talker in general, but he’ll hold you close and rub your back and tell you to ‘go to sleep’ even though he knows damn well you are sleeping. He also snorts when ever you say something really stupid.
When your having a nightmare he’ll hold you close when it first starts up, but as it gets worst and your talking is more frantic, he’ll wake you up, and ask you if you want to to talk about what you were talking about in your dream (I hated writing that oh my god-) he’ll also make some tea and burn some incense to help calm you down
Lucio
He’s confused at first, why are you talking in your sleep, who are you talking too, are you okay? Do you need a doctor? Medical attention? The weirder the sentence or conversation the more concern he becomes, he starts to think that maybe, just maybe your possessed by a demon. Which wouldn’t be uncommon in vesuvia.
He will wake you up at first, when the conversations, or sentences get a little to weird for him, but once he figures out that this is a normal thing you do, he start to feel better, and he also starts to think it’s really cute. And amusing.
If your having a nightmare, he’ll wake you up and kiss away your tears, and holdyou close. He’ll try to make fun of some of the things you said in your sleep, to make you feel better, but if that doesn’t work, he’ll hold you telling you not to worry it will be okay. He’ll protect you from the ‘closet man’
Ahhhhh I feel like this was a little off from what was requested, I’m just really tired, but if you don’t like anything I’ll fix it! No complaints! But if you did like what I wrote and want to read more you can find my master list here!
Next headcanon: Asra and Nadia reacting to Mc taking a hit for them
✨My request are open✨
They’re backed up, but still open (I’ll close them when I reach 50 request)
#the arcana#the arcana game#asra headcanons#julian devorak the arcana#lucio headcanons#lucio the arcana#muriel headcanons#muriel the arcana#nadia the arcana#portia the arcana#asra the arcana#asra alnazar#the arcana asra#julian devorak headcanons#julian the arcana#the arcana julian#julian devorak#lucio morgason#the arcana lucio#muriel of the kokhuri#the arcana muriel#nadia headcanons#the arcana nadia#nadia satrinava#portia headcanons#the arcana portia#portia devorak#the arcana main 6#the arcana hc#the arcana headcanons
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everybody's got their demons, even wide awake or dreaming | part two
Photo credit: Jess Gleeson
Hello friends! Hope you’re having a lovely day. It’s time for part two of this series! Lizzie takes her opportunity to interview Calum one-on-one in this part. If you need to catch up on Part One, you can do that here. Onwards!
(This is a fem!OC story)
Word count: 3.2k
Warnings: none? i don’t think?
More writing here | send thoughts/feedback/suggestions here | if you’d like to be on my taglist go here
The day or so leading up to Lizzie’s one on one interview with Calum was a blur, as Lizzie tried to fix her body clock and orientate herself with how to get around LA. Her boss had offered her the opportunity to hire a rental car, but the idea of driving on the wrong side of the road was too much for Lizzie to stomach, so Ubers were the go.
Her body sometimes overslept, sometimes woke her up at 4am, so Lizzie had downloaded a yoga and meditation app to try and sort herself out. She might’ve almost given herself a concussion after toppling over while trying to do a particularly tricky pose, but no one needed to hear about that. The bruises on her elbow were embarrassing enough.
Danielle had sent Lizzie a text the morning of her lunchtime interview with Calum, confirming the time and place as they’d discussed. Lizzie had handwritten some notes for her questions, trying to contemplate what she could ask Calum that would differ to the others. Or maybe she should ask them all the same questions, and then in the piece she could compare and contrast responses? It was so hard to know what would make the best piece, especially with interviewing Calum in particular. Lizzie knew from watching other interviews, and in her group interview with all of the band the other day (and from back in their school days) that Calum was a man of few words. When he did speak, it was usually with purpose and thought, and made for some great content, but he wasn’t always particularly forthcoming. Which is why it had surprised Lizzie that Calum had volunteered for the first solo interview, but given Michael’s behaviour, she was glad to be continuing with the profile piece at all.
It was a really warm day, so Lizzie had to forego her usual blazer and jeans in favour of a long green dress with blue and white flowers on it. Her hands were sweaty as the Uber pulled up to the café Calum had suggested, and something in the back of Lizzie’s mind suggested it wasn’t just from the weather. She’d always been an anxious person, but she’d gotten a handle on it recently; this whole LA debacle had brought it back with a vengeance.
Calum was waiting for her just in front of the café, dark wayfarer sunglasses covering his eyes and his phone in his hand as he leant up against the brick wall beside the café door. He was wearing a grey hoodie and jeans, and nobody coming in or out of the café seemed to pay him any attention; but then again maybe people of Calum’s level of fame were just part of the furniture around here. It was near to Hollywood, after all.
“Hey, thanks for agreeing to meet me.” Lizzie’s voice wasn’t overly loud, but it still made Calum jump as he looked up from his phone at her.
“Of course, of course. I know I sound like a broken record, but we really are excited for you to do this piece. The new album era is something I’ve been looking forward to for a while, and - “ Calum began, smiling warmly at Lizzie, who cut him off by pulling open the café door.
“Before you start getting all meaningful and quotable on me, shall we get a coffee and take a seat?”
“A woman after my own heart. Let’s do it. Pro-tip, the brownies here are to die for.”
The café was bustling, but most of the patrons seemed to be lining up for takeaway orders. Calum stepped ahead of Lizzie and slipped into a booth towards the back, near a frosted window, greeting the wait staff by name as he went. Lizzie scurried after him, apologising as she accidentally bumped into a tall man with her shoulder bag in her haste and he glared at her. Guess not everyone was as friendly as Calum, then. She slid into the booth opposite Calum, pulling out her notebook and phone as she went.
“Is it okay if I record this? I’m not very good at taking notes.”
“Straight into it, LL? At least let a man have his coffee first.” Calum deadpanned, and Lizzie felt her face fall before she realised he was joking with her.
“Of course, sorry. Let’s order. The brownies, you said? How big are they?” Lizzie pasted a smile onto her face, grabbing for the menu on the table in front of her.
“I have it on good authority that they’re perfectly Lizzie-sized. Calum-sized, too - a real multipurpose snack.” Calum was teasing her now, but also being completely serious, as he got the attention of a waitperson who came over to welcome them and take their orders. A skinny latté for Lizzie, an iced coffee for Calum, and a warmed up chocolate brownie with a side of coconut yogurt for them each. They fell into easy conversation, about the weather, and Calum’s neighbourhood, and the other pieces Lizzie had written, almost forgetting why they were there in the first place. When their order of coffees and brownies arrived, Lizzie suddenly snapped out of her feeling of ease when she had to push her notebook and phone over on the table and remember that she was supposed to be interviewing Calum Hood, 5SOS bassist, not catching up with Calum Hood, her Year 9 science lab partner.
“Now that you’ve got your coffee, can I start recording?” Lizzie asked timidly, as she took a bite out of her brownie and audibly groaned at how heavenly it tasted.
“Depends. Will your brownie orgasm be mentioned in the article?” Could Calum say anything that wasn’t teasing her? Damn it.
“Maybe. Perhaps I’ll do a twitter thread of my trip food highlights, given that the profile piece will be under embargo until the album comes out.” Lizzie deadpanned right back, earning a smile and a small chuckle from Calum.
Lizzie hit record on her phone’s voicenote app, sliding the phone into the centre of the table. She flipped open her notebook to the page marked “Calum”, and she could see Calum trying to read her writing upside down.
“No spoilers, mate. I’ve got a strategy here.” Lizzie mused, angling her notebook so it was harder for Calum to see as he raised his hands in mock surrender.
“Well then, Ms Lawson from Junkee Australia, do your worst.” He flashed her a grin, before taking a sip of his coffee followed by a bite of his brownie (sans any groaning… that must only be a first-time brownie thing).
“So, in our chat yesterday, it was mentioned that this next album is, in some ways, a letter to your homeland, and a reflection on your journeys so far as individual artists as well as being 5SOS collectively. For you, as Calum Hood, what’s the main contribution or perspective that you feel you’ve brought to this album, and the band?” Lizzie saw a flicker of something in Calum’s eyes as she shifted into journalist mode easily, but he only paused for another sip of coffee before answering.
“I think at this point, my main contribution is balancing the collective contributions in the room. I have a lot to say, and I do a lot of songwriting, but I also think the others would agree that I’m also quite observant, so I can read a lot into things they’re saying, or not saying, and bring it out of them into the music. We’ve known each other for almost half our lives at this point, so we know each other better than anyone else, but when we work with other co writers and things like that it can be hard to feel entirely comfortable with the vulnerability you need to bring into writing a song or telling a particular story that day. I’ve got the rep as the strong, silent, shy type, I know - “ Calum paused and returned the soft smile Lizzie was giving him, as she nodded encouragingly.
“But in interviews, when I’m being asked to explain myself and validate my artistic choices, I’m immediately more defensive and protective of it, because there’s something magical about the writing room, and the vulnerability that can only exist in that context when we’re songwriting, and creating that art. The end product, which is the song or the album or whatever, conveys the emotions in a way that I could never say them with words, and the beautiful thing is that so many people can listen to it and relate to it in ways that I’d never considered before. But that’s the power of it, you know? We make these songs to express ourselves, and fulfil our creative outlets, but it extends beyond that, and that’s the part that gets me.” Calum finished speaking and reached for another sip of his coffee.
“Right. The magic exists in the studio, and on the stage, and in individual people’s lives when they listen to the music wherever they are in the world, and it’s the connecting thread that brings you together with your fans, a moment that you can share even if you never meet.”
“Exactly, it’s the universal experience, and everyone has their own interpretation of what it means to them. Pisses me off when people try and dig to find out who we wrote a certain song about, or whatever. Sometimes it is a specific person or a moment, other times I make shit up to suit the vibe of a chord progression or a concept someone’s brought to the table. It’s a juicier headline if we name and shame, but it’s not fair to the person I’m writing about, especially if they don’t have a similar outlet for a right of reply, and it’s also irrelevant, because my meaning behind a song could be completely different to yours, but that doesn’t make it less valid.” Calum shrugs as he speaks, his tone calm and nonchalant.
“Makes sense. The music can exist as art, and be open to interpretation, like everything in life. And with this album, and reflecting on your homeland… what does that mean, for you? Because 5SOS have lived almost their entire adult lives overseas, so I know it must be hard to self-determine a cultural identity that’s so strongly linked to somewhere you haven’t lived for so long.” Lizzie asks, munching down another bite of brownie.
Calum cocks his head to the side and rolls his bottom lip into his mouth, and Lizzie feels a lump rise in her throat. Had she phrased the question wrong? Was he mad? Had she struck a nerve? Fuck.
“Sorry, we don’t have to - I mean, we can keep discussing the album in a different way if you’d prefer -” Lizzie started babbling, and she froze when Calum reached across the table and rested on hers reassuringly.
“Breathe, Lawson. I just need a minute to think about a deep and meaningful response to your question. You’re fine.” Calum was speaking softly, and there was an apology of sorts in his eyes when Lizzie glanced over at him. She was about to ask him something else, when a waitress came over to check on how everything was going with their orders and offered a second round of coffees and Calum withdrew his hand from the table as he ordered another iced coffee to go, times two.
“If you could have it ready to go in about an hour, that’d be great.” Calum flashed the waitress a smile, and she shot him a wink as she headed back to the counter to update his order.
“A whole ‘nother hour? You spoil me, Mr Hood.” Lizzie joked, downing the last of her coffee and desperately hoping to avoid any awkwardness in her remaining interview time with Calum.
“Anything for a fellow Australian, mate. To answer your question, it’s strange, because yes I’ve never lived there full time as an adult, but there’s something about your home country and your hometown that stays with you, no matter where you go or how long you’re gone. Obviously, for me, my sister lives overseas, and neither of my parents were raised in Australia, but it still means a lot to me, because it’s home, you know? The industry there is… interesting, but I still think that if we didn’t have the background we all have as individuals and the band, there’s certainly a lot of decisions we’ve made and ways we’ve gone about things in our careers that are heavily influenced by our upbringings and the mindsets we all have from that experience.”
“Home is where the heart is, right?” Lizzie offers, thumbing her notebook absently.
“It’s true. But it’s also refreshing to go back and escape it all a bit, you know? None of my friends at home really give a shit about Calum from 5SOS. They just like hanging out with Cal, which is nice.” Calum shrugs, clasping his hands together on the table in front of him.
“Just Cal? Not cool guy Cal? C Dizzle Swizzle?” Lizzie bit back a grin, remembering the multitude of nicknames Cal had garnered over the years.
“Look, cool guy Cal is just my constant state of being. C Dizzle might make an appearance if I’ve had one too many, but either way, they’re just happy to see me. Or happy to tell me some home truths that I haven’t heard, or wanted to hear, so that’s important too. You can’t live in LA for as long as we have without having a good support crew to keep us grounded, you know? Even if some of the ones who mean the most to us are on the other side of the planet.” There was something in Calum’s eyes again as Lizzie looked at him, and she could tell it was more than what he was trying to say for the sake of the profile interview.
She swallowed down one final bite of the heavenly brownie, and turned the page to find her next question. Lizzie couldn’t entertain the idea of asking Calum why Michael was mad at her, because it would break the air of professionalism she was desperate to maintain; also, she wasn’t entirely sure he’d even tell her. Calum and Michael had been inseparable in their school days, and Lizzie knew that their bond and sense of loyalty no doubt ran even deeper now than then, given all of their shared experiences, trials and tribulations to date. But Calum had always been so kind and patient with her, whether she’d accidentally ruined their Year 9 science experiment, or she’d nearly thrown up on his shoes at the Year 11 formal after party, or when Michael had stormed out of the studio a few days ago and he offered her his time for the first solo interview. Lizzie brushed off the train of thought, and continued with her interview questions for Calum.
The conversation flowed easily, and Lizzie could already feel the profile starting to come together in her mind. She jotted down a handful of notes on how to adapt her questions for Luke and Ashton based on Calum’s responses, and before they realised how long they’d been chatting, the waitress returned with Calum’s two takeaway iced coffees.
Lizzie asked the waitress for the bill, but Calum waved her off.
“I’ve got it, Lizzie. Don’t stress.”
“But I can expense it! I have a receipts app, and everything!” Calum laughed at how excited Lizzie seemed at the concept of submitting a work expense claim.
“Okay, fine. You win this round.”
Lizzie pressed stop on her phone recording, and reached for her bag to slide her notebook in. The waitress returned with the bill, and Lizzie handed her travel bank card over, drumming her hands absentmindedly on the table while she waited for the waitress to come back with her card and the receipt.
“Lizzie?” Her head snapped up as Calum spoke.
“He’s not… I know it seems like he’s really mad at you, but he’s not.” It took a moment for Lizzie to register what Calum was saying.
“He’s not mad at me? He refused to speak to me and stormed out of the room the first chance he got, but he’s not mad? Right.” Lizzie couldn’t help but sound bitter as she spoke.
“I can’t speak for him, but I know him. He’s not mad, he’s just hurt about everything.” Lizzie could tell Calum was being very careful with his choice of words, and she eyed him curiously across the table.
“What does he possibly have to be hurt about? He’s the one that -” Lizzie catches herself halfway through her sentence, and squeezes her eyes shut as she inhales deeply.
“Here’s your receipt and your card back, miss. Thanks so much for visiting us today, have a lovely day!” Lizzie blinks and squints up at the waitress, who hands back her card and a paper receipt. Lizzie mumbles her thanks, and goes to stand up and slide out of the booth, and Calum follows her out of the café.
“Lizzie, I didn’t mean to upset you -” Calum’s apologetic tone had Lizzie spinning on her heel to face him once they’re through the doors of the café.
“You didn’t, Calum. It’s fine. I’m here to do a job, and I appreciate your time today, I really do. Michael and I… I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, okay? I know it won’t be easy, but for now, I just want to focus on getting the best interview content I can from you all. That’s why I’m here.” Lizzie wrings her hands nervously, and she can feel how sweaty her palms are.
“Is that the only reason you’re here?” Calum’s tone isn’t teasing, or harsh. It’s genuine, curious, soft. He’s not moving as he stands in front of Lizzie and gazes down at her from his full height.
Before Lizzie can answer, Calum’s phone starts to ring, and he casts her another glance before stepping away to answer it. While he’s chatting to whoever’s on the other end of the line, Lizzie decides to order herself an Uber and make her way back to the hotel so she can make a start on transcribing the interview with Calum. Because that was why she was here, Lizzie told herself in her head, stubbornly. Didn’t matter about the feelings in her stomach, and the tightness of her chest. She was there to write a profile about a band, nothing more, nothing less.
