#sight glass valve
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sight glass valve manufacturer in Ahmedabad
Flowdo Valves specializes in the manufacturing and supply of high-quality sight glass valve and related industrial Valve products. Sight Glass Valve: We offers a range of sight glass valves in different sizes, materials, and configurations to meet the specific requirements of different applications.
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PTFE Lined Pipes: The Ultimate Solution for Corrosion Resistance
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I saw you were feeling merformers lately and I looovvvvee that! My absolute favorite head canon is researcher/trainer ratchet X medformer drift.
Ratchet has artificially inseminated Drift so much, that drift gets excited by the sight of the little insemination gun. He sees through the glass that ratchet his holding the kit and he gets so wet and his slit is already opening before Ratchet can even get in the tank.
Drift humps his slit against the structures in the tank and the cyberkelp. He watches and gets antsy as Ratchet takes his time filling up the gun. He grips ratchets shoulders and stares him in the eye as Ratchet pushes the gun inside - drift just wishes ratchet would inseminate him more naturally.
Drift cums around the gun and makes a grab to ratchet’s array to return the favor. Ratchet knows he shouldn’t but eventually one day, he’ll give into temptation.
Oh, that's good. Drift seeing Ratchet coming in with the insemination gun and he immediately gets so hot and bothered, circling frantically around the tank and trying to rub his aching slit against everything he can find because he literally can't control himself for any longer… Drift watching Ratchet fill the gun with hungry optics, clawing at the floor of the shallow platform as he obediently waits for Ratchet to get in there.
Ratchet doesn't even need to insert the gun, Drift basically impales himself on it, sucking it so deep into his valve that Ratchet's shaking knuckles are rubbing against his node. Poor Ratchet just looking up at the security camera in the corner as he resists the urge to give Drift what he needs… he simply waits a little until he can see the mer reaching his peak, and then he finally releases the transfluid inside of him.
Drift collapsing on top of Ratchet with the force of his overload, so heavy and warm and nipping at his neck tubing, trying to discreetly rub his slit against Ratchet's panel, inviting him in, telling him to give it a taste… Ratchet doesn't think he can get away with it though… he pushes Drift off of him, and leaves, charge cackling in his frame as he thinks about filling Drift up the way he's been begging him to. But he knows he can't, Drift is under his care, and not even the same species, it would be inappropriate.
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How would Nobby react to Gordon? I could either see Nobby trying to impart wisdom onto the young engine only for Gordon to blow him off because “I’m the best engine ever” Or Nobby doing a double take because how did they get another pacific???? This backwater island that was begging to buy any locomotives just bought 2 large steam engines?? How???
Yeah, that pretty well nails it. Well, that nails everyone’s reaction ("How did they get another Pacific????" — and remember that the N.W.R. is acquiring more large engines circa 1922-3 than just Henry and Gordon. Somehow they got a whole shed full of 'em.) But Nobby in particular has some experience with Topham Hatt’s method of procuring engines… so his reaction might be more specifically "What is the catch with this one?" and "Wonder if Hatt actually went to inspect this one first or if this is yet another deal he struck sight unseen and just… hoped for the best." You know. Questions for the ages.
As for Gordon’s reaction to Nobby trying to boss him around impart pearls of wisdom, well, yeah, I think you’ve pretty much called it. I’d say for the most part Nobby, especially at first, would like to very much ignore Gordon. Nobby’s got not only the Furness engines but now all sorts of newcomers into their territory to keep track of (also they keep renumbering everyone so that’s a headache right there), the N.W.R. is not his responsibility and, as of the year Gordon comes, those engines come and go too quickly to bother with them anyhow. It’s not like the new Pacific doesn’t seem to be able to garner all the attention he wants from his own railway.