“I’ve got to go and meet Ash at the studio, are you all good from here?” Calum’s question broke Lizzie out of her internal dialogue.
“Yep, all good. Thanks again for your time, Cal. I really appreciate it. I think it’s going to be a great piece, and I’m intrigued to see what comes out of the other interviews. All of them.” Lizzie’s pointed tone isn’t lost on Calum, and he grimaces slightly at the fire he seems to have ignited. Ah well. Lizzie and Michael had to sort their shit out sooner or later, right?
Right?
Calum was trying to convince himself as he strolled down the street towards his car, pondering if he’d made things better or worse between Michael, his best mate through almost his entire life, and Lizzie, the girl that he’d been sure Michael would love forever, but had walked away from in a shadow of hurt, betrayal, and disbelief. The girl that apparently had no idea Michael felt that way, or that if he did, it wasn’t justified. Someone’s side of the story just wasn’t adding up, but Calum wasn’t sure whose it was. Not anymore.
Taglist: If there’s a line through your name, I couldn’t tag you, so please message me to let me know your new URL or what the go is! @suchalonelysunflower @blackbutterfliescal @redrattlers @loveroflrh @spicycal @notinthesameguey @metalandboybands @cheekysos @ashton-trash @another-lonely-heart @queenalienscherrypie @becihadshawn @allthestarsandthemoon @wheniminouterspace
#5sos fanfiction#5sos imagine#calum hood imagine#calum hood fanfiction#michael clifford fanfiction#michael clifford imagine#ashton irwin imagine#ashton irwin fanfiction#luke hemmings imagine#luke hemmings fanfiction#my writing#everybody's got their demons even wide awake or dreaming#let me know what you thiiiiiiink#part 3 is already in the works but i figured i should post part 2 first lol oops
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I wrote a Doctor Who story for Christmas
It's been a funny old year. High highs and low lows. My brain processes everything in terms of Doctor Who, so I thought I'd write a little story about a crap Christmas.
Doctor Who - “The Best Of it”
The drop in air pressure was first detected on December 24th. About 3% approximately every 5 hours, which might not seem like that big of a drop, but when you’re in a big research base right down at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, any air pressure escaping is a bit of a big deal.
And so I found myself, on Christmas Eve, in a big clunky OxySuit, lumbering around upon the sea floor at the deepest point in the Earth’s Ocean. I moved around the outer walls of Cameron Base One with great difficulty, pushing my limbs forward through the high-pressure water, the headlamps on either side of my helmet providing minimal light.
Reaching the West Wing of the base, the first thing I saw were the cracks in the floor. It began right where the wall of the base touched the ground, and then snaked out and broke off until the ground in front of me looked like a shatter pattern. This was an alarming sight, to say the least. It meant that the ground which Cameron Base One sat on, that the crew walked across, was unstable. I would have turned around immediately and gone to raise the alarm. But I didn’t.
Because the second thing I noticed was the tall, blue phone box. With a lamp on top and two square windows that sent wavy shimmers of light wafting through the ocean. It was right at the furthest reaches of the cracks in the floor. I wondered how the hell it had got there.
Of course, then I was plummeting through one of the cracks that opened up at my feet, so there wasn’t much else I could do except fall.
I only remember bits of my plummet, so it’s hard to describe now. But it was like being on a pitch black water slide that you fully expected to die at the end of. Something had struck the lights on my helmet almost immediately so I couldn’t see a darn thing, but my stomach twisted and turned, which told me I was being tossed to and fro. Then I remember a tiny bit of light approaching fast, and an impact. Then nothing.
Nothing until I was blinking awake in a dimly lit cave, and there was a woman peering down at me.
“What size shoe do you take?” she asked.
I stared at the fractured image of her through the cracked glass of my helmet. She had short yellow hair, a long pale blue coat, and a t shirt with a rainbow stripe across it. She waited expectantly for me to answer.
“I’m Ellie Tyson, Chief Engineer at Cameron Base One,” I said, unsure what else but name and rank was appropriate in this conversation.
“I’m the Doctor,” the woman replied. “I just knock about space, really. You alright?”
She helped me to my feet and out of my OxySuit. I was bumped and bruised, and the jumpsuit I wore beneath the suit was a bit scuffed, but I was otherwise okay and able to survey my surroundings. The cave was not spacious. There were small tea light candles dotted about, and a steady drip of water coming from the breach in the ceiling that I must have fallen through.
“Right! Welcome, welcome,” said the Doctor. “Let me show you around. I’d say this is the living area over here.” She gestured to the left side of the cave, where a fireplace had been drawn on the uneven rock wall. “But to be honest, it’s a bit of a studio apartment situation.”
“How long have you been here?” I asked, eyeing the crudely illustrated roaring fire and wondering if this was the sign of stir craziness.
“About a week. Been surviving on rations.” She held up a box of dried raisins. “And a few bits I had in my coat pockets to keep me busy.” On the floor of the cave, there was the aforementioned candles, a pack of crayons, a pair of knitting needles and some wool, and a tourist pamphlet for the Blue Man Group. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any food in that big clunky diving suit?”
I shook my head no. The only thing in the utility belt section of the suit was some bandages, medical tape, and a flare. None of which struck me as particularly edible.
“No hope of escape?” I asked, fearing the answer.
“Well, not until now.” She started walking to the mouth of the cave. “Come on, then.”
I followed. There were no candles in the long, narrow passageway she crept down, but the Doctor had a metallic remote thingy that was giving off an orange glow, and she rooted around her pockets until she found a small torch she could toss to me.
“So full disclosure,” said the Doctor, “I got knocked silly on the way down. Consequently, I was half unconscious for like the first 3 days, but as soon as I was able to, I did a bit of exploring. Didn’t get very far. There’s a massive wall just up ahead that proved to be a big fat dead end for me.”
I frowned. “So why are we bothering?”
The Doctor waved a hand impatiently. “You’ll see in a min. Anyway, I knew someone else was bound to fall down the same hole I did, it being next to a massive human science-y base thing.”
The word ‘human’ got caught on some filters in my head, but I moved past it. “Nobody else knows. They sent me out to see why we were having air pressure problems.”
“Exactly, so I knew it was only a matter of time till I had a mate. That reminds me, what size shoe did you say you took?”
“I didn’t, and we have much bigger problems. If the ground up there is this unstable, the whole crew of Cameron Base One could be in real danger.”
The Doctor pulled a face. “I’m working on that! Give us a chance.”
“Except you’re not working on it – you’ve been down here a week and you’re no closer to escaping. Now I’m stuck down here too. The whole base could collapse any second and there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“You literally just told me the only passageway leads to a dead end!”
“No,” the Doctor corrected. “I said it was a dead end for me.” We came to the huge wall she’d spoken off. It was about twice our height, but it did not reach the roof of the cave passage. There was a sizeable space at the top of the wall, and beyond that some source of light could be seen blinking on and off from out of view. In the torchlight, the Doctor grinned with great satisfaction. “See? All I needed was someone to give me a boost. I’ll go first and pull you up after. Don’t worry, I’m dead nimble in this body.”
The brain filter picked up that last weird comment too, but I didn’t have time to question. I laced my fingers and let the Doctor put her dirty boots in the palm of my hands, whereupon I heaved her high enough for her to grab something to hold onto and pull herself, and then me after, up onto the raised ground.
Wiping the muck off of my knees, I stood up and looked at where we’d ascended to. The sight before me made no sense. For at the top of this ledge, in this cavern deep down in the Earth’s crust, were a large pair of steel doors with a blinking control panel next to it.
“Oh, brilliant!” said the Doctor. She rushed towards it, aimed her metallic torch thingy at it, and I was amazed to see the doors rumble and draw themselves open. There was a great cloud of dust as they parted.
“These doors must have been sat closed for a good amount of time, then,” I coughed, as I followed the Doctor through the doorway.
On the other side, the Doctor stood dead still. “A very long time,” she said.
If the sight of steel doors had shocked me, it was nothing compared to the room of cryogenically frozen lizard people I was looking at now.
In this laboratory the length of a football pitch, there were rows and rows of pods, half metallic, half rock formations, and each of them contained a bipedal, human-sized lizard. There was frost on the glass of the pods, and they were cold to my touch. The creatures inside had not stirred a bit during our entrance or my examining of their containers. Astonished, I turned to the Doctor, hoping to gain some comfort in a shared vibe of ‘not knowing what the hell was going on.’
So imagine my surprise when I found her gazing at the cyro-pods in delight. “This works out perfectly.”
Silurians, she called them. I dropped to a seated position, probably going into some form of shock, while she paced around the room and ranted about the civilisation that walked the Earth eons before humans evolved (“Eons,” she paused to grin at me. “Love that word. Eons!”). Apparently they saw an asteroid approaching, and evacuated deep underground, putting themselves in stasis until such time as the damage from any impact would have passed. She’d moved over to a raised console built into a slab of rock and had been tinkering with the controls for a good minute before she realise I still hadn’t spoken.
“Soz, that was probably a bit of an overload, wasn’t it? Which bit did I lose you on?”
“The lizards who ruled the earth before humans,” I said softly.
The Doctor’s nose scrunched up in confusion. “Really? That bit makes sense, if you think about it.”
“In what universe does a secret society of Lizards frozen beneath the Mariana Trench make sense?!”
“Well that’s where all those daft stories about the Illuminati come from. It’s just people stumbling across all the different Silurian hibernation chambers and letting their imagination run wild.”
That did actually make a little bit of sense, but I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of saying so, so I just stayed silent.
“Anyway,” she said, turning back to the controls. “Cheer up, this means there’s probably a way out of here.” That got my attention. I leapt to my feet and came to her side, staring at the panel of strange, unlabelled controls. “The Silurians tunnelled all the way down here, and they were obviously planning to return at some point. So logic says there must be a way out. A lift, or a teleport, or something.” She gasped. “Could be a massive ladder!”
“I’m not climbing a ladder out of the Mariana Trench, Doctor.”
She looked about to respond, but then a shrill, angry bleeping noise erupted from the console. The Doctor stuck her tongue out thoughtfully, the pressed some other buttons, only to be greeted with the same angry bleeping noise. She then tried pointing her metallic object at the controls, but the bleeping noise sounded again. The Doctor glared at the console panel. “Well, now you’re just being difficult.”
“Doctor,” I said, pointing to a small indent in the bottom corner of the console, that looked something like a fingerprint scanner. “It must need, I dunno, authorisation or something.”
I should have noticed the Doctor’s falling expression as she stared at what I’d pointed out. “Oh,” she said, and I should have noticed it was without her usual pep. “That’s a blow.”
Maybe I didn’t want to notice any of it. I was already looking around at which of the Silurians was closest. “So will we need to fully wake them up, or can we just sort of drag one over and then put it back?”
The Doctor turned to me. Her expression was grave. I turned my back on her and marched quickly over to one of the pods so I could pretend to be having a look. “And can it be any old one or does it need to be, like, a Boss or a President or a Mayor? I don’t know what the Silurian political hierarchy was like, was it like ours?”
“Ellie…” said the Doctor. “We can’t. The Silurians wouldn’t understand. They’d want to come back to the surface with us, and they can’t. The Earth isn’t ready for them yet.”
The trip back to the cave was awkward. I walked ahead, in silence. I heard the scuff of the Doctor’s boots behind me, and I felt her worried gaze on my back. And when we got back to the cave, I sat in the corner and didn’t look at her.
I was going to die down here. At Christmas. And everyone in that base above us had no idea they were walking and working on ground that could crumble awake at any second.
And worst of all, the only company I had, the person with which I was to perish, was a buffoon. At a certain point I had to break my sulk and look up at the Doctor, because I could sense her constantly moving and wondered how the hell she could be finding so much to do in a tiny little cave at the bottom of the planet.
Watching her, I still didn’t know. She was rummaging inside her coat pocket for a while, eventually fishing out old Quality Street sweet wrappers of red, green and gold. At one point, I heard her squeak with delight and drop down to examine something in the dirt and soil of the cave floor. When she began to draw more cave paintings and hum merrily to herself, I could take no more. I briefly considered digging the medical tape out of my suit and using it to seal her mouth shut.
“What on earth are you doing?” I asked instead.
She glanced at me over her shoulder. “I’m making the best of it!” she said, and moved aside so that I could see. Next to her 2D fireplace, she had scrawled a Christmas Tree on the wall, with scribbled baubles and doodled tinsel. And now she was humming White Christmas. “We might be stuck down here with no hope of escape. But it’s still Christmas.”
I stared in disbelief. “Are you for real? It is not Christmas.”
She did that nose-scrunch thing again. “I mean, it sort of is.”
“It is Christmas on a technicality!” I yelled. “It is Christmas only in the sense that the date is December 24th. Our current predicament, that being our impending death, takes precedent. And, for that matter, negates all circumstantial Christmas-ness.” I realised that tirade had come off oddly formal, so I added: “So stop being a dope, you big blonde-haired nutter.”
The Doctor, annoyingly, did not look hurt. Or offended. She just shook her head, like I didn’t understand. “That’s not how it works. It doesn’t matter what’s happening. Could be right in the middle of wartime, could be disease and pestilence sweeping the globe, you could be separated from everyone you love. The Titanic could be falling out of the sky! But if any of those things are happening in December, you get to press pause on them for a little bit, and be happy. Because it’s Christmas, and Christmas is magic like that.”
Nice speech. It didn’t work. “You’re a child,” I said, turning back around.
We didn’t talk again for a while. I sat and sat and sat, and at some point I lay down, and at another point I fell asleep.
Hours later, I awoke to a veritable Winter Wonderland.
The Doctor had been busy through the night. She had gone all around the cave, drawing holly and garlands all over the walls. Three tiny knitted stockings were stuck to the hand drawn fireplace. She had carefully placed the different sweet wrappers around the candles, creating a fairylight-like effect of flickering red, green and gold all around. And as I sat up, she was in front of me, beaming.
“Happy Christmas!” she bellowed, and thrust a folded piece of kitchen roll in my face. I took it from her delicately, realising that it was only obscuring something folded within. “Sorry, no wrapping paper. Best I could do.”
I did my best attempt at a smile, given the still pretty awful circumstances, and opened the gift. I had expected to find some random object standing in as a gift. After all, there was hardly a Henrick’s or Magpie Electricals to pop to down here. So when I opened the paper and found two carefully knitted socks, I took me a second to put the pieces together. Finally though, I looked up at her in wonder.
“Is this why you kept asking for my shoe size?”
The Doctor grinned. “Got it in the end. Took a tape measure to your footprint.” She pointed at what I’d seen her messing with on the floor the previous night, an indentation in the mucky ground from my shoe.
That broke my Scrooge-ness. I could continue to be a misery no longer. I thanked the Doctor genuinely, pulled on my new socks, and allowed her to lead me around the cave and tell me in great detail how she had thrown together every single makeshift Christmas decoration. We played snap and charades, and then gathered around the illustrated roaring fireplace to tell ghost stories (the Doctor’s were better than mine).
“I wish I had a gift for you,” I lamented after our Christmas Dinner of raisins and half a Wham bar. The socks really were quite cosy.
The Doctor waved a hand and tried not to look bothered. “No worries. It’s not the getting at this time of year, it’s the giving. That’s what my Mam used to say.” She paused though, then added “But also, if you happened to pack a toothbrush in that suit, I’ll love you forever. It’s been a week.”
A thought struck me. I stood up and wandered over to my discarded OxySuit, and reached into the utility belt. “No toothbrush, sorry. But in the spirit of the season, I gift you the one thing in my possession and pray it brings you happiness and good fortune.” I produced the small roll of medical tape, and tossed it to her.
She did not catch it. She did not even make an attempt. The Doctor had gone dead still since the moment she saw me pull the tape out of the suit. The roll bounced off her tummy and then fell lamely to the floor. Here, she stared at it, eyes wide.
“Doctor?”
When she looked up, there was the biggest smile on her face. “Ellie Tyson, this might be the most important Christmas gift I’ve ever been given.” Then she rushed across the distance and flung her arms around me. “Do you even realise what you’ve done? You’ve saved our lives, you daft little human.”
I had no chance to question her further. The second she let me out of her death-clutch hug, she snatched up the roll of tape and went sprinting out of the cave. I followed her through the narrow passage as best I could, but she was faster than you’d think, and by the time I reached the wall at the end, she was bouncing up and down impatiently. “Come on, come on, come on,” she begged, and I quickly boosted her up onto the ledge and let her heave me up after her.