BUT sometimes Gordon’s… high-spirited behavior must be checked for the sake of station decorum and when Nobby does intervene the tension is HIGH. Coz usually Nobby is only telling him something that a long string of people and engines have told him already, and Gordon would LOVE to loftily sweep his objections aside right along with everyone else’s. But… Nobby has two advantages that no one else around does:
1) Gordon comes installed with respect for preserved engines, they’re the only engines further up the hierarchy than, well, you know. Him. Hierarchy is very important in G.N.R. culture, it’s rigid, and at first no one Over Here thinks Gordon knows anything about etiquette, but it’s just that G.N.R. hierarchy is… different. Unlike, say, the Furnessians, Gordon doesn’t have to defer to humans in general, no not even drivers, or at least drivers-who-didn’t-distinguish-themselves-during-the-Great-Races (oh God, Gordon’s first Sodor driver had nerves of steel, raise a glass); he also doesn't have to respect older engines who are not his direct forbears; hell, at first Gordon manages to even rationalise away nearly half of Topham Hatt I’s authority (Gordon is great at rationalisation, he’s a genius at it). HOWEVER. Preserved engines do outrank him. Unequivocally. So when Coppernob reproves him, Gordon is FURIOUS but… he can’t talk back. But this is also 1920s Gordon, who WILL burst a safety valve before taking anything he doesn’t like. BUT this is a PRESERVED ENGINE. #$%^&@!!!!
So Gordon would fall lividly silent and glare at Nobby in a way that would unsettle or provoke any other engine (Nobby doesn’t give a shit) and just sail into a fuming bout of mental trigonometry, furiously trying to work out some sort of excuse by which he can decide Coppernob is an illegitimate member of what he regards as one of the most respectable clubs in the world. Unfortunately... he can’t do it. (Maybe if Gordon had known Edward Bury had been sacked as loco supe from the GNR after cheating the company, lmao. But I don’t think Gordon does know this.) SO HE’S JUST SO PISSED OFF. How did he get exiled to the middle of nowhere, AND SOMEHOW THERE’S A BOSSY ENGINE FROM THE RAILWAY BOOM ERA kept here in immaculate condition to purely for the purpose of annoying him??! It's — it's — 'disgraceful' doesn't even seem to cover it, somehow. It's like you need more words than that. Hmmm.
Anyway, somehow — even with his resentment topping out at 10000% — Gordon keeps his mouth shut.
Which is stunning. I think the first time it happens, Gordon’s poor driver nearly falls off the footplate. Silence is golden, man.
Nobby himself is a little surprised at how easy it is to check Gordon — unless his temper is maxed out (which is not in fact an everyday occurrence), most of the Seagulls give him WAY more lip, and 133 is currently running him ragged at every opportunity. He’s already observed that Gordon’s temper is equal to his own so was expecting one hell of an argument, not instant submission.
Now, it would take a heart of stone to not be tempted to use this unexpected superpower to fuck with the temperamental young thoroughbred...
... and Nobby ain’t exactly a saint, so he goes right on ahead fully enjoying the ability to yank Gordon’s chain.
2) But after a year this is starting to wear off — like most new engines, Gordon’s "programming" is not impervious to environment and experience, and, when you chuck him to a railway clear on the other side of the country, it’s gonna start crumbling even sooner. As far as Gordon is concerned, he’s been exiled to the WILDERNESS, he had to put up with all manner of indignities (a goods train! a goods train!), the social contract is already in cinders so he does NOT have to put up with Nobby giving him unreasonable orders like "pronounce the 'r' in 'Furness'" and "don’t call your fireman a blasted fool in the middle of my station" and "say 'thank you' to our station pilot or I’ll have you sent back to Doncaster on five separate flatbeds" and "if I’ve told you once then this makes it twice, 'Furness' requires an 'r' sound in the middle, don’t make me say it again."
So things might have changed, but Nobby gets a second trump card up his sleeve after going to the Wembley Exhibition. Coz now he’s acquainted with the Flying Scotsman. And he can not-so-subtly remind Gordon, if Gordon is being especially absurd, that he may well be in a position in the future to tell tales about him to his famous little brother. Maybe even tells Gordon that Gordon can let him know if he has a message for Scotsman, next time he writes… (It’s only Columbine that Nobby exchanges letters with but Gordon doesn’t need to know that.)
At the same time, Nobby kept Scotsman in line during all the months of the Wembley Exhibition by pointedly talking up what a responsible and respectable and restrained engine Scot’s older brother Gordon is, what a fine young engine, I see him every day back home, he’s the epitome of grace (or whatever other quality Scotsman is failing to demonstrate on that particular day).
I expect in ’68 Gordon and Scotsman realized that the wily old crafter had bludgeoned them both by talking each other up behind their tenders to each other, instilling them with low-key inferiority complexes that lasted until roughly that minute. While never once saying anything nice about either of them to their own faces.