Back in the Silurian chamber, the Doctor rushed over to the nearest cryogenic pod and started messing with the controls.
“But you said we couldn’t wake them up!” I shouted.
“No time to explain,” she shouted back. “Try and find some sort of powder or talc, any type will do.”
As she pointed her metallic thingy at the pod, I searched all over until I found what was probably the lizard equivalent of baby powder in what was probably the lizard equivalent of a medicine cabinet. I came back to the Doctor to find one of the pod doors open. The Silurian was still completely unmoving, and the air coming from the pod was predictably ice cold.
“What are we doing?” I asked, handing her the bottle.
“Spy stuff,” was her reply. And then, teeth chattering from the cold, I watched her crouch down to be able to coat one of the Silurian’s finger tips in the powder. Then, taking my Christmas gift, she pressed the scale-covered finger into a piece of tape and applied pressure. “That should do it,” she said, and stood up straight again.
“Do what?” I said. Except, no. That wasn’t my voice who had said that. And it wasn’t the Doctor’s either.
It was the Silurian. He was blinking awake, groggy like he’d overslept. “What are we doing?” he asked, then squinted at what was surely a blurry sight of two strangers in front of him. “Who are you?”
“Nobody,” the Doctor squeaked, pressing a complicated sequence of buttons on the panel next to the pod. “We’re nobody. Go back to sleep. We’re just… ghosts. We’re the Ghosts of Christmas Yet To Come.”
The Silurian frowned. “…what’s Christmas?”
“Shush,” said the Doctor, and she quickly closed the door and zapped the controls with her metallic remote, and the Silurian was asleep again.
The Doctor pressed the borrowed fingerprint on the tape into the scanner on the console and it worked perfectly. We were directed to an area at the back of the chamber, where a steel compartment took us back to the surface with frightening speed. We emerged into sparkling daylight, finding ourselves on an island in the Philippines. Well, there are worse places to spend Christmas Day. The Doctor helped me find a phone, which I used to contact central command, who in turn got in touch with Cameron Base One and ordered a speedy evacuation. The Doctor made friends with an old man who had a submarine, and he said he would take her down to retrieve her Blue Box after he’d had his Christmas dinner.
While we waited for the old man to finish his afters, the Doctor and I sat on a beach overlooking the Pacific Ocean. I thought it to be the bluest blue I’d ever seen, but the Doctor said she’d seen blue-er.
“It’s going to be mental down there,” I said, thinking of Cameron Base One. “Everyone loading stuff into boxes, shutting down all the experiments. Must be chaos.”
The Doctor smiled, looking out at the point where, miles and miles below the water, there was a whole base of people packing up and heading home. “It won’t be that bad,” she said. “It will still be Christmas. They’ll make the best of it.”
#merry christmas ya filthy animals#doctor who#thirteenth doctor#jodie whittaker#revolution of the daleks
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Christmas Party Panic
Christmas/Holiday present and general OC fun for @brainyxbat and @spyrkle4 and @barely-nok read to find out which BH6 character or OC says the f-word.
Seth stretched, their back tingling and aching as they pulled a lush, soft Christmas sweater over their chest, where the scars of surgery had primarily healed, and their back, where the scars were still a little raw.
“Good morning my king,” Morgan mumbled, sleepily reaching for her tube of toothpaste and almost putting lotion on her toothbrush instead. Seth gently corrected her, far more used to being awake early in the morning than their drowsy girlfriend.
“Morning, sugar,” Seth smirked, “Are you excited for the party?”
“For the… That’s today?” Morgan still didn’t understand how she’d been invited to this party. By all accounts, it didn’t make sense. Things between her and Hiro were tolerant, maybe even a tad protective, but not exactly warm. Wasabi and Fred kind of liked her, but all of them liked Seth and Seth loved Morgan, so Morgan made it to the guestlist for The Lucky Cat Cafe Christmas party.
The guestlist was actually getting pretty long. That was Ari’s fault. If it were up to Hiro, it would just be Big Hero 6, Ari, and Megan. Fred had insisted on inviting Seth which had landed Morgan on the guestlist as well, but Ari was the one throwing around invites to anyone who smiled at her. Which included all of the Ferns, Sienna, Rachel and her folks, and now some random coffee patron.
"You can't add strangers to the guestlist, Ariel.”
“Doesn’t seem like she’s a stranger to me,” Ari smirked, jerking her head towards Wasabi, who was nervously stumbling over his words and rubbing his neck as he talked to a short girl with green streaks in her hair.
“Look at him,” Ari gigled, “he’s smitten. You’ve got to let him invite Venus. They’re so cute together. You got to invite Megan.” Hiro blushed at the mention of Megan.
“That’s different. And isn’t he already inviting someone?”
“No, that’s different, Khary is his brother. You’re inviting me.”
“You’re not invited, you live here. Khary doesn’t live here. He’s cool though, and I know him, so it’s okay. I don’t know Venus. Too many people are coming to this party.” Hiro ran his fingers through his hair, seeming a little irritated and not very festive. Ari knew that this was difficult for him, his first Christmas without Tadashi. She’d hoped surrounding him with friends, old and new, would help him, but he just seemed uncomfortable.
Ari placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, “What’s wrong?”
“Last year it was just different. I’m glad that you’re here, you’re the best change that ever could’ve happened. But last year… And Morgan…”
Ari frowed. She hadn’t been around Morgan much but she liked her. Morgan was confusing and intriguing and always seemed like she was down for a good though slightly illegal time. Rachel had met her once and quietly commented that Morgan reminded her of Katie, if Katie was human and nice.
“What about Morgan?” Hiro didn’t seem to like Morgan much, though Ari had never really understood why, until Hiro answered her.
“Morgan was Tadashi’s girlfriend. Now she’s what? Turned around and found somebody new?”
“Seth is really cool, you shouldn’t be upset at them.”
“I’m not upset at them! I don’t care about them. I’m upset that Morgan moved on so fast.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t easy for her, Hiro. But maybe talking to her today will help.”
Hiro was about to disagree when Wasabi came over, grinning like a fool.
“I got Venus's number! And she’s coming to the party.” Wasabi did a quick little happy dance.
“Congrats,” Hiro muttered, disappearing upstairs.
“Is he okay?” Wasabi asked.
Ari bit her lip, wondering how much she should explain.
“He’s just nervous about the party,” she finally managed.
“Ah. Well, me too, actually. I should, uh, I should go home and change…” The fact that this was kind of a date with the cute Botany Major had just occurred to Wasabi, and his face morphed into a panic.
“I’m looking forward to meeting your brother!” Ari called before Wasabi could run out of the cafe.
Wasabi hesitated, “What?”
“Didn’t you invite Khary?”
His eyes widened, “I forgot my whole brother.” Ari stifled a laugh. She knew as well as anyone that love could make you do boarderline stupid things.
"Well, don't forget him before the party."
"I won't," Wasabi promised, heading out.
Unlike her brother, Ari was excited about having so many people around for Christmas. While she loved Aunt Cass and Hiro, she knew her family was much larger than just them. It included all the wonderful people who had come into her life this past year. She wished Juniper could be on the guestlist, and that Karmi could be more than an unanswered invitation. She missed her dear friends and hadn't stopped worrying about either since the mutations, which had hit everyone pretty hard. They deserved a nice Christmas after everything that had happened. She just hoped Hiro would be a little more in the Holiday spirit later.
Hiro wasn't the only reluctant party guest. Actually, it seemed like reluctance was infectious. Morgan hadn't started feeling merry and Wasabi's last minute invite couldn't even leave her bedroom, too nervous and indecisive.
"Sweetheart," Malia Woods said, putting a hand on Venus' shoulder, "you look wonderful. This Wesley fellow will be lucky to be your date tonight."
"Are you sure?" Venus spun in her Santa dress, looking like a million bucks, and her mom laughed.
"Yes, Cath, he's going to swoon when he sees you."
"Jack was making fun of me earlier," Venus frowned. She really did hate her older brother and his cruel jokes.
"Jack has been reprimanded. And he's out with friends tonight anyway, you have nothing to worry about. Come on, honey. Let's get you to your party."
Venus nodded, taking a deep breath, mustering her confidence, and putting on a Santa hat.
"Let's go."
"Come on, Morgan, let's go! We need to leave now if we want to run errands before the party." Seth was many things but late was rarely one of them.
"Hold onto your horses, babe. It's not easy looking this perfect."
"It's not that hard, I do it all the time," Seth retorted, setting down three tins of decorated cookies and crossing their arms.
Morgan laughed, "I can't argue with you there…" Finally she emerged, makeup flawless, wearing a sweater that matched Seth's. Seth's was green and said "All I Want for Christmas is You," with an arrow pointing at Morgan. Morgan's was red and said the same, with an arrow pointing at Seth. As tempting as it had been to buy even dumber couple's sweaters, they'd settled on something sweet that would still nauseate their friends and family.
"We look great," Seth said, grabbing the cookie tins.
"We're missing something, hold on." Morgan produced two pairs of reindeer antler headbands and plopped one down on Seth's head, before putting on her own.
"Perfect," Seth agreed, though they knew it was cheesy.
They were not half as cheesy as Sadie’s boyfriends, who opened the door to their apartment donned in a two person Christmas sweater that declared that Bennet was the naughty one and Dalton was the nice one.
“Oh my gosh,” Morgan snickered.
“Are you guys okay? Dalton? Bennet? Is this a punishment? Blink twice if my sister is holding you hostage.”
Dalton jerked his head at his slightly shorter boyfriend, “It was his idea.”
Seth’s mouth formed an O, “Bennet, I thought you were the sensible one.”
Bennet smirked, “This is great. Dalton has to hug me the entire time we’re wearing this.” While Bennet tended to gravitate more toward giving gifts and Dalton was more centered around acts of service it was obvious that one of Bennet’s love languages was physical touch.
“I’m touching his butt,” Dalton said with a shrug and a sly smile.
“Is Sadie here?”
“Yeah, but she’s being a real Grinch,” Bennet said, loud enough for Sadie to overhear.
“You guys left me out of the Christmas sweater,” Sadie said, coming over.
“Sorry,” Dalton said sheepishly.
Sadie smiled, “I’m not mad at you, goof. What’s up, Seth, Morgan? You guys look adorable.”
“Thanks. We brought you cookies! We have one more delivery to make before we go to this Christmas party later, so we can’t stay, but I’m really glad we got to see you!” Morgan seemed a bit more cheerful, but she was still nervous about the party.
“I’m glad I got to see this,” Seth said, gesturing at Dalton and Bennet.
“Have fun at your party, I’m sure these cookies will be great,” Sadie said, taking the tin.
“Did Morgan make them?” Bennet asked, a bit skeptical.
“No, don’t worry,” Seth laughed.
“Hey, I can bake!”
“Mm, sure you can, sugar.” Seth kissed Morgan’s cheek, having to tiptoe per usual, though not as much since the incident.
“I know you have to leave but you’ll have to join us for hot chocolate and S’mores sometime after Christmas. Dalton makes the best,” Sadie said.
“We’ll hold you to it.” They had one more couple to visit before they headed to the party, which was already getting started.
“Ari, this is my little brother Khary. Hiro, I guess you two probably remember each other?”
“Yeah, what’s up, man?” Hiro and Khary exchanged a fist bump and Khary shook Ari’s hand.
“Just vibing,” Khary laughed, “It’s nice to meet you, Ari.”
“Nice to meet you too. Wasabi talks about you all the time."
"Wasabi?"
"Oh that's their nickname for me. You can use it too, Khare."
"Cool. It's uh, it's nice to know you have friends who care enough to give you nicknames." Wasabi smiled a moment but it was clear he was distracted, watching the door, waiting for his crush. The door opened and Wasabi held his breath, but it was just Megan and Chief Cruz.
"Hey, I know you, you go to my school!" Megan said, coming over and striking up a conversation with Ari, Hiro, and Khary.
"Yeah? I think I might've seen you around… I'm Khary."
"Megan. You were in Mary Poppins, right? I wrote about your performance for the school paper."
"Oh, cool!" Wasabi was obviously overjoyed that his baby brother was getting along with the others, but he was more concerned about his date. What if she decided not to come? What if she thought all this was too much? But, sure enough, Catherine "Venus" Woods made her grand entrance, instantly taking Wasabi's breath away.
"You look amazing, Venus. I'm so glad you came."
Venus instantly blushed, "You look nice too, Wesley."
"Oh, uh, you can call me Wasabi, all my friends do."
She nodded and made a note of it, "I really like your sweater."”
“Oh, really? I made it.”
“You made that? Whoa. You’re so talented.”
“You’re pretty talented yourself,” Wasabi commented, “I’ve seen the project that got you into SFIT. That’s crazy cool.”
Venus instinctively pushed her hair in front of her face, nervous and blushing.
“T-thank you.” Khary nudged Wasabi’s leg with his foot and Wasabi remembered that he and Venus weren’t the only two people in the universe.
“Venus, this is my little brother Khary.” Wasabi affectionately grabbed the teen by his shoulders.
“Oh,” Venus smiled, “Nice to meet you!”
“And these are my friends Ari, Hiro, and Megan. Ari and Hiro’s aunt owns the cafe”
“You work here sometimes, don’t you, Wasabi?” Venus asked, since he was the whole reason she’d become a regular here.
“Yeah, it’s been my part time job since high school.” He frowned, momentarily, thinking about Tadashi who had gotten him this job and more importantly had gotten him to this point in his life. This Christmas would be hard. He glanced at Hiro, noticing for the first time that all these changes, all these new people that Tadashi hadn’t known were really shaking the kid.
“We’re late,” Morgan said, her leg jittering in the passengers’ seat, “maybe we shouldn’t go. Maybe we should just drop off the cookies with Kei and skip the party.”
“We’re gonna drop off these cookies and at least make an appearance at the party. Fred asked me to come, and I’m sure everyone is going to be glad to see you.”
“Sure,” Morgan rolled her eyes.
“Hey, our friends love you.”
“Your friends,” Morgan reminded, “you’re the one everyone likes.”
“That’s not true. Hiro’s little sister likes you.”
“Oh, yeah, well she’s different. She’s cool. Have you seen what she can do with the…” Morgan mimicked water bending, and Seth laughed.
“Not sure if I have. Haven’t exactly been on the anti-hero scene as long as you, babe.” Seth kept Morgan talking, distracted from her concerns about the party until they pulled up at their second stop.
“Kei’s gonna love these,” Morgan said cheerfully, still over the moon that she had met and befriended her favorite performer.
“We did good,” Seth agreed. Seth loved that Morgan had gotten to meet her idol but DJ Parasite had become so much more than music they drank to, Kei had sort of become like a mom to Seth. A really weird, young, cool mom.
Morgan knocked on the door to Kei’s apartment.
“I’m coming, I’m coming, hold on!” Kei yelled across the apartment, and there was a crashing sound before the door was unlocked.
“Oh my gosh,” Kei said, eying the sweaters, “you two look adorable. I didn’t think I could ship this more but I do.”
Seth laughed, “Thank you.”
“Mr. Claus won’t match with me, but, ugh, I’m loving this.” Kei drew Morgan and Seth into a hug without warning, pulling them slightly into the apartment.
“We made and decorated cookies,” Morgan said, holding up the tin.
“Oh! Thank you! I think I have your presents ready, hold on.” Morgan and Seth stood there, waiting, as Kei disappeared, yelling down the hallway, “BABE! DO YOU KNOW WHERE THE GIFTS FOR THE KIDS ARE?”
Seth couldn’t help chuckling at the response, “They’re under the Christmas tree, dumbass.”
“Right, obviously.” Kei dashed over to the tree and came back with two matching gift bags.
“It’s simple but if you don’t like it tell me, or, well just I’ll probably end up getting you something else as well so that’s a placeholder for now.”
“Do you want us to open it now?” Seth asked, taking the bag addressed to them.
“No, I don’t wanna see your faces if you’re disappointed in them.”
“I’m sure we’re going to love them, Kei,” Morgan assured.
“Hope so. Oh! Before you leave, look up!” Seth and Morgan looked up in unison, a blush tinting both of their faces when they saw the mistletoe over the door. Seth glanced at Morgan who nodded and leaned down for a quick but sweet kiss.
"See? Moth uses the mistletoe!" Kei shouted down the hall to her husband.