(They laughed, but only Scotsman really let it go. Gordon would still get Nobby back for it if he ever saw an opportunity. Not like this consumes him, not at all, but he just, like, listen. He’s aware that there is a score to settle… and Gordon believes in revenge served cold.)
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Part 2 because men sweating brain rot ahejehehhe
Tw: Pervet old man Price 👍, and not beta read we die like men
Oh John shouldn't have done this, cranking the valve pressure just right for reader to do his work in the shower, only to splash himself with water, the dirtied white shirt now clinging to his torso.
He comes to Price with a sheepish smile, dripping wet hair, and the outline of his body clinging to his shirt. Price almost gouges his eyes out at sight, truly mouthwatering before he is interrupted by reader, asking for a towel, with the promise of returning it of course, just need a quick run in at his house for a quick shower and fresh set of clothes so he can fix the damn showerhead at last.
Oh Price begged to differ, saying no need to get out of the motel just for that, saying It'd much be a better he gets his shower here, he's the one doing all the work after all.
Reader reluctantly accepts his offer, gingerly taking the clothes Price laid out for him.
And in his haste, reader forgets to completely close the bathroom door, allowing Price a front view seat of his naked glory, with Price silently grinding his thighs.
Reader returns at a later date, bashfully returning his borrowed items before leaving again, another person asking his help at the motel.
I tell you the moment you're out of sight, Price takes out the towel and oversized shirt for him to sniff, the familiar scent of your detergent and musk still attached to it.
Let's just say the old man has material to "satisfy" himself tonight
-💫. I'm haunted by hairy pussy, I want old man Price to be real
IM KICKING MY LEGS AND TWIRLING MT HAIR SUGAR I ABSOLUTELY LOVE THIS JESUS CHEISR
But also also also old man price watching you down on all four working on some broken pipe under the sink, youre soaked in sweat because it’s a hot day and he can hear every grunt and groan you make as you work on the thing. He offers you a glass of juice only to see the thing spill on you accidentally and you’re like I’m so sorry I’m so clumsy and he’s like it’s alright voice breathy and strained before he scatters out of the kitchen, he tries to keep his mind occupied with the tv or something but he can still hear the noises you make as you work on the pipe the curses escaping your lips when you fail at a step and the little praises you’ll mutter at the inmate objects and before he even realizes what he’s doing he’s got his hand between his thighs, two fingers buried in his cunt and biting down on the palm of his hand to keep himself from being discovered 🧎🏻♂️
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Don't Crack Under Pressure
Written for the Phic Phight Prompt: (Not phantom planet compliant) Danny's finally an astronaut! He's somehow got through college, after barely managing to pull through high school. But after he manages to make it into a NASA rocket and travel to the final frontier, his helmet cracks. So how does he explain how he got through the entire day to the rest of the crew with a cracked helmet? (from @shadowpixel)
Chapter 2: There Isn't Much Air or Gravity There (but the stars will make your heart race)
AO3 Link
[Warnings for space and swearing]
Danny had been stunned by taking an unexpected metal hook to the face. He'd passed out from the sudden pressure change. But he hadn't died. A few minutes later, his body adjusted and he woke up again. Danny blinked, pushed himself to his feet, and looked around. Unable to see clearly through the massive crack like a glass web hanging in front of his face, Danny removed his helmet to detach the visor completely before putting it back on again. The helmet was basically useless now, but he was an astronaut, and he wanted to look the part.
With clear eyes, he looked around again and saw barren metal plains as far as the eye could see. The surface area of the asteroid 16 Psyche, which he was currently stranded on, was approximately sixty-four thousand square miles. He would never be able to find his way back to the ship on his own before the mission ended, if it hadn't already. He had no idea how long he'd been out for.
Danny checked the time indicator on the screen in his suit's left sleeve. About an hour had passed, meaning he'd gotten himself a nice little nap, and Denali would be very nearly back at the ship. Somehow, Danny had to get there on his own.
Luckily, aside from the shattered visor, everything else in Danny's suit seemed the be working just fine. Oxygen was rapidly leaking out of the open face of his helmet, so he closed the valve. No need to waste it like that. He tried contacting the rest of the crew, but the surrounding vacuum swallowed up his words before they reached his mic. He could hear them, but they couldn't hear him.
The rest of his instruments were all working too, thankfully, so he could see the direction and proximity of the ship, which was a massive relief. With the low gravity hampering his speed, though, it was too far to travel on foot. Of course, Danny didn't necessarily have to travel on foot. Danny hovered above the asteroid's surface and took off flying in the direction of the Eros. He had to let his crew know he was okay.
Once the ship was in sight in the distance, Danny took stock of what he could see. It looked like Denali had made it back safe with the probe. Thank the Ancients she hadn't been hurt. Danny was going to fly right up to them before he remembered that they thought he was human, and humans couldn't fly. Instead, once he was close enough for them to see, he landed, and started to skip towards them, since it was faster and easier than trying to walk in low gravity.
One by one, each of his crew mates looked his way. The tinted class of their visors made it impossible to read their expressions, but Danny could only assume they were happy to see him, alive and well.
'Hey guys!' he tried to say, though the words didn't reach his microphone, let alone his crew mates ears. He waved and smiled cheerfully, aiming for casual. It was then that all hell broke loose on his eardrums. He'd totally forgotten that humans also couldn't survive in space with a gaping hole in their helmet.
"Danny what the fuck!?" Denali's voice screeched.
"You're alive?!" Ivy Grace said, her voice hysterical. "How are you alive? How the fuck are you alive? Your visor is fully gone!"
"What the hell are you, and what have you done with Danny?" Simon demanded, pointing an accusatory finger. "Stay back! What the hell is going on?"
"Are you an alien?!" Denali asked. "Are you a zombie?"
'Woah! Calm down!' Danny tried, though the words didn't get to them. He waved his hands defensively in front of himself. 'It's me! I'm okay!'
The rest of the Eros crew continued to freak out. Obviously they weren't getting it. Time for charades! It looked like all those party games Simon made them play were about to pay off. Danny held up two fingers, waved them a bit, hoping the others would get it.
"What is he...?" Denali started to say, but Simon caught on quicker than she did.
"I think he's doing charades," they said. "Two words?"
Danny tapped his nose and nodded. He held up one finger, then tapped it against his arm.
"First word, one syllable." Danny made an 'X' with his arms. "X? No?"
"Not?" Ivy Grace suggested, and Danny pointed to her with one hand and tapped a finger to his nose with the other. Two fingers, one against his arm. "Second word, one syllable."
This one was easy. Danny ran a finger across his throat, and then stuck his tongue out and let his head loll.
"Not dead," Denali said, and Danny pointed at her, nodding fervently. "You're not dead. How are you not dead? You should be suffocating, and freezing to death, and bloating until you choke on your organs all at once right now." Danny grimaced with disgust and shook his head.
"So how are you alive, then?" Simon asked. Danny held up two fingers, then one, then tapped it against his head. "Two words. First word, one syllable." He made the 'X' with his arms again and they got it right away. "Not." Two fingers, he tapped both against his arm. "Second word, two syllables." He gestured to the three of them, and they looked at each other, clearly confused.
"Not... like us?" Denali suggested. "Oh wait, that's three words."
"Astronaut is three syllables," Ivy Grace mumbled.
"Not... uh—no, audible is three syllables too," Simon said thoughtfully. Danny rolled his eyes again and gestured once more. They still didn't get it.
'Alright, I guess I have to spell it out for you,' Danny said uselessly. He held out his hands, palms facing each other, with one index finger bent to it looked like an 'H'. Once they'd all seen, he switched to putting his thumbs out so his hands took the shape of a 'U'.
"Spelling words out is cheating," Simon complained, but Denali and Ivy Grace immediately shushed them.
"This isn't actual charades!" Denali hissed. "This is just the only non-verbal communication we have." Danny continued, making a 'W' with his thumbs and forefingers and turning it upside-down to form an 'M'.
"H-U-M," Ivy Grace said. "Uh, humid? Hummus? Humbug?" Danny shook his head, struggling to form an 'A'. Eventually, he figured it out, steepling his fingers, with one forefinger down to form the line in the center.
"H-U-M-A," Denali said, and hummed in thought.
"Human," Simon guessed, and Danny pointed at them, tapping a finger to his nose with the other hand to indicate that they'd gotten it right. "You're not human.... How are you not human?"
Danny pointed to the ship. 'Can we go back to where there's air so I can actually talk to you guys?' he asked, unheard.