"I don't need a parasite plant to kiss my parasite wife!"
"Well, we'll let you get to kissing," Morgan snorted, "we have places to be anyway."
"So are you excited for the party now?" Seth asked as they walked back to the car, pulling out the bit of tissue paper in the bag and revealing a lovely little bird ornament with soft fake feathers, "Oh, this is cute! What did you get?"
Morgan opened her own bird ornament, which was made out of gears and other steampunk parts. Morgan giggled, "Kei is nutso. These are going on our tree immediately."
"Are you excited about the party?" Seth asked again, for the third time today, actually.
The rest of this story will be in the fucking reblog I guess
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treat you better | s. mendes
a/n: this might be a bit angsty because i felt it while writing this. hope you enjoy this! play the song while reading this too! it’s like you’re in a music video of treat you better <3
song treat you better by shawn mendes | word count 2.0k words
Shawn was in his room while blasting his new hit song. And now, he was writing a new one for the past few days. He was trying to make a new tune for the song that he wrote. He spent half of his day doing that until he heard a loud knock on his door.
Those loud knocks took him by surprise and he stopped doing what he was doing. He stood up and placed his guitar on his bed and went to see who it was. As soon as he opened the door, his eyes widen in shock.
"Y/N?"
Her hair was a total mess. Her face was red and her eyes were bloodshot. Tears were streaming down her face yet she still managed to smile when he opened the door.
"H-hey Shawn." Her voice was shaky. She had a big bag over her shoulder. Shawn scanned her from top to bottom.
"What happened?" He asked but Y/N broke down again. Shawn pulled her to hid chest and wrapped his arms around her as if he was protecting her. Y/N was sobbing in his shirt but he didn't mind.
After minutes of crying in his chest, he let her inside his apartment and let her sit on the couch to calm down. He grabbed a glass of water since she became to hiccup. After a while, she stopped crying and began to calm down.
Shawn sat down beside her and his hand was rubbing her back.
"So, are you going to tell what happened?" He broke the silence. Y/N jolted up and looked at Shawn.
"I-it's Mark." She answered in a low tone. Shawn felt his blood boil up. Whenever that guy's name is mentioned, he would feel anger inside of him. He never ever liked that guy.
"What the hell did that bastard do to you again?" He asked with a mad tone this time.
It took Y/N a while to answer him. She knew Shawn never liked him. That's why it was hard for her to tell Shawn the bad things her boyfriend did to her. Shawn would knock Mark down and he wouldn't care if it was her boyfriend.
"H-he... cheated on me. Again." She finally answered. Shawn gave a loud sigh and placed his hands on his face. He didn't want to get mad at her and shout but he just couldn't help it.
"I knew this guy would do this again. He cheated on you for like two times already, Y/N!" He shouted which made Y/N startle.
"I know but I love him, Shawn!" She shouted back at him.
With her response, it made Shawn even more furious. "Can't you see what he's doing to you? Do you think he really loves you back, Y/N?" He asked her and that made Y/N speechless. She didn't know what to say.
play song
She was the reason why Shawn wrote his new song called 'treat you better'. Yes, he has feelings for her but he knew she didn't have feelings for him back. She was dating other guys while they were just best friends and it would always break Shawn's heart. But he would just understand until Mark came.
❝ i won't lie to you
i know he's just not right for you
and you can tell me if i'm off
but i see it on your face
when you say that he's the one that you want ❞
Ever since Y/N introduced Mark to Shawn, he was already having a bad vibe about him but he shrugged it off. The past few months of their relationship was okay until just last month, Mark cheated on Y/N for the first time.
❝ and you're spending all your time
in this wrong situation
and anytime you want it to stop ❞
"He doesn't treat you like his girlfriend anymore, Y/N. He wouldn't cheat if he loves you but now what? He did." Shawn continues to talk to Y/N but she was silent.
"He's not right for you, Y/N. You deserve someone better than him." Shawn added and placed his hand on hers. She started crying again but she finally spoke.
"I'm stupid, Shawn." She said. Shawn lifted her head so that she could look at him.
"You're not stupid. He's just not the one for you." He said, this time with a calm voice. "He's done so many bad things to you Y/N. It has to stop. You can't let him keep hurting you."
Y/N placed both of her hands on her face. "God, I fall for the wrong guys. Why does this always happen to me?" She said.
Shawn couldn't speak. He really wanted to tell her how he felt for her right now but she's broken. He sighed. He couldn't keep it anymore.
❝ i know i can treat you better than he can
and any girl like you deserves a gentleman ❞
"Maybe the right one for you is just in front of you." He mumbled, loud enough to make Y/N hear. When she heard that she looked up to Shawn who was just looking at her.
"What?" She was confused about what he said. He reached for her hand and finally said.
"I know right now is not the best time to say this but, I've liked you for so long and I want to treat you better than any guy that you have been with."
❝ tell me why are we wasting time
on all your wasted crying
when you should be with me instead ❞
Y/N didn't know what to say. She couldn't believe it. Her best friend has feelings for her and he's telling her right here, right now.
Shawn didn't wait for her response and chuckled at himself. What was he doing? Of course, she wouldn't say anything.
"You can sleep on my bed, I'll stay on the couch." He said and got her bag that was on the floor and brought it to his room.
"It's okay--"
"I insist, Y/N. Please." He begged. She knew he wouldn't give up if you argued with him so you agreed.
❝ i know i can treat you better
better than he can ❞
She slowly stood up and went to the bathroom to get refreshed. Shawn spent his time clearing up his things from his bed. He got some pillows and a blanket for himself and placed it on his couch.
He sat on his couch and was just watching what was on the television before Y/N went out of the bathroom. She was wearing a robe and a towel was wrapped around her hair. Shawn took a glance at her before she could go inside his room to change.
He let out a heavy sigh. What was he going to do now? He just confessed to her and now things are a bit awkward between them.
He decided to distract himself by continuing the song that he almost finished. As he was doing that, Y/N slowly opened the door and saw him with his guitar.
He could hear Shawn's voice singing as he was playing his guitar. She was still a bit shock by his confession to her but that didn't change her mind about him.
He finally looked at her and stopped playing. She just stood there and leaned on the door with her pajamas on. She looked so beautiful even if her eyes were already puffy from crying.
"Couldn't sleep?" He asked. She shook her head no.
"I heard you playing so I wanted to check you out." She responded and sat down beside him.
"Want to listen?" He asked her and prepared his guitar.
"I would love to." She answered. Shawn sang the bridge that was on his paper:
❝ give me a sign
take my hand we'll be fine
promise i won't let you down ❞
He looked at her first before he continued.
❝ just know that you don't
have to do this alone
promise i'll never let you down ❞
"That sounded wonderful, Shawn." Y/N said. He looked at her but looked away afterward.
"This song was for you, actually." He whispered but Y/N heard it and her eyes widen. She felt her heart skipped a beat.
"M-me?"
Shawn could only nod as an answer. Y/N felt her heart flutter. No man had ever done something like that for her. Wrote a song dedicated to her? Only Shawn could do that for her.
"Ever since things got a little bit off-hand with you and Mark, I started writing my feelings for you in this song." He added and sighed. "He just wasted an amazing girl that should be with me." He looked at her once more and saw tears already forming in her eyes.
"I'm sorry, I never should have said anything without knowing how you feel. I'm really sorry--" And before Shawn could say anything, he felt Y/N lips on his. He could only widen his eyes because of shock.
She was kissing him.
He gave up and finally kissed her back. He placed a hand on her cheek and his other hand pulled her closer to him. Their lips were in sync before they pulled away to catch their breaths. They placed their foreheads to one another while heavily breathing.
"You're right. He is a bastard." Y/N finally said and that made Shawn chuckle. "You better treat me better than he did." Her arms were wrapped around his neck and she looked deeply into his brown eyes.
"Of course I will." He carried her and her legs were wrapped around his waist. She giggled and Shawn made his way to his bedroom. Shutting the door close by a kick of his foot.
Shawn woke up by the sound of a ringtone. He groaned and rubbed his eyes. As soon as he opened his eyes, the ray of light was the first thing he saw. He felt someone was beside him and he turned his head to his side. He saw Y/N sleeping peacefully right beside him.
God, she's so beautiful. He smiled at the thought.
Y/N's phone rang again and that made him groan. He sat up and got the phone to see who was calling.
Mark calling...
He cringed and answered the call. He brought the phone to his ear to hear what Mark has to say.
"Y/N? Thank god you picked up. Where the hell are you?"
"This is Shawn. Y/N's best friend. She's fine with me so don't bother calling her anymore." Shawn sounded serious and before Mark could talk, he quickly ended the call and turned the phone off.
He sighed and shifted back to his position. He saw Y/N was already awake and was rubbing her eyes.
"Who was that?" She asked.
"That was Mark. Told him not to call anymore." Shawn said moved closer to Y/N and gave her a kiss in her forehead. "Good morning, by the way."
She smiled and replied, "Good morning to you too, Shawn."
"I'm going to prepare for breakfast." He said and stood up but was stopped when Y/N grabbed his wrist. "Stay for a while." She said.
He smiled at her before sitting down beside her again. She placed her head on his bare chest and he held her hand. She could hear his heart beating fast. And there she realized, it was him who she loves all this time.
"Thank you." She said. Shawn looked at her. "For what?"
"For being with me." She answered.
They laid there next to each other for so long that Y/N forgot about her problem. Shawn was happy that right next to him was who he loves.
❝ i know i can treat you better
better than he can ❞
see more of my stories here
#shawn mendes#shawn peter raul mendes#shawn x reader#shanw mendes imagines#shawn mendes x reader#reader#Wattpad
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"Oh were you gonna finish that?”- Adrino Oneshot
Okay i actually wrote this maybe... two years ago? And i’ve always loved it so so much and I’ve only just finally finished it. Honestly pretty proud of the tone and the fun vibe and the cuteness so please if you will! Adrino Diner!AU!!
6k
Adrien had a favorite restaurant, like many serial commuters and busy people tend to have. Some people pick for location, or speed or menu or environment, but as far as he was concerned his favorite had absolutely everything going for it.
It was close to his apartment (a nice morning walk) and opened early and closed late. It had the best comfort foods around, no matter what time you came, and it always tasted like a homecooked meal. It was tucked off the main track so tourists were never too frequent, though enough to stimulate business he hoped, and he never had any trouble getting a table.
By all rights he should, but he was such a regular that he was fairly certain the family who owned the place moved things around to make sure he always got his favorite table if it was open. He was known for tipping very well but had enough of a banter with the servers to think that they might just like him anyway even if he didn’t.
Adrien stretched as he stepped through the restaurant’s threshold that morning, chuckling a little as he looked around to confirm that he actually was the first customer of the day, or at least the only one currently in the building. His morning routine usually landed him there right after opening, where he had plenty of time to leisurely eat his fill before going to work. However, being so early usually meant that whatever staff was there wasn’t entirely prepared for him.
He waited patiently at the entrance, closing his eyes and enjoying the warmth that warded off the cool November morning. He could smell coffee and hear the distant sounds of a kitchen just barely waking up, when he heard a familiar call of, “Oh! Good Morning!”
Adrien cracked an eye to see his favorite server poke his head out from the kitchen, quickly stepping out and drying his hands on a towel as he greeted him.
Nino looked just as tired as he was, his short dark hair a bit ruffled and his gold eyes heavy with sleep, but his smile was just as kind as always, brightening when Adrien returned his greeting.
“Dude I don’t know how you always get here so early; I get paid to do it and I barely wake up on time.”
Adrien couldn’t help but chuckle, the two of them navigating to his well-worn window seat. “I was gonna say that I was surprised to see you opening for a change, I normally only catch you at lunch time. I prefer now though, I like to eat when its slow and I can take as long as I want.”
Nino moved a step ahead to set up the table, talking over his shoulder and he found a menu and a set of silverware.
“I’ve been opening more and more lately, it’s like my cousins realized my mid-day shift was a sweet gig compared to setting the restaurant up, and now they won’t stop taking my shifts.” Nino shot him a sleepy smile as he added, “And for the record, I have never rushed you out. You’re always the one who pays in the middle of your meal.”
Adrien waited patiently as he finished setting up, mumbling something like “I feel bad wasting a table when you’re busy though…”, which made him laugh.
“Dude, you’ve paid enough in tips by this point to have a deed to that table, it’s yours. So,” he fished in his apron for a pen, clicking it pointedly as he turned towards his guest. “What can I get going for you?”
“What’s ready?” Adrien countered as he sat, laughing too when Nino sighed in exhaustion.
“Literally nothing, I got in so late man. Once Ahmed wakes up a little though we should be able to get whatever. Uh,” Nino looked towards the kitchen before smiling bashfully. “Maybe a coffee for now? I have coffee.”
“Coffee’s good, no rush. I’ve got a late call time today so I’m not in a hurry at all.”
“Thank god,” Nino breathed out in a rush, shaking his head when Adrien snickered. He looked back at the kitchen again, glaring a little when no sound interrupted him. “… the kitchens gone quiet… which means Ahmed probably passed out or something. I’ll uh, go get your coffee, I know how you like it.”
Nino gave him a little thumbs up before tucking away his pretty unnecessary pen and darting off towards the long vacant counter in the back of the restaurant. He only stopped to wake up the main computer and quickly throw on some ambient music before running to the back, making himself known again only by the distant shouting that sounded in the kitchen a short time later.
Adrien settled in to wait, leaning back in his familiar booth with half lidded eyes as he gazed aimlessly out the window. Every once in a while, he would hear some clatter or tone or bustle from the kitchen and it would make him smile a little, enjoying the quiet lo-fi type beat Nino had thrown on before getting swallowed by his chores.
The music was always better when he was working.
When his coffee finally came Adrien accepted it gladly, Nino looking a little more awake but still a bit stressed out as he ‘took his order’. He did the quotation marks himself, apologizing again because it was gonna be a minute for sure but his patience was really appreciated and everything. He scribbled down the order and was already mumbling to himself about the delivery truck and cleaning and who should have done what when closing the night before as he dashed away again, not leaving them much of a chance to chat, unfortunately. Adrien watched him leave as he sipped on his coffee, which despite his rush Nino still managed to make in his specific way and was distinctly glad again that he was the only one in the building. Nino and Ahmed would probably be way more stressed out if there was someone around who might actually mind.
He was glad that Nino knew him enough from all his patronage to understand that he wasn’t going to be a hassle.
Maybe, when Nino got more practice in with opening, he would be more prepared early on in the weekdays and they could maybe talk for a moment.
He had this sort of humble (pathetic) fantasy of saying good morning and sharing a smile, and then maybe inviting him to sit for a minute at his table when it was slow and he had nothing to do. Give him a bit of a chance to say something more impressive than his breakfast order for a change. Actually leave an impression, maybe.
… alright fine he might have a lot of reasons for this to be his favorite restaurant.
He felt a little warm under the collar suddenly when he admitted that to himself, frowning at his half-drained cup of coffee like it had something to do with it. And it sort of did, actually, little gestures like remembering how to make his coffee in his favorite way without having to be asked contributing to his lame little fantasies.
They were pretty harmless, he certainly wasn’t the first person to entertain a distant whimsical crush based on not much more than breakfast orders. It felt lame to call it a crush but he didn’t have a better word for it, some part of him understanding it was a little pathetic to feel that way about some random waiter he barely knew.
He was just some charming man with a bright smile and outdated lingo who thought he was pretty hilarious and was kind of right. And a warm laugh and a lot of personality, and he played video games and had a lot of neat music.
Nothing interesting about any of that.
Adrien sighed, moodily sipping his drink.
He really needed to get out more… this could not keep being the highlight of his day. He needed some other stuff going on besides a ridiculously habitual eating schedule dictated by charming men and the food their mom’s make, but he never put himself out there. He wasn’t really enthused on the idea of like… going out, and trying to go on dates and meet people, so the best he managed usually was vaguely thinking about maybe talking to some guy, only to talk himself out of it and have a staring match with the empty seat across from him.
It was pretty much just them, now was a great time, but there had been a bunch of great times. And there would probably be a couple more before he just accepted that this wasn’t his greatest strategy and he just asked him out. Which he liked to believe he might really do at some point.
He was pretty deep in thought as he approached the end of his cup, so when Nino spoke very suddenly besides him it gave him kind of a scare.