"I think maybe we should get back on the ship," Ivy Grace suggested. "That way we can maybe, you know, hear him?"
"No," Simon said. "Sorry Danny, but as the captain, I have to protect the crew, and that means not letting someone who says they're not human onto the Eros until I know what's what. Denali, go grab a spare helmet of the ship for him. Once there's air in his suit again, we can communicate through our headsets. Is that an acceptable solution?"
Danny nodded, and Denali went to do as Simon told her to. She came back a minute or so later and held out the helmet to Danny, who took the broken one off and let it fall very slowly to the ground before he took the new one. Once the new helmet was firmly in place, he opened the oxygen valve back up again, and waited a minute for the air to be pumped back into his suit.
"Well that's much better," Danny said once his suit was once more intact. "Anyway, sorry for scaring you guys; I didn't really mean to. I thought you should know that I didn't suffocate and die when my helmet was breached."
"What did you mean when you said you aren't human?" Simon asked. Clearly they were wearing their metaphorical captain hat, judging by the seriousness in their tone.
"Right to the nitty-gritty, huh?" Danny said with a sigh. He knew this was going to happen, but he still didn't want it to. "I could give you a really long, complicated explanation, but the short version is, when I was fourteen, my parents built a device that could pierce the barrier between our dimension, and another one. I was involved in a lab accident with that device which... changed me. It turned me into what the people of the other dimension call a halfa, which may or may not be a slur; I'm still unclear on that."
"So what, you're... half alien?" Simon asked, struggling to understand.
"Sort of?" Danny said, see-sawing one of his hands in an ambiguous gesture. "The inhabitants of the other dimension call themselves ghosts, and some of them are the spirits of the dead given new life, and other's are just dimensional aliens formed of ectoplasm. It's really complicated if you get into it."
"So... you're half ghost?" Ivy Grace reiterated, and she swallowed audibly. "You're half dead?"
"Well... yeah, I am," Danny said. "I can switch between this form and a more spooky, ghostly form. Wanna see?" None of them answered, so Danny took that as a 'yes' and transformed into Phantom. Immediately the sensors in his suit whined, warning him that his heart had stopped, but he ignored them. "What do you think?"
"Jesus fuck why do you sound like that?!" Ivy Grace shrieked. "Why's your mic all staticky and freaky all of the sudden?!" Looking down, Danny realized that even though he'd transformed, his suit hadn't. At most, the others had seen the rings. Danny turned back, a little sheepish.
"I guess you couldn't really see, what with the suit," Danny said apologetically. "Ghosts mess with recording devices, which is probably where the static came from. Sorry about that. The point is, I'm fine. I've been like this the whole time, so I'm the same Danny you've always known, you just–" he shrugged uncomfortably–"know a little more about me now." He only noticed how tense his muscles were when his back started to ache from it. "So, are we cool?"
There was silence on the radio again, and even though their faces were obscured by their tinted helmets, Danny could imagine their expressions. Confused. Aghast. Disgusted. Afraid.
"Yeah," Simon said at length. "Yeah, Danny, we're cool."
"I'm just glad we're not going home three instead of four," Denali added.
"Definitely," agreed Ivy Grace, already returning to the samples she'd been collecting when Danny got back.
"I'm gonna go let mission control know that reports of your death were greatly exaggerated," Simon said. "You get started on the Psyche probe diagnostic."
"Aye aye, Captain," Danny gave a mock salute and made a beeline for the probe.
"It's good to have you back," the captain told him, and he smiled.
"Yeah, if you really were dead we were gonna have to fix that hunk of junk ourselves," Ivy Grace added. "And Lord knows I am no engineer."
"Oh, God, same," Denali agreed with a snort.
"Don't talk about Psyche like that," whined Danny, pouting as he lovingly stroked the probes solar panels. "She's not a hunk of junk! She's a lovely lady, aren't you girl." The others laughed. "Now let's see why you've been playing hard to get."
After the reveal, the crew of the Eros was a lot less anxious around Danny that he would have expected them to be. It took some time for them to really internalize the idea, and he did eventually end up having to give them the long version of what he was and how it had happened, as well as telling them all about the Ghost Zone and Amity Park. But once they finally wrapped their heads around it, they were totally chill. Things went back to how they were before.
Danny found the problem they'd been sent to find, and they fixed the probe, downloaded the data and transmitted it back to Earth as instructed. With their mission completed, the crew of the Eros started their return trip right on schedule.
The voyage home was slightly different from the trip to 16 Psyche. Danny let loose a little more, opened up a little more. Instead of simply staring out the window, Danny actually phased through the wall and flew alongside the ship, out in open space. It only freaked his crew mates out the first two times before they got used to it.
He got to show off, too. His crew mates were all incredibly jealous of his ghostly ability to mimic the effects of gravitational pull. "God, I miss gravity," Ivy Grace moaned as she watched Danny walk across the floor like he was standing in a normal room back on earth, and not a spaceship on its way past Mars.
The four of them formed a very close bond on that mission. It was a relief that his fellow astronauts accepted him. Danny truly felt like one of them, now that he could be open with them. Once they got back to Earth, they stayed in touch. Simon sent them all pictures of their baby niece, Mae. Danny invited them all to come to a tech expo where he was going to give a presentation on ecto-energy. Ivy Grace deigned to let them attend the launch party for her book when she finally published it. Or rather, her books.
It wasn't erotica. She'd written a science fiction trilogy starring characters based on the four of them. The cheerful captain who always came through in a pinch; the loyal and kind-hearted navigator with a passion for art; the supportive, but soft-spoken scientist with a quick wit; and the talented, lovable engineer with mysterious, hidden powers from an alien source. They each got signed copies of all three books, and congratulated her profusely when they became a success.
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out of the storm
prompt: storm
whumpee: illya kuryakin
fandom: the man from uncle
hi here's me making illya miserable again :) it's pre-napoleon/illya and that is all there is to know. hope you enjoy!
Napoleon is having a rather nice evening, all things considered. He’d bought a new novel while out conducting reconnaissance this morning, and now, his work for the day complete, he’s settled in to read.
The glass of scotch, thick robe, and the comforting sound of rain pattering against the window almost make him forget the fact that he’s sitting on a bed in a tiny, dingy, drafty hotel room with a radiator that barely works.
He’s warm enough, anyway, thanks to the drink and the robe, and as the storm picks up outside, he delves into his book, glad to at least be warm and comfortable in the room.
He feels a little bad for Illya, stuck conducting his own recon amidst the thunder and lightning and wind, but it’s the luck of the draw, really. He’s just glad he gets to stay inside tonight.
Evening turns into night. Napoleon reaches a stopping point in his book and a stopping point with the scotch. He idly flips through a battered travel magazine from several years ago, the only superfluous item in the room, and wonders when Illya will return. He’s bored, and not tired enough to fall asleep. (Never mind the fact that he doesn’t want to fall asleep without knowing that his partner is back).
A particularly loud clap of thunder has the whole room shaking. Napoleon starts a little, thankful to no longer have a glass in his hand, and then the door opens, almost perfectly timed.
He starts to say welcome back, but stops midway through when he takes in the sight of Illya, dripping wet and shivering and looking a hundred kinds of miserable as he pulls the door closed behind him.
Illya bends down to take off his shoes, but Napoleon can see that his fingers are trembling too much to undo the laces. He climbs off of the bed and goes to his partner’s side.
“It’s that bad out there, huh?”
Illya shrugs, sinking to the ground and giving up on the laces entirely. Napoleon crouches beside him, careful to avoid stepping in the puddles of water on the floor, and quickly undoes the knots Illya had been unable to conquer.
Illya mumbles a thank you through chattering teeth, reaching down to tug off his boots at last. Napoleon can see that even his socks are soaked through.
He tentatively puts out a hand and touches Illya’s cheek. His skin is cold and damp and Napoleon does not miss the way he leans into the warmth, just a bit.
“Why don’t you change into something dry,” he suggests, standing up and offering Illya a hand. “I’ll see whether I can’t get the radiator to work properly.”
Illya allows Napoleon to help him to his feet. He really does look terrible, shaking and perhaps a little blue around the edges.
When he’s reasonably sure that Illya isn’t going to sink right back to the floor, Napoleon leaves him to get changed and turns his attention to the radiator. He doesn’t really know how to make it work, having earlier tried the usual methods of turning every knob this way and that, and then kicking the thing, but he does his best, making sure that no valves are loose, and so forth. He kicks it a few more times for good measure, and once again fiddles with every knob, but nothing much happens. A little heat comes out of it, but no more than before.