“Here you go, something for you,” he was saying, pausing to raise an eyebrow when Adrien jumped and looked up at him startled. He gave him a look, but just chuckled to himself, setting down a plate and surprising him again by taking the coffee cup from his hands and replacing it gently with a new one so he didn’t burn him. Adrien watched as Nino took his cup for himself, drinking from it casually to finish it off and gesturing to his small offering.
He was still a little confused by the fact that his waiter just stole his coffee so he could drink it, but he looked down and focused on the cute assortment of pastries and fruit that were on the plate. They were positioned hastily to look presentable, one of them a little bit burned but placed in the back to not be as noticeable. They had clearly just been made, and in a hurry, but it still looked wonderful.
“What’s this?” Adrien asked, placing his new hot coffee on the table to he could pick up one of the pastries, smiling at one of the burnt edges.
“It’s a ‘I’m Sorry your Food is Gonna Take A While’ Pastry, very rare. I make them myself, if you couldn’t tell by the fact that they’re a little burned.”
Nino’s laugh was muffled in what used to be Adrien’s coffee, Adrien laughing too as he looked up at him, a bit unprepared for the casual interaction but enjoying it.
“You made these just now? That’s very nice of you, even if you did just steal the last half of my cup.”
“I brought you a new one,” Nino defended himself, smiling again when Adrien laughed. Nino huffed a bit too though, leaning against the booth Adrien was sitting in. “I’m really glad it’s just you in here man, this is not a smooth start to the day. I feel bad about making you wait but at least I know you’re cool about it.” He groaned, rubbing at his eyes beneath his glasses. “I’m so sorry, but whoever closed last night didn’t even count the till and we’re still waiting on our delivery so-,”
“Hey don’t worry about it! Seriously, it’s not a problem at all.” Adrien had to look nearly straight up just to talk to him, his very casual waiter practically leaning over him (not that he minded.) “If it’s easier,” he managed to continue, “I can just eat somewhere else today. I don’t want to-,”
He faltered when Nino’s eyes widened, and suddenly he was standing up straight, frantically waving his free hand.
“Oh no no no! Don’t leave, we’ve got it! I just wanted to apologize. You’re our guy I don’t want you to not get what you always do just because I’m not on top of it today. Plus I gave you apology pastries, you have to stay!”
He gestured to his ‘I’m Sorry’ plate again to emphasis his point, grinning awkwardly when his favorite patron laughed. Adrien was snickering, taking a piece of pastry and enjoying its kind of battered appearance for a moment before eating it. Nino took heart in knowing that his good sense of humor was holding out, and that he was still in the clear for at least a little while more. He really didn’t want to screw him when he was always so patient, so it was his intention to sprint to the back to finish as fast as possible so that he’d actually have something well made to bring him.
Adrien was savoring his food, aware of the fact that Nino was about to leave again and their casual chat was about to end. This was by far the best he had ever done, the two of them talking so comfortably that he was now far from tired. He was charged from the simple contact, his pastries making him feel warm, and a little braver.
He was brimming with that kind of energy a person usually feels right before they start laughing, and he was desperate not to lose it, so as Nino was starting to turn away, he suddenly spoke up again, surprising himself.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
Nino paused, looking down at him with his body still half turned away. He must have looked confused, because Adrien immediately started explaining himself.
“There has to be something anybody could do. I’m not a cook or anything but I can unload a truck and clean counters. That would help, right?”
“You- you-…” Nino was stunned, completely caught off guard as Adrien started innocently munching on his apple slices. “You want to- wait no!” Nino blurted out as Adrien stood, looking pleased with himself.
“Doing dishes and stuff isn’t hard, and it would be one thing you and your cousin don’t have to do. It beats just sitting here and doing nothing.” Adrien lifted his plate, munching on his food as Nino started to stammer.
Of course he was adamantly refusing but now that the idea had occurred to him he was completely determined.
“No, no dude you’re like- hey wait!!”
Adrien was already walking away, happily eating his pasties and looking for something to do. Nino ran ahead of him to try and stop him, forced to walk backwards and rambling at top speed.
“No! It’s so cool of you to offer but seriously your patience is already great you don’t have to work I just needed a second to get your food!”
“But I want to,” Adrien pushed, grinning as Nino ran to block the kitchen door, looking flustered as he stood there with his outstretched hands to stop him (one of them still clutching his stolen coffee cup.)
He stopped, not wanting to barge in and stress him out but he wanted him to know that he totally meant it. Judging by his bewildered expression, he was guessing he understood that.
“Dude no you can just relax! We’ve got it we’re all over it! I mean like- thank you! But we’re already keeping you just go sit!”
Adrien stood there for a moment, mulling it over as he took another apple slice. Nino’s eyes were all over his face as he stood guard at the kitchen door, completely unprepared for this guy. He didn’t look terribly appeased with Adrien’s vague hum or smug smile either, his tone completely unconvincing.
“Alright,” he said with a nod, still too happy as he gestured with his plate towards the door. “I don’t want to keep you,” he repeated, “you’ve got a lot of stuff to do.”
Neither of them moved, Nino clearly hesitant to leave now. He looked between Adrien and the kitchen, narrowing his eyes a little.
“… go back to your table.”
“Okay,” Adrien replied, not moving at all.
“Don’t do anything!” Nino stammered again, placing his cup down and edging towards the door but still so torn about leaving. He glanced behind him again, and then past Adrien towards the public entrance and could really feel the time he was losing when he didn’t even have a register open he could sell food with. But then he looked back at that cocky, lame guy who was just standing there happily, waiting for him to leave.
Adrien just nodded, grinning as he gestured at the door again, this time with an apple slice.
Nino hesitated again, before taking one step back, and another as Adrien just waited patiently. He could hear Ahmed working hard inside, feeling the pressure too since they were way behind schedule. His cousin was probably wondering what the hell he was doing but how was he supposed to explain this?
His back was all the way to the door when he just accepted that there was really no winning this, this guy was crazy.
They just had to see who was faster.
Nino bolted through the kitchen door with a crash, scaring the hell out of Ahmed who was passing by with an arm full stuff but he didn’t stop, just skidding across the tile and through the kitchen and around the corner and into the office, ignoring Ahmed’s shouts completely as he ran to count money as fast as he possibly could.
The door was like a gunshot to a race, Adrien completely caught up in his own nerves at the game he created but determined to win. He left his mostly finished plate with a clatter on the counter as he ran like hell to the first task he could think of, running towards the front host stand with the only things he knew for sure. Menus, dishrags, silverware sets and cleaner.
Adrien was cleaning and setting up tables about as fast as Nino could count, the waiter frantically scribbling at the edges of their check in sheet with the cash count and kicking the safe closed. He scrambled to grab the till and sprint back out into the kitchen, ignoring Ahmed again as he ran back towards the main body of the restaurant, but he was forced to skid to a stop when Ahmed angrily shouted at him, “NINO!”
“What?!” he demanded sharply, whipping around to glare at Ahmed who was waving frantically towards the back doors.
“The truck is HERE, listen to me for a second!! I need to start loading in before we get more people.”
“Do whatever but hurry up! Get everything going I’ve got to set up!”
Both of them stiffened when they heard a distant chime, trading a frantic look between each other before turning and running with what they needed to do.
Nino busted through the kitchen door out of breath, about to call out towards the front door his standard good morning as he asked them for their patience, but he didn’t have the chance to.
He stood open mouthed in shock as Adrien cheerily called out, “Good Morning! Is it just the two of you today?” to an older couple who had just walked in. The bastard had two menus in his hands already, beaming as they answered their good mornings too.
Adrien could feel Nino standing there in disbelief with the cash till in his hands, but couldn’t bring himself to doubt in the slightest, he was just having way too much fun as he escorted their new customers to their seats. He had almost half of the tables perfectly clean and sat them in the middle of them so it all looked a bit better than it was at the moment. Nino only just got his wits about him enough to actually start setting up the register as Adrien was taking their drink order, chatting with them personably as he just jotted it down in his phone.
Nino kept looking back and forth from the screen to Adrien, who was now telling some light-hearted joke to the delight of the older woman, who actually cooed some line like “Oh aren’t you sweet?” At a glance it looked like he was even making suggestions, before giving them a little wave and promising them their coffee shortly. It was when Nino successfully clicked the till in that Adrien was nearly back at the counter, scouting around for coffee cups and looking oh so pleased with himself.
Nino was going to try and hiss something at him but could think of nothing to say, Adrien shooting him a smug glance as he busied himself with whatever he felt like, occasionally stopping to munch on his pastries. He whisked himself away before Nino could sputter something out, and eventually he could stall no longer and ran back into the kitchen with a groan.
The kitchen was empty but he could see the evidence of Ahmed’s traffic, hustling to burst out into the street outside, immediately accosted by the morning chill and the odd clean smell of produce mixed with the damp, cool smells of the back alley. The truck was backed up to the loading door of the restaurant, and he caught sight of Ahmed just in time emerging with his hands full to avoid crashing into him, spooking him once again.
“Would you STOP that!” Ahmed finally yelled irritably, teetering dangerously as his younger cousin darted around him and started grabbing anything he could get his hands on, seemingly ignoring him. “Look I can get this you need to go handle the customers; finish set up inside.”
To his surprise Nino just huffed, his voice strained as he picked up two awkwardly sized food crates. “Oh no trust me, someone beat me to it.”
“What does THAT mean?” he attempted but Nino just rattled past him unsteadily, and Ahmed was forced to just pick up the pace so he could double back for Nino’s stuff before the loser dropped it all.
Inside Adrien was still on an adrenaline high, humming happily to himself as he polished off the last of his fruit. He had managed to clean all of the tables and the couple were happily sipping on their coffees, prepared to wait patiently for the order Adrien had only just taken. He had been looking around for something to write it on so he could pass it along to the kitchen when he had happened upon a hook laden with apron’s, so naturally he was wearing one now. Inside one of the pockets had been a misplaced pad of paper, so when Nino finally emerged in a frantic huff he was greeted with a folded slip of paper held between two fingers as Adrien triumphantly finished his coffee.
“Order for ya,” Adrien announced with a smirk, successfully cutting off whatever Nino had been about to say and waggling the paper slightly until he took it. “They only just made up their minds, so you’ve got awhile. The man’s coffee is black but the woman likes 3 creams no sugars.” He smiled, “In case you need to refill them, or I can do it, of course.”
“No!!” Nino finally spoke, so red in the face that Adrien was worried for just a second that he might actually have made him mad… but it only took a moment more for Nino’s flustered expression to become clear as he rubbed at his eyes, a laugh slipping through. And THAT made Adrien feel very brave.
They stood in relative privacy behind the counter together, the lo-fi tune and the general emptiness of the diner leaving them with each other to deal with. Nino sighed and crossed his arms, a smile still on his face even as he said, “You know I never really got that peak ‘bastard’ vibe off of you before but I have to admit it’s impressive.”
Adrien snickered, setting down his empty cup, but after a second’s thought started looking around for a place to clean it. “I have my moments,” he admitted, taking a full step towards the kitchen to find a sink to use before Nino snatched it from his hands, sliding past him to block the door again.
“What kind of pastry am I going to have to make to get you to sit down?”
“I don’t think you can top your apology pastry honestly, so I guess I can stop harassing you and go back to my booth. But then again it is a little weird for a waiter to switch out half-way through.”
Nino rolled his eyes, “I’ll tell them you went on ‘break’, now please give me a chance to make this up to you and go make your food?” He ended it like a question, since compliance was not guaranteed, but to his relief Adrien seemed to be relenting a little, taking his dirty plate with him and still entirely too happy with himself. He was really dragging his feet though, so Nino made a point to wander behind him, making a grab for his apron string which Adrien managed to dodge.
He was trying to assure his favorite waiter that he didn’t owe him anything and that he just wanted to help, but noticed after a moment that Nino was too distracted with huffing and puffing about all the clean tables and refilled salt shakers to listen, shepherding him back to his seat like he wished it had a ball and chain. The glare he got as he was finally forced back to his spot was just too good, and Adrien took his disbelieving sigh as a sign of victory.
“Now I’m going to go and make you your food and you better be sitting right here when I come back and give it to you. AND I’m going to get you another cup of coffee.” He said it almost defiantly, in a ‘and what are you gonna do about it?’ kind of way.
Adrien was going to say something charming or snarky when the door dinged again, and Nino leveled him with another glare when he turned to look. Adrien was forced to sheepishly bow his head, grinning innocently as Nino started taking steps away, walking backwards and watching him for most of the way before he finally turned around and said his standard, “Good Morning!”
Adrien decided to play it safe after that, waiting in his booth patiently but was still bubbly enough to chuckle to himself every now and again. He kept peeking over his shoulder as Nino sat down the new patrons and took their drink orders, checking in with the older couple who had been sat before and politely explaining that the cook was just about done with everything. Normally he could get away with staring, but today he seemed to get caught every single time, Nino always glancing up in his direction as if to check he was where he should be. He’d catch him staring and smile a little, sometimes shaking his head, sometimes looking away, and every time it left Adrien with an odd spike of energy that snaked down his spine and made him chuckle again.
His stupid, showy stunt was ridiculous, looking back on it now that the hype had died down a little. He was self-aware enough to start feeling embarrassed about it, but whenever he started doubting himself or planning how to apologize, he’d think back to the disbelieving laughs or the banter and feel just a little reassured. Maybe he had been a little over-zealous, a little too eager but, for better or for worse
He finally made an impression.
It was a short time later when the door dinged again, but to Adrien’s relief it was to signal help arriving. Another employee he recognized finally showed up to clock in, and it was only then that he really relaxed. He pulled off his cozy little apron and set it aside on the table, taking himself off standby now that Nino had another set of hands on deck. There were only two real customers to be worrying about, since at this point Adrien could honestly never get food and be perfectly content with it. He was relieved to see that he was not the first one served, the older couples’ orders coming through first and was glad to see that Nino had the sense to put him on the backburner regardless, or at least that was what he had assumed. In reality Ahmed must have just been hauling ass, because it was no time later at all that Adrien heard the familiar thunk of a plate being set down beside him.
He had been doodling in his handy dandy waiters notebook so Nino had actually managed to sneak up on him, sliding Adrien’s standard order to rest in front of him with a little more sass then was customary.
Adrien glanced up, determined to get out something witty this time, when suddenly his waiter’s momentum seemed to shift…
And he was moving to take a seat.
Adrien started slightly as Nino slid into the booth opposite him, setting down two empty coffee cups as he did and reaching for a carafe of the stuff he hadn’t noticed at first.
He felt himself going red in the face as Nino nonchalantly poured for them both, saying, “I’m sure you usually never drink this many cups in a sitting but it’s been a weird morning and you need something with your food. Plates hot, by the way.”
“I- uh,” Adrien stammered, looking down at it as an excuse to collect himself as Nino prepped his coffee the way he liked it. He was reeling from Nino’s sudden self-invite to his table, all his bold confidence from before totally evaporated by the sudden real life presence of his stupid, hopeless daydreams. But he couldn’t just say nothing, so he managed, “I’ll have another. And uh, this looks great, thank you.”
There was another apology pastry, he noticed. Tucked right in the corner.
When Adrien finally managed to look up it was Nino who was smirking into his cup this time, living for it as it was Adrien’s turn to look a little caught out. A little bit of payback, just a touch. He didn’t start eating right away either, accepting the offered drink and scoffing a little as Nino stole a strawberry.
“I can’t really stay for too long,” he opened, and despite the fact that obviously that must be the case Adrien couldn’t help feeling disappointed. “But I wanted to take a sec to come over. I’m taking a five.”
Adrien was going to say something like ‘don’t waste your break on my account’ but couldn’t bring himself to and hesitated at the last second. Even if it was mostly placating, he didn’t want to risk him getting up and leaving. Nino took the silence and continued, leveling him with a glare he knew now to be playful.
“You bum rushing my counter was totally ludicrous. Like, I was literally just telling Ahmed about it in the back and he couldn’t believe it. He was laughing his ass off.” When Adrien started laughing he just shook his head, eating his strawberry and taking a second one. Adrien didn’t seem to mind. “Like what’s even the plan for that, I had no idea what to do so I was just like, well fuck it I guess?? I’ll count the tills.”
Adrien was laughing even harder, the other employee now taking care of tables craning their head to look at them but neither of them caring. They were both laughing after a minute, and Adrien fought through it to say, “Your face was so funny, I couldn’t help myself. It was awesome.”
“It was ridiculous but whatever,” Nino rolled his eyes, smiling too big to hide it with his cup, though he still kind of tried. “I can’t stop thinking like I owe you dude like I was freaking out about it but you actually really did help. And you waited so long for your food and you were so cool about it the whole time-,”
“You don’t owe me anything Nino, I’m serious. I was having fun.”
“No I do, I definitely do. I owe you breakfast,” Nino said matter-of-factly, but shook his head again when Adrien gestured at his plate with an eyebrow raised. “No, not that one, that one was late. And not here either like, somewhere else. Some other time.” He hesitated, and for the first time since sitting he looked a little bit nervous. “Like maybe Friday, actually. If you were free.” He paused. “Friday morning,” he clarified kind of needlessly, looking away. He glanced up once at Adrien’s stunned silence and started rambling again. “Cause uh, I’m off on Friday, and I actually have time and you are usually in here on Fridays so like, if you were free-,”
“I’d love to!” Adrien suddenly interrupted, his voice a bit rushed sounding as he surprised them both, now stammering a little himself. “Uh, I mean, yes! I’m free, on Friday. Where-…” Adrien kind of trailed off, his pulse electric as he desperately tried to keep his cool.
It was happening.
“Well um, I actually haven’t picked a place yet. I was thinking that maybe, if you didn’t mind I could just like…. text you, later. With the restaurant.”
Adrien only noticed that Nino was fidgeting with his notepad with his free hand when he put his coffee down to wrestle it out of the apron pocket, putting it on the tabletop a little bashfully and was surprised to see that Adrien had already beaten him to the pen (probably from his own apron), pulling the paper over to his side and ignoring his breakfast entirely. Nino sat there balling his apron up in his hands as Adrien quickly jotted down his phone number, sliding it back to him with an energetic smile that he returned.
Like okay maybe he had thought about doing this like a hundred times but he couldn’t believe he was actually doing it. When the hell had he grown a pair? This handsome guy had been a regular here for ages and he never actually managed to do something about it, but he could practically sense Ahmed creeping on him through the window in the kitchen door. He had already been thinking it, but it was Ahmed’s indignant encouragement that actually got him out there.
“I’m looking forward to it,” Adrien finally answered, sounding so totally earnest that Nino had no idea what to do with it, laughing with nervous excitement.
“Yeah, me too. Let someone else deal with the morning rush for once, huh?”
With that Nino got up, holding his coffee cup in his hand and smoothing his apron as he stood, and, after a moments thought, leaned over to grab Adrien’s from the table (which he allowed without protest). He wanted to stay and get another laugh or poke fun at him or anything really, but he was so wired at this point that he just knew he was gonna fuck it up, so he did the safe thing and bailed. He traded a little wave with Adrien as he darted off to fill in Ahmed who was probably waiting to ambush him anyways, honestly a little childishly excited to share cause… he said yes. And when he risked a glance back as he fled he saw the man drop his head in his hands for a second, before he looked up again and beamed out the window. He looked so amped, Nino couldn’t stop thinking that maybe… he had been hoping? Hoping for Nino to ask him out? Had he been waiting for it? Was that why he jumped up to help had they both been-
When he crashed into the kitchen door without looking his coffee splashed against his chest, and he stumbled through it, the hot liquid catching mostly on the apron but burning his arms a little and drawing EVERYONES attention in the ridiculously quiet restaurant. He bolted through it and shut the door behind him, recoiling in on himself as he swore he heard him laughing.
The only thing Adrien heard back from it was a text two minutes later from an unknown number that simply said, “Shut up you didn’t see that.”
He quickly saved the contact and rushed to reply, “Lol yeah, I didn’t see anything.”
#adrien agreste#nino lahiffe#adrino#adrien/nino#miraculous ladybug#ml fanfiction#oneshot#ml otp#tlp writes#thelastpilot writes#drabbles#drabble#havent written a ML thing in awhile#please give it a shot ^u^
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We Are Not Broken
The Session
Dr. Flemmings cleared his throat. “Now that all of you are here, let’s begin. The first thing I want you all to do is tell everyone what happened to you. It’s okay that you are here and you all have had similar experiences. This is a LGBTQ+ safe zone, so don’t be afraid. Who wants to start?”
Everyone looked at each other, none wanting to go first. After a few seconds of awkward silence, Logan took a deep breath, “I was kidnapped and tortured because of my gender and sexuality, along with Roman and Remus,” the twins both flinched at the statement, remembering all too well what had happened and what they had all been through together, “I have scars all over my body from the various weapons and beatings. It was hell, we were all malnourished and suffering, and I remember having to watch our kidnappers beat the everloving, pardon my language, f*ck out of Roman and Remus, I don’t remember the times I was beaten all too well, but it was all because some people thought not being cishet was a crime, found the twins and then found me.”
Dr. Flemmings nodded, “Use whatever language you need to, Logan”
“Does Spanish count?” Roman piped up, both twins were multilingual, both parents being native spanish speakers, their father from Spain and their mother from Mexico, in high school Roman took French and Remus took German and begrudgingly, at their parents request, taught each other and had become proficient in both languages. Sometimes the twins talked to each other in a strange mix of English, Spanish, French, and German, something they called Enspanchan.
“Preferably a language we all can understand, Roman”
Roman slumped a little, “Ay, lo siento” he said under his breath.
“Logan, do you have anything else to say?” Dr. Flemmings asked.
Logan shook his head and fidgeted with his hands, he had never been good at processing strong emotions, he usually distracted himself by researching and educating himself on random topics, incorporating them into his Sign Language lectures at the school he worked at.
“Uh well, I guess it’s my turn,” Patton said, interrupting Logan’s train of thought, “I was taking a walk, and some guy noticed the strap to my binder and commented on it. I didn’t think much of it, I ignored him and kept walking, but then he grabbed me and started calling me… horrible things and he dragged me into the nearby woods and…” Patton took in a deep breath, trying to calm himself down, “He took off all my clothes and destroyed my binder. He told me I’d be beautiful if I didn’t try so hard to be a man. He called me an ‘exotic beauty’ and kept asking me what kind of asian I am. And then he started touching me and…” Patton started full fledged crying, not wanting to say it. He got quieter and almost whispered, “He r*ped me… And now I’m pregnant.”
Everyone was silent for a few long seconds, Virgil finally broke the silence “That’s… horrible. What are you going to do with the baby? If you don’t mind me asking.”
Patton took another deep breath and said “I’m probably going to put them up for adoption. Someone out there probably really wants a baby and can’t have one themselves. I’m not saying everyone should do that, though, I mean everyone’s different.”
Dr. Flemmings took note of how much Patton was crying, “You feel broken, don’t you?”
“I feel broken, violated, I wish time would just stop for at least a little while. I wish I could turn back the clock to last month and tell myself to not go on a walk that day, but I know I can’t. I feel like I’m not trans enough, like maybe I’m not actually a man.”
Virgil looked at Patton, “Bullsh*t. You’re trans enough. You are just as manly as you need to be. You’re f*cking valid.” He clapped for emphasis. This was unusual behavior for him, as he didn’t like to have attention drawn to himself, but he hated it when other trans people didn’t feel valid, mainly because he knew how it felt.
“Well, kiddo, I don’t know about all that, just look at me”
“You. Are. A. Man. And. That’s. What. Matters.”
“Fine, you win”
During this exchange, Janus had been writing out their story and held up their hand in a sort of “Stop dooting your horns, you middle school band class” gesture. Everyone looked at them, they just seemed to have that presence, the type that made people shut up and pay attention without really trying. Janus passed around the notepad, which said: After a concert, a lady came up to me, nothing new there, and was haggling me about being nonbinary and how I’m just a “broken man” and then all of a sudden, I don’t really remember this well, I felt something swipe across my throat and there was a strange warm liquid coming from my neck and then it started to hurt. The next thing I knew, there was yelling and I was on the ground with my friend Ethan, he’s the drummer, Hel, pressing down on my neck. Lola, our bassit, Truth, was calling 911. I think I passed out, and when I woke up in the hospital, I was very confused. I was on so many painkillers that I was basically high out of my mind and the most important thing to me at that moment, for some reason, was chocolate chip cookies. I specifically remember being distraught that no one would bring me cookies because I couldn’t communicate that I wanted some. Anyways, that’s not important. This person probably ended my career, the one thing I actually wanted to do with my life, and I don’t know what to do about it. I might never be able to talk, let alone perform, ever again. Also some dumb*ss took a video of it and put it on YouTube and so the whole world knew before I had even arrived at the hospital.
Once everyone had read what was on the notepad, they all stared at Janus. They looked down at their legs. After a moment, Patton got up and walked over to Janus and touched their shoulder. “What else do you like to do?” he asked.
Janus shrugged.
Virgil suddenly blurted out, remembering the chaos after that concert a few weeks ago, “Wait someone put that on YouTube? How has that not been taken down?”
Janus shrugged, not knowing why either, and pulled out their phone. They found the video and played it, looking away. Patton and Virgil looked away from the video, while Logan and the twins watched, all three feeling bad that they couldn’t seem to pull away from the chaos happening on screen, like some sort of morbid scene in a TV show.
When the video finished, Logan, Roman, and Remus were in stunned silence while Janus fumbled to keep the next video from playing, the “What’s in your pants?” meme, which was when one time Janus and the rest of Duality were on a talk show, all in costume, and the host asked Janus the dreaded question, “What’s in your pants?” and Janus had immediately responded by pulling things out of their pockets and listing them, the items getting more obscure as they went “Phone, wallet, keys, worm-on-a-string, tiny rainbow plastic babies, a dead mouse, Quetzalcoatl? [Quetzalcoatl is Janus’s pet hognose snake], and a barbie head.” the clip had spread like wildfire and had become a large part of what Janus’s stage persona, Deceit, had been known for. Everyone in the band had their own costume, usually involving half of the face being different from the other, Janus’s Deceit costume had a Jack the Ripper vibe and they had makeup to look like scales on the left side of their face. Ethan’s Hel was an all black suit and the left half of his body was made to look like dead, rotting flesh. Lola’s Truth had a black and white lace dress and her makeup was meant to make her look inhuman and had several extra eyes on the right side of her face. The final member, Tori’s Valhalla looked like a norse warrior, the right side of their face looked scarred and they wore an eyepatch over their right eye, like Odin.
“That kind of reminds me of what happened to me,” Virgil said with a shudder once the video was over. “I was hanging out with my friend, May, after your,” Virgil pointed at Janus, “concert and ended up crashing at her place. I tend to sleep pretty heavily, so I was surprised when I woke up on the autopsy table for the mortuary science program at the college I used to go to. I had barely woken up before I felt something that felt like a punch in my abdomen. I saw May, she had a knife and looked angry, she stabbed me four more times, repeatedly calling me a dirty tr*nny. I don’t think she realized I was awake. Thing is, she was the one who supported me the most during my transition and always had my back when I had first come out. That’s what hurt the most. She had apparently secretly hated me all these years and just now was releasing all that. I didn’t dare move until she had left and I started to crawl towards the desk phone at the professor's desk. I was almost there when I passed out. I woke up again to the professor shaking me, he’d always liked me and was concerned about me. He told me he had called 911 and shortly after I was hauled into an ambulance and carted away to the hospital, swimming in and out of consciousness. I think May was planning on killing me and having me be found dead on the autopsy table as a morbid surprise for the mortuary science teacher and his first period class of that day.” He was trying to control his breathing and he felt his heart rate speeding up. Virgil hoped that no one would notice and call him out on it.
Janus started writing and then showed Virgil: Was May at the concert too?
“Yeah why?” Breath, dammit, breath. Virgil chided himself
Janus scrunched their eyebrows and started writing again: What does she look like?
“Do you think-” Virgil cut himself off, took in a deep breath, and found a picture of May on his phone. She had a black bob with straight bangs and wore dark makeup.
Janus looked at the picture, That’s her, they wrote. One thing I didn’t mention before was that she had gotten away.
Suddenly Remus started talking “I’d stim and they’d hurt me.” Roman looked at his brother, remembering how Remus would make weird sounds, start shaking his leg, or drumming his fingers on whatever surface he could get to, and after a while their kidnappers had realized that Remus’s fidgeting and sounds were him stimming, one of his ways to try and calm himself down, started beating him more when he did. “And it started happening more and more because I was more stressed and then I had to force myself to not and I had so much pent up, that everything was a million times louder, even the smallest touches were too much, and my head felt so light and it was like I was feeling everything and nothing all at once, like I was both on fire and numb and I don’t know how to describe it.” Even now, Remus was trying to keep himself from stimming, he had his hands firmly grasped together and his legs were crossed unnaturally tight and he was visibly getting upset.
This was the first time Roman had even heard Remus talk about it. He hadn’t realized how much Remus had suffered and how different it was from how Logan and Roman had suffered. No wonder he was so despondent. He was overloaded in every way. Roman noticed how tight Remus was wound up and pulled something out of his pocket, a long, green silicone fidget toy that had small bumps on it for texture. “Hey,” Roman addressed his brother and handed him the fidget toy, “breath.” Remus took it and fidgeted, reminding himself that it was safe to stim now. “You never said how bad it was for you.” Roman said quietly.
Remus nodded, “I didn’t know how to say it.” He had nothing else to say.
Roman looked around after a long moment of silence. “I felt powerless. I’m almost always able to help, but I couldn't do anything. It was so awful only being able to watch, almost worse than getting beat regularly.” Roman fell silent again, not knowing what else to say.
“You feel like you have to be the hero, don’t you? You feel obligated to do it?” Dr. Flemmings asked. Roman thought for a moment and then nodded. “Since we’re coming to a close, I want to tell you all that you all did a good job today. Here’s what I want you all to do: Patton, read Galileo by Pual Tran, I think you’d benefit from it. Janus, I want you to write, I don’t care what you write, whether it be a song, a poem, a backtrack, whatever, as long as you express yourself with it. Virgil, I want you to use methods to regulate your breathing like the 4, 7, 8 technique and I want you to try carrying around a stress ball, same goes for you, Remus. Logan, I want you to express yourself more and come up with a way for you to get your feelings out in a safe manner. Roman, I want you to think about why you feel obligated to be the hero. And lastly I think you all can benefit from each other, as you have all had similar experiences. Thank you all for attending.”
Everyone started saying their goodbyes and started leaving. Janus met up with an older guy in the lobby who nudged them and said “Happy birthday, kid.” The older guy looked a little sad, like he was remembering something tragic. Everyone heard him wish Janus a happy birthday and started wishing them a happy birthday as well.
Patton looked at the guy and said “Is this your dad, Janus?”
Janus shook their head no and at the same time the guy said “I’m their brother. John, by the way.”
“You guys are siblings? Wow! I never would have guessed!”
Janus looked slightly embarrassed, everyone always confused John for their dad, which wasn’t too far off as John and his wife had raised them. “Yeah the twenty-one year age gap doesn’t help,” John said, lowering his gaze somewhat, just wanting Patton to change the subject.
Janus broke off from John for a moment, wrote something down and handed it to Patton. It said: He’s a little sensitive about family history. Mom died while having me and we don’t know who my dad is, so he had to raise me. That’s why he looks a little sad today.
Patton’s mouth formed a silent “O” as he slipped the paper into his pocket and waved goodbye “Have a nice day!”
John looked at his sibling, “What did that say?”
I said you were having a bad day.
“Oh, okay” he believed the white lie.
Logan was on the phone “I know dad, you’ve told me the story every year for as long as I can remember. I’m about to get in the car, so I’ll call you back”
John looked at Logan and whispered to Janus “What are their pronouns?”
He/him Janus wrote
“He looks and sounds a lot like the doctor who delivered you.”
Janus shrugged and started walking towards their car, a black Jeep, and got in, deciding to go to the cafe that John worked at, knowing that John had to go to work, and besides, they were hungry.
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i will get there
part 1 of 2
originally posted: september 4th, 2017
word count: 6,097 words
rated: not rated
laura palmer, donna hayward, dale cooper
alternate universe, alternate universe – canon divergence, depression, eventual happy ending, demons, your general twin peaks level of existential dread, because laura palmer’s life is anything but easy, I wrote this before the finale and weirdly enough it’s applicable, 2020 edit – there’s a few lines in here about leland and sarah in the second half of the fic and lines about the ring and coop is i think too self-aware all of which (especially the lines about leland and sarah in the second half) I do not agree with anymore because I did not totally understand all the vibes when I wrote this in may 2017 and I intend to fix that in the still-being-written second part of this
summary: Laura Palmer lived.
opening notes:
so funnily enough, I really did write this back in may when s3 first started, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about it, but after last night’s finale, you know what????? who cares!! who knows anything!!! so here it is.
there's some references to the Missing Pieces in here, specifically the muffin scene, and also the idea that the ring prevents possession instead of drawing someone back into the lodge/denoting possession/the million other things the freaking ring does
title from 'what you know' by two door cinema club, for some reason
.
who even knows what happened that night? laura palmer doesn't. she guesses she should know. but she doesn't. sheriff truman asks her over and over again what happened that night and laura doesn't know. ronette hasn't woken up yet, truman tells her. her father is barely alive. her mother is in shock. you have to tell me what happened, laura, he says.
she tells him she doesn't know. she can't remember and she doesn't know if she wants to.
(and if she has vague flashes of her hands tearing apart a man in a denim jacket, and her screams sometimes ring in her ears, then that's for her to think about, and no one else.)
laura doesn't sleep for days. she stares at the ceiling of the hospital room and pinches herself when her vision blurs, because it can't have been that easy. he can't just be gone, just like that. if laura knows anything, it's that nothing is that easy. she doesn't want to be responsible for bringing him back and hurting someone else. if she's awake then she's her. then everyone else is okay. she still has the ring, and she twists it around her finger and shakes and shakes and shakes and never takes it off, but she doesn't know if it's enough, if she trusts it.
she drifts off sometime on the fifth day, and jerks awake with a gasp. she's still in the hospital. the windows aren't open. she looks at herself in a mirror and sees her face. she's all there. everyone else is all there.
bob is not there.
laura starts sobbing, and she doesn't stop for a long time.
she spends weeks and weeks getting the taste of blood and cocaine out of her. and then it just feels like there’s nothing left at all.
donna wants to talk, and james just wants to hold her, and they don't understand that all laura wants to do is sit and stare at her hands and try to convince herself that she must be lucky to be alive, because all she thinks about is how much less effort it would be to just be anything else.
she thought she wouldn't have to pretend anymore, that no one would expect all that much of her now, but everyone still wants so much from her, and she hates it, or she thinks she would if she could feel anything. you were such a brave girl, everyone tells her, and she wants them all to get that smile off their faces, because she wasn't. she's not. she doesn't want to be touched and she doesn't want to be looked at and she just wants to try and figure out what she's supposed to do now. she can't wrap her head around anything. everything she used to do feels stupid and fake or hurts too much to think about.
she doesn't go to the roadhouse, so jacques renault doesn't try to catch her eye. she barely leaves her house, so she doesn't have to worry about running into leo johnson, or anyone, really. she stays home and donna brings over her homework for a while until she realizes laura's not doing it. bobby doesn't want to see her, which is good, because she shouldn't see him. she doesn't hear from josie packard. she thinks for a long time about johnny horne. ben horne sends audrey to see her, and they just look at each other until audrey gets up and leaves. james tries to call her, and she lets the phone ring and ring and ring.
someone asks her to talk to jacoby, says it'd be good for her. laura thinks she could laugh at that, but she doesn't.
ronette wakes up. laura goes to visit and sits beside her. it's the only thing she willingly leaves the house for.
"what did you do?" ronette asks, wide-eyed. "how did we get out? how—"
"i don't know," laura says. "i don't know."
ronette looks at her, but it's not that piercing stare james gives her, it's ronette's soft, doe-eyed gaze, so it doesn't feel bad. ronette was there, ronette gets it, a little. laura still can't forgive herself for the fact that ronette was there, but at least someone almost gets it. she's grateful all the same.
"who was that man, laura?" ronette says.
laura shakes her head. "he wasn't a man," she says. "he was something else."
her brown shoes are soft and silent against the hospital hallway when she leaves, and she wants to run so she can hear herself and then curl up and never move again so she doesn't have to think about herself either. it's hard to figure out which one sounds better.
bobby is at the end of the hallway. "laura," he says, a little breathless. he can’t be here for her, laura isn’t even here anymore, and she doesn’t even want to know why he’s at the hospital.
bobby briggs, she'd say, she'd sing it with a short grin, if she was a different person, if she was the girl of a few weeks ago instead of the shell of this one. she doesn't even know what to do with bobby anymore, what to say, how to pretend.
"i didn't know you'd left," he says. "here. the hospital, i mean." he clears his throat and looks her over carefully. "you—you okay, laura?" like he almost doesn't want to ask.
what a stupid question, laura thinks, and she'd say it, but she shouldn't. she should apologize, is what she should do, do something, say anything, but laura is so tired. it drags at her bones.
she doesn't say anything.
her parents are not the same people. laura knows that, at least. her family has never been perfect but it's maybe not even a family now. it's three people, three ghosts, haunting the same house. they aren't pretending they can go back to what they had before, at least. at least there's that. they all know something happened, even if they aren't sure what.
it still hurts somewhere. it stings hard in her chest because she just wanted her life back, she wanted her family back, she wanted to look at her parents and her father without feeling sick, and she can't, she still can't. her father won't look at her and her mother doesn't look at anything. she doesn't see much of them at all. she'll catch the smell of her mother's cigarettes, hear the long shuffle of her father's footsteps down the hall, but she rarely sees them, like they don't want to be near her.
did i do the right thing, she asks herself, and she doesn't know the answer to that question. she thought she was alive but she doesn't know if this is living. it's something. she just doesn't know what it is.
laura feels trapped in twin peaks.
"i don't get it," donna says, when laura tells her she's leaving.
laura looks out the window. "what's there to get," she says. "i'm leaving. it's not rocket science, donna."
"where are you gonna go?"
"i don't know," laura says. "somewhere else."
"you're not gonna tell me?"
"i probably wouldn't tell you even if i did know."
"i'd come with you," donna says quietly.
laura scoffs. "and do what? follow me around like you do here? wish you were me? a fucked-up girl who can't do anything right?" she doesn't know what makes her say it, why she lets herself take the empty anger and frustration inside her out on donna.
donna starts to cry, that soft sniffle where her face falls and she stares at the floor of the hayward living room.
laura closes her eyes. "don't be like that, donna," she says, but there's no venom behind it. it comes out hoarse and quiet. laura's tired of hurting her.
"i'm—i'm sorry," donna says, wiping her face on the edge of her sleeve.
"don't be sorry," laura whispers.
are you my—are you my best friend? laura had asked her. she remembers that, vivid and sharp in her mind, the horror that had crawled over her skin.
of course, donna had said, because she was. she had been. when they thought they could pretend things were okay. laura's not in the business of pretending anymore, and donna shouldn't be either, and she'll miss donna like an ache in her chest but she thinks it'll be better for both of them if they don't see each other anymore.
she couldn't stand it, if donna asked her that question again. why do you do it?
why had she done it? because it was fun, laura thinks, because she wanted it and had it and then everyone told her she was wrong and warped and shouldn't want, because she wanted to try and to know and someone cut her open instead, and then she couldn't separate it out from what she wanted to do and what she'd felt she had to do, what she deserved, what people gave her and she forced herself to take because okay, that was how it worked, she guessed. the world pushed her down and told her what it did to people like her. then she'd tried to take it back and now she has nothing.
i don't want you to be like me, laura had told her. she still doesn't. donna should live a quiet life, one that doesn't involve demons or trouble or laura. especially laura.
"what i wanted," donna says softly, "was your strength, laura."
and i wanted yours, laura thinks. all your strength, all your kindness. she looks back at donna. "i'll miss you," she says. "i really will." laura owes her that much.
"i'll miss you too. more than anything." donna sighs, twists her fingers together. "before you go," she says, "you want a muffin?"
laura wants so badly to smile. she tries, but she can't do it. "seven whole huckleberries, donna?"
"and counting."
laura shakes her head. she wants to hug donna, just like she used to, but she doesn't think she has it in her. she just gets up and shrugs instead. "bye, muffin," she says.
donna smiles, her mouth trembling. "bye, muffin."
her mother always seems to be shaking. not just now, laura thinks, but she always was. sarah palmer's hands, her mouth, her head, her shoulders, her eyes. she leans against the doorway to the living room and pulls the cigarette out of her mouth.
"are you—" sarah begins, and then she stops. her eyes dart around the room, like she's looking for something. "do you need anything? anything at all, laura?"
"no," laura says.
sarah's lips tremble again. "will you come back?" she asks, with a helpless little smile.
"i don't know."
sarah sighs, and then she takes a long, long drag from the cigarette. laura watches the edges of her mother's fingers shake. it's like her mother's going to blur out of existence one of these days, just rattle apart.
"you should—you should write," sarah says. she says the words slowly, her lined mouth curling around them awkwardly. "let me know you're okay."
laura knows her mother is five seconds from shouting that at her, or she would've shouted it, if laura had tried to do this before. let me know you're okay, laura thinks. just tell me i'll be okay.
"maybe," laura says. "maybe i will. maybe i will be."
laura leaves twin peaks. she takes trains and buses at night, in the darkness where no one else can watch her. she leaves washington state and heads east, stopping when she runs out of money.
laura doesn't know why she applies for a job at a bar, but she does. the atmosphere isn't comforting but it's familiar, and she hopes she can just disappear there, just try to scrape something for herself out of whatever this is.
the owner looks her up and down. "what do you have to offer?" he asks.
laura thinks about when she would've charmed her way straight into the bar, straight into the job, straight into the owner, how she would've played every single person she could get her hands on, but she doesn't have the energy or the will for it anymore. and then she thinks, nothing. i have nothing to offer. because what are her skills, now? what can she do? what did she even do before? who are you, laura palmer?
"i don't know," laura says.
"least you're honest," the owner says. "alright, fine."
she works nights. she gets a small hotel room and spends a whole afternoon channel surfing and letting the noise wash over her, the curtains drawn tight and the lights off and the tv glowing blue against her skin, just to see what it feels like, if it feels like anything.
laura's washing out glasses behind the bar when a man sits down in front of her. he doesn't order anything. he just stares at her, traces the curve of her hair against her shoulder.
her whole body tenses. she gnaws on the inside of her mouth and looks at her hands, grips the towel tight so her nails dig into it and the fabric rubs into her skin.
the man looks at her, eyes glazed and his mouth a lopsided grin. he smells like other bars and glistens with sweat. "i've seen you around a lot," he says.
"i work here," laura says, her teeth grinding together. he sounds like leo johnson and looks like jacques renault. she knows how he works, what he wants, what he has. there’s a rushing in her head and her whole body aches. she wants to kill him with her bare hands.
"what's your name, cutie?"
she quits, right on the spot.
laura cuts her hair so it swings short around her chin, and buys the longest sweaters and wraps herself up in them. she gets another job at a convenience store where no one looks twice at her, and she hopes it's enough.
she still hangs out at bars, just because they're everywhere, they're nowhere, and most of the time no one ever notices she's there. she sits in the back with the shadows and just watches and tries to figure out how people do it, how they want to live when everything around them is so—whatever this is.
it comes in handy one night.
there's a girl not much younger than laura, sitting in a booth, being held by a friend.
"you've gotta tell someone," the friend says.
"i told you."
"besides me. you've gotta—this isn't right, we should do something—"
"do what? who's going to believe me? it's—it's not like i can explain it. like, this thing's after me, this horrible thing in the woods and it watches me and i can't—and why me, huh? why me?"
laura's heart races, her chest heaving as she tries to breathe.
it shouldn't surprise her, that there are horrible things out there, everywhere, not just in twin peaks. every place has history. every place has demons. literal demons. but she's still shocked to hear it's real, there's something else, there's someone else living her life.
laura holds herself tight and closes her eyes. she doesn't remember what she did before, what she did to him, but she'll be damned if she doesn't try it again.
she haunts the local bars and clubs, staying in the back, in the shadows, where no one can touch her, and she listens to people talk. she watches their faces when they talk about it, when someone brings it up—the demon in the woods. it makes her skin crawl and her heart slam in her throat but she stays there and makes herself listen.
it takes her a few weeks, but she figures out where it is, how it operates, and she has herself and that's all when she walks into the forest to find it.
she kills it, and she remembers every single second this time. her bare hands and her willpower and the ring glinting in the darkness when she takes the thing in her hands and pulls it apart like she did with bob. she doesn't know how it works. maybe it's because she has the ring. maybe it's because she's been there, and came out on the other side just as twisted as them. but she really doesn't care. she just does it.
laura doesn't know how they know it was her, but a group of girls—two of them the ones from the bar—find her before she leaves town and thank her. they look like her, a little, or she just sees herself in them, lost and alone.
if laura was a different person she'd tell them it's not a big deal. but it is, because she knows it is, and she just tells them to watch out for themselves.
"what's your name?" one of them asks.
laura thinks about it, because she doesn't know if she wants to say it, and she finds herself remembering what she'd said to donna that one time. and the angels wouldn't help you, because they've all gone away, she'd said. alright, then, laura thought. that'd have to be her. she just wouldn't go away. she would not go away. she grits her teeth and clenches her hands into fists and thinks i will not go away.
"laura," she says, louder than she has in months. "laura palmer."
she does it again, and again, in different towns and different places, and it doesn't hurt her anymore to do it.
laura doesn't know what this feels like. it's not what she thinks life is supposed to feel like, but it's not the gaping emptiness that had stabbed at her every single moment she was in twin peaks.
they start to know her name. demons, humans, all of them. they whisper it in the darkness, in the woods, like a curse, like a prayer. laura doesn't hear it, but she knows it's there. it makes her feel a little real.
things still scare her. it's been a year, and things still scare her. laura doesn't know if that's okay. she can't stand long hair, denim jackets, the color red, certain men, certain smells. sometimes she sees a picture of a mountain or too many trees and her heart speeds up, even. it all makes her hands shake and she finds herself crying over her lunch that she barely eats sometimes.
sometimes she wants to feel her hands against someone else's skin but then the thought of it is simultaneously too horrifying for her to handle, after everything. laura wonders if she'll ever—love again sounds stupid and like something donna would say, for goodness sake. and she doesn't have time for that right now, anyway. she doesn't have time to try to figure out how to handle all of that.
be okay enough, is what she settles on, early one morning, wiping the tears off her cheeks. i want to be okay enough. good enough.
she still tries not to think about twin peaks.
laura finds herself in philadelphia. she's on the trail of a demon with a darkness around it that worries her, and she doesn't like it.
she gets the hotel room and seeks out some low-key diner, because sometimes she honestly wants to eat and this is one of those times. she still feels uncomfortable ordering too much. she doesn't know what she wants, what she'd like, what she thinks would be okay.
she sips at her water and looks around the diner. it's small and quiet and there's only two other people in there, two men sitting across from each other, wearing crisp black suits and arguing over what looks like the three slices of pie that one of them ordered. then she looks at their faces. one of them looks not so much angry but fondly irritated, as if this happens all the time, and the other one, eating the pie with a calm, peaceful expression—
i know him, laura thinks, gripping her glass tighter so her hands won't shake. i know that face. she'd seen it in her dreams, the night before she what she did in twin peaks. he was in a red room with a jagged floor, which means he can't be real, he can't be right, he has to be another one. she's going to scream, right there, in the diner, she's going to fall apart.
his eyes meet hers, and he puts his fork down.
laura bites down hard on the inside of her mouth as her whole body trembles.
federal bureau of investigation special agent dale cooper, meanwhile, immediately understands everything, because that's the kind of person he is. he's seen that woman's face before, in a strange dream that wasn't much stranger than any other dream he's had, really. but it stood out to him, her face and her quiet smile and the heavy, startling weight of the air in the room. he knew and could feel the darkness of that weight.
(and if he had another dream, where he was trapped in that horror for year upon year and her face was the only thing he knew for sure in the midst of an almost-constant, almost gnawing laughter, a laughter he also heard in dreams as a child, well, he's certainly never told anyone.)
he'd had a thought at the time, that maybe she was the victim he'd envisioned after teresa banks died, but he looked through every single file in the bureau and hadn't found her face. until now, across the diner, looking at him with wild eyes. cooper is so relieved she's alive but he doesn't want to frighten her. she's overcome so much, so much he doesn't know, but he has to talk to her.
"you have that look on your face again," albert rosenfield says, in a tone of long-suffering. "the one you get when you're about to do something stupid."
"i know," cooper says.
"well, at least you're becoming self-aware."
cooper stands. "please wait for me outside, albert."
the man gets up and walks over to laura. she breathes fast through her nose, her eyes darting back and forth between his. he doesn't feel like any of the others. he doesn't look like them either. he looks kind and worried, but that doesn't mean he isn't just as bad. there's a cold horror spreading down her spine that she doesn't like, so she doesn't like him.
he extends his hand. "special agent dale cooper," he says. he smiles, just a little bit.
laura doesn't shake it.
"may i sit down?" he asks, lowering his hand.
laura frowns up at him, gripping her glass again. she can feel her shoulders shaking. she grinds her teeth together. "why?"
"i'd like to buy you breakfast," agent cooper says. "if that's alright with you."
"you don't know me," she says.
agent cooper smiles. "may i ask your name?"
"laura palmer," she says, and she wants to scream it so everyone hears, she's laura palmer and she's going to tear everyone apart if they're not careful, if they don't stay away from her, she didn't go through hell to get pulled back in because she wasn't on her guard.
"miss palmer—"
"laura."
"laura." he sits down across from her. "do you think it's possible for two people to know each other, even though they've never met before? to have an acute understanding of the other's life because, perhaps, in another, they would have met for certain, one way or another, and helped each other? and that in this lifetime, if they happen to meet, something strange but wonderful could happen?"
there is the tiniest of creases between his eyes when he talks to her, a tension laura has seen in her own eyes. he doesn't feel wrong. he doesn't look at her with anger or lust. she doesn't get that twist in her throat she feels when she looks at a monster. a regular guy. that's all he is, just a regular guy, not a demon or a joke, just someone who looks and sounds like he's seen what laura has and more. she feels sorry for him, a pity that makes her want to cry, but she also wants him to keep talking.
she twists her hands together in her lap, the line of her shoulders still pulled tight. "i don't know," she says.
"i think it's an interesting possibility to think about," agent cooper continues. "the infinity of space, the relationships of individuals. the multitude of possibilities, and their intersections. what we take from one part of our lives to the next."
"what have you taken?" laura asks.
agent cooper looks startled for a moment, as if he hadn't expected her to ask. then he smiles. "the knowledge that there is so much more that i can do, that i will do, to help," he says. "and you, laura?"
"i don't know," she says quickly. "or—i don't know, yet."
his smile widens. "how about that breakfast?" he picks up the menu to look it over again, even though laura knows he's already looked at it. "the cherry pie is particularly excellent," agent cooper says. "i'm afraid that's the most experience that i have with the food here, but i think it works as a good baseline for anything else."
laura swallows. she still doesn't know what she wants. all this time, and she still can't order something in a diner? damn, laura, she thinks. what would donna say?
but she knows exactly what donna would say.
"a muffin," laura says. "i want a muffin."
agent cooper's smile is almost blinding this time. "a muffin it is, then." he calls the waitress over and tells her with much more enthusiasm than is really necessary what laura wants.
"we only have huckleberry today," the waitress says. "that okay?"
"that's fine," laura says.
agent cooper orders another slice of pie. the waitress comes back a little later and sets down the pie and the muffin. laura stares down at it. then she frowns and picks the whole muffin apart.
she finds the remains of eight whole huckleberries.
laura really almost laughs, this time, and she eats them all, one by one.
agent cooper and agent rosenfield are tracking the same demon. agent cooper doesn't come right out and say it—laura thinks he can't—but she knows they're after it, and agent cooper knows she's after it too.
"the fbi does things like that?" laura asks. "fight demons?"
"from time to time," agent cooper says. "i get the feeling it's something you do as well." he gives her a knowing look.
the corner of laura's mouth twitches up, just for a second. "from time to time," she says.
agent cooper takes a bite of his third slice of pie. "if it's not too personal a question," he begins, "can i ask how you do it?"
laura looks down at her hands, her fingers still sticky from the muffin. she rubs them along the condensation on her water glass. "i don't know," she says. "i just—i don't even know how i did it the first time." she closes her eyes and immediately sees his face, the way his jaw would move and crack as he laughed, and she forces her eyes open wide. "i grabbed hold of him," she whispers, "and tore him apart." she frowns and pulls her sleeves of her sweater down over her knuckles. "what about you?"
agent cooper looks at her with a quiet curiosity. "there are other ways of doing it," he says. "to destroy darkness with darkness is to feed into it. to help it become something lighter is to overcome it. if these things are the evil that men do, then that evil has to go somewhere.”
laura digs her nails into her palms, and she feels afraid, truly afraid, for the first time in a while. "there are some things you can't," she says. "what if there are some things you can't overcome?"
he doesn’t have an answer for her. if anything, he looks a little afraid too.
laura swallows hard and changes the subject. “so do you want my help or not?”
agent cooper clears his throat. "laura, while i respect you and your abilities and your knowledge, at the end of the day you are still considered a civilian and i would be remiss if i put you in any danger. however, i would appreciate any general assistance you could—”
"you won't get to that demon without me," laura says. "you won't be able to stop it without me." it's the one thing, the only thing she feels confident in.
“if something happened to you—”
“i can take care of myself,” she insists. she twists the ring hard around her finger and stares him down.
he looks like he wants to say no. he’s going to say no, laura knows it. her heart pounds in her chest, a frantic rhythm that reminds her she’s here, and she won’t let anyone take that from her.
something pinches in his face and then softens. he sighs.
agent cooper likes to talk to her. he likes to take her out to breakfast and talk. laura doesn't do much talking, but she doesn't mind listening to him. she enjoys it.
sometimes they talk about the case, the demon. it's slow-going, this one, and neither of them have found anything concrete yet. mostly, agent cooper likes to talk about ducks. he pulls polaroids of ducks out of his wallet. agent rosenfield joins them reluctantly for breakfast one morning and tells her about the numerous times agent cooper has braked for a family of geese. laura almost smiles. she wonders how agent cooper does it. how he's seen so much darkness and hasn't let it touch him, how he can still smile like he does. he's okay enough. what has he done that laura hasn't?
"tell me about where you're from," agent cooper says one day.
laura shrugs, uncomfortable. "it's a small town in washington, near the canadian border." she shoves her hands into her pockets. she thinks without wanting to of jacques renault's cabin in the woods, and chews hard on the inside of her mouth. "lots of trees," she mutters.
"what kind of trees?" agent cooper asks, sounding interested.
"i don't know," laura says, quicker than she wants. "they're just trees." but they weren't just trees to her, they were eyes and secrets and she didn't feel safe in them, and she doesn't want to think about it now. she ran away so she wouldn't have to. "i don't want to talk about it."
agent cooper is quiet for a long time. "fear is a powerful thing," he says. "it's unwise to let it consume you."
"i know!" laura shouts. there's still so much she doesn't know, but she knows that for sure, she stared fear right in the face and didn't let it kill her. she killed it instead, and she'll keep killing it, tearing it apart, over and over, as long as it takes until it's all gone and she's safe.
agent cooper is still calm, still quiet, and laura suddenly hates that look on his face.
"i'm not afraid of it," she whispers.
"what are you afraid of?" agent cooper asks gently.
laura glares at him. "what are you afraid of?"
agent cooper answers with only minimal pausing. "that i will be consumed by my own fear. that what i do, and what i am, is not enough, and will never be enough."
and what is she afraid of? that i'll never be okay, laura thinks. i'll never be enough, either. i'll never hold something i can call my own. i'll be alone forever because no one will love me, no one could, even i couldn't. and she could do it, she could survive. but she's done that all her life. she's come so close to living, and she wants it, she wants it more than anything else.
"how do you do it?" she asks.
"i am under no illusion that it is easy," agent cooper says, "and if i gave you that impression at all, then i'm sorry, laura." he looks sad. it's a strange look on him. "there are some things i wish i hadn't taken with me. but i'm stuck with them. i try to do what i can, and at times it is harder than others."
"how do you know it's worth it?"
"i don't." he smiles slowly. "but i like to believe it is."
laura lets herself think about twin peaks. it's a scary thing, her memories of that town, but it's what she has, like it or not.
she thinks about donna, and wonders how she is. if donna's with james or not, and laura sort of hopes she isn't. what james is even doing, if he's grown up at all. how bobby's doing with shelly, if he's okay, if shelly's okay. what ronette is up to, if she still sees leo and jacques. laura hopes not, because there are better people out there for ronette. if audrey's sorted out her problems. if her parents—
there aren't that many memories of her parents that haven't been tainted and twisted and pulled apart. but she digs through them all and remembers them dancing, the way her mother would laugh and how her father would smile.
she hopes her parents still dance.
agent cooper finds the demon.
laura tells him that she'll handle it. agent cooper insists they handle it together, which laura immediately refuses. they go back and forth for longer than the average breakfast as laura tries to get him to let her do it alone. she has to do it alone. this one, for sure. she's been thinking about what agent cooper said and she needs to do something, and this is how she's going to do it.
ultimately, agent cooper tells agent rosenfield that he and laura will handle it, and agent rosenfield looks less than pleased about it. he spends what laura thinks is longer than necessary glaring at her while he lights a cigarette. she gets the impression that he doesn't like much of anything, except agent cooper, because he lets them do it.
then agent cooper, who says it's against his better judgment but understands why laura wants to do it, lets her do it alone.
"wait for me," laura tells him, before she walks into the woods. everything is washed in cool red from the sunset, and she twists the ring around her finger again.
"without a doubt," agent cooper replies.
laura thinks all of them, all the demons, look like bob, a little. in some way or another. they all do. they're all different, but they're all sharp and horrifying and she still sees his face, every time. she holds it tight and closes her eyes. the darkness is heavy on her skin, in her mouth. she knows that weight, that darkness.
don't be afraid.
she's been that darkness. she is that darkness, maybe, twisted up and hurt and wrong. she still hurts so much. it's hard to get up and it's hard to fight and it's hard to do anything.
but it's enough.
laura opens her eyes and stares it down and tells herself she is stronger than it, than anything, and she starts to believe herself. there is a darkness, and there will always be a darkness, but she and her presence are enough and she will live every day staring it down until it's so small it doesn't even matter. there will always be monsters, but there will always be laura palmer.
i will not go away.
the ring sparkles bright on her hand, and the demon bursts into nothing. its screams echo and laura’s don’t.
agent cooper looks ridiculously pleased, and agent rosenfield just looks like he wants to leave town as quickly as possible. it's a nice sight, the two of them. laura will miss them.
"laura palmer," agent cooper says, "it has been an honor to work with you."
laura smiles and lets herself be pulled into a genuine hug for the first time in a long time. agent cooper smells like pine trees and laundry detergent, and she buries her face into his jacket and holds on.
"what are you going to do now?" he asks.
laura picks up a postcard.
donna—
had a muffin with eight whole huckleberries.
and counting.
love,
laura
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The boy that napped (I’m very bad at titles and mod David is offline, okay? -A)
Today is a new day and that mean it’s time for me to fill up the queue some more woot woot! Anyways, enjoy more Hero AU by mod David! -A
---
Delia didn’t quite understand what lead to this point in her life, as she gently played with Apollo’s blond hair as he drooled on her pillow, laying next to her. First being able to read people’s minds, then being able to put her own thoughts into others minds, and this idiot...When she opened the door a few months ago, coming face to face with a tired dishevelled Apollo with a guitar on his back asking if he could nap for a few minutes she had no idea saying yes would lead to this. Sure, his house was right across the street but even she could hear how loud his family could get just by opening her window in the morning. So, since then, a few times a week Apollo would just appear in her house and they would talk, maybe Apollo would play guitar for her, occasionally bring over food as a thanks, and then once a few minutes would have passed he would have passed out either on her bed or a couch and sleep anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour. Currently though, Delia was trying to take notes on a documentary before Apollo showed up and slumped against her when he found her. He tried to ask her what she was doing, but she merely shushed him and pushed him off of her.
So, that’s a short summary of how she got to this point. Now with her notes finished and the documentary over, her focus was on the sleeping boy beside her. She could feel the strange vibes of his dream, not trusting herself to see what was going on inside that beautiful mind of his. Yeah, he was pretty, but that felt like an understatement. Beauty was not his defining trait, no, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t there. His golden eyes fluttered open, humming as he looked up at Delia whose face instantly turned pink.
“Watching me sleep ‘Lia?” Apollo teased, sitting up with a yawn.
“N-No-“
“Weirdo.” Apollo chuckled, wiping the drool from his mouth with the collar of his shirt.
“Oh shut it!” Delia shoved his arm playfully causing Apollo to burst out laughing. “You wish I was!”
Apollo hummed, leaning on her. “I do love your eyes on me… Did you finish your work? How long was I asleep?” He changed the topic with a bit of force, distracting Delia from his comment.
“Yes, I finished it a while ago. You slept for an hour and a bit.” Delia informs him, cheeks still faintly pink.
“Hmm…” Apollo hummed again in response, slinging his arm around her shoulders, “that’s a long time…”
“Yes it is Apollo.” Delia nods, not used to him this much in her space. Yeah, even though he’s practically been sleeping beside or on her for the past month or so. Let the girl live. She could feel how red her cheeks were getting.
Apollo just yawned again, tears brimming his eyes as he nuzzled closer to Delia.
‘By gods, I love you…’
Delia pushed Apollo away from her at that thought, her face now bright red. He frowned, not bothering to get up as he laid on his back looking at her confusedly.
“Did I do something-“
“No!” Delia squeaked, more embarrassed than before. She was sure her face mimicked a tomato at this point. “I just- I am getting water!” Delia stood up, quickly walking out of her room and closed the door loudly behind her.
She hid her red face in her hands whining as she walked to the kitchen, mentally calling herself an idiot. She filled a cup up with cold water from the tap, drinking half of it before she even reached her room again and opened the door to find Apollo tuning his guitar.
“What are you doing?” Delia asked, her face now cleared of any blush.
“I wrote you a song-“
“Wh-“
“In the minute you were gone. I’m amazing, I know.” Apollo grinned before strumming his instrument.
Delia raised an eyebrow, sitting back on her bed as she watched Apollo expectantly. He strummed his guitar again, before clearing his throat.
“You’re fuckin’ smart, how.” He sung before bursting into laughter. It had the same energy as the ‘I love you bitch’ vine. Delia merely rolled her eyes at him, poking his forehead.
“That was horrible, go home.”
“Kicking me out?”
“Yes.”
“Fair.” Apollo nods, ruffling Delia’s hair, “see you sometime, ‘Lia!”
With that, he slung his guitar on his back and walked out with a smile and a wave. She could faintly hear the front door close and she sighed, closing her eyes.
Did he mean that platonically or were her feelings actually returned for once?
-
Delia had a small inner turmoil, looking between the sleeping Apollo and her backpack. Sure, they fought a small-time robber last night, but apparently Apollo got in trouble and had trouble falling asleep once he got home- or that’s what he told her. It only took a few seconds for Delia to get out her pencil case and balance it on his head. Blame it on the fact they were teenagers maybe? Apollo stayed asleep on her couch as she also put some magazines and binders on his head as well. She was about 7 objects in when Apollo moved in his sleep and her tower came crashing down loudly.
“Fuck…” Delia mumbled as Apollo startled awake, sitting up quickly with a yelp.
Apollo took a deep breath, looking at the mess on the floor and Delia sitting under it, not daring to look at his eyes.
“…’Lia?”
“You ruined my tower.” Delia pouted, crossing her arms.
“I-“ Apollo couldn’t help but chuckle, “I ruined your tower?”
“Yes! You ruined my tower.”
“I’m sorry?”
Delia just huffed as Apollo slid off the couch to clean up the mess.
“Were…” Apollo frowned after putting the magazines in a pile, “did you put these on me?”
“…”
“You did, didn’t you?”
“Maybe.” Delia huffed, looking at Apollo who only smiled in amusement.
“You’re so cute.” He sighed, not registering he said that out loud.
“I’m what?” Delia tilted her head, wanting to make sure she heard him right though instead his face quickly lit up with blush.
“Nothing, I didn’t say anything.” He was a terrible liar, but Delia accepted it with a small nod.
“Maybe I’m just hearing someone else.” Delia shrugged with a hum.
Apollo nods, standing up and offering Delia a hand that she took. With a gentle squeeze, he helped her up onto her own feet. He glanced out the window and across the street and a somber expression flitted across his face.
“I should really be getting home. Thanks for letting me crash on your couch ‘Lia, I’ll bring cookies or something next time, I promise.” Apollo smiled brightly at her, ruffling her hair before grabbing his own backpack and leaving.
“See you later ‘Pollo!” Delia called after him.
#oc#ocs#oc writing#ocs writing#writing#pjo#pjo ocs#pjo oc#au#delia#delia of delos#mod dav#mod dave#mod david#queue
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