Well. Can’t say that he didn’t try. He hopes Illya has some warm clothes, at least.
When he turns back around, he finds his partner in a dry pair of slacks and a thin jacket. There’s a towel around his neck and his hair is mussed and relatively dry. Nonetheless, he’s still shivering, though he’s trying to hide it.
“You don’t have anything warmer?” Napoleon asks.
Illya scowls. “I did. It is wet.”
Right.
“Well, look. The radiator isn’t working very well, so this is as warm as we’re going to get. I’ve got some thicker clothes, why don’t you borrow them?”
They should fit Illya okay, and more importantly, they’re not outside clothes. The thought of Illya sleeping in slacks and a jacket makes Napoleon feel a little bit attacked, if he’s honest. It’s just not right.
He expects a refusal. But Illya just nods.
He’ll take it. He looks through the two drawers he’s claimed as his own until he comes up with some suitable items. He tosses them to Illya, who just barely catches them.
Looking for something else to occupy himself with while Illya changes for a second time, Napoleon settles on gathering up his partner’s wet clothes and draping them over the radiator to dry. He doubts whether the minimal heat will be enough to have the clothes ready to wear by morning, but it’ll at least help.
A flash of lightning illuminates the room. Napoleon double-checks that the door and windows are locked, then sets about preparing for bed. There is little else to do tonight.
When he emerges from the bathroom, he finds Illya standing by the radiator, hands held over it to absorb its meager warmth. The sleeves of Napoleon’s sweatshirt, already a bit too short on him, ride up on his wrists, which can’t be helping him warm up.
Nevertheless, it’s terribly endearing. Of course, Illya stops the moment he realizes Napoleon is looking at him, though in all fairness, this is also because it is now his turn for the abysmally small bathroom.
Napoleon closes the curtains, turns off the lamp in the corner, and then settles into his bed. He is grateful that at least it’s big enough for him to stretch out without his limbs sticking off the sides.
Illya comes out of the bathroom still looking a bit miserable. Napoleon assumes he’s learned the terrible truth that the sink is incapable of producing hot water. He really wishes UNCLE had sprung for a nicer hotel.
Illya settles into his own bed, and Napoleon reaches over to turn off the lamp between them. He takes one last look at his partner, curled up tightly beneath the rather thin blanket, shivering occasionally, before he plunges the room into darkness.
Of course, the darkness is not permanent. Every so often a flash of lightning makes itself known through the curtains, faintly illuminating the room. Every time it happens, Napoleon glances over at Illya.
His partner is all but buried beneath the covers, only the top of his head poking out. He’s still curled up tightly, still shivering, and still awake. Napoleon can tell by the way he’s breathing.
A particularly loud clap of thunder, sounding entirely too close by, causes him to startle. He hears Illya move, imagines a flinch.
Forty-five minutes later, they’re both still awake. Napoleon is getting tired of this, and tired in general.
“Illya.”
“What?” Illya does not move from under the blanket, and his voice is very quiet.
“I can practically hear you shivering.”
“Sorry.”
“No, don’t - look, just…come over here, would you?”
He holds his breath, not at all sure that Illya will listen. But he does, very slowly extricating himself from the blanket.
“Yes?” Illya asks, standing beside Napoleon with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders and blinking tiredly.
Napoleon moves over, then pats the bed beside him. Illya gets the message and sinks down. “What are you doing?” he asks, rather doubtfully.
“Sharing body heat. We don’t need you getting hypothermia just because our hotel is terrible and you got stuck in a storm.”
“Okay.”
That had been considerably easier than Napoleon had feared. He watches as Illya arranges himself beneath two layers of blankets, then lies back down.
“Come a little closer,” he says quietly, and Illya does, curling in upon himself again. This is rather ideal, as Napoleon can simply curl himself around Illya in turn.
Illya stiffens at first, and Napoleon thinks he is going to move away. But then he relaxes, breathing softly and evenly. He falls asleep within minutes, and Napoleon follows suit soon after.
thanks for reading! hope you liked it <3
#whumptober2023#no.25#storm#the man from uncle#fic#illya kuryakin#cold#wet#my writing#i say things#this fic heavily inspired by me continually coming home Wet bc i don't bring or don't wear my raincoat#(happened again tonight)#also fun little anecdote. i was biking home (in the rain) from practice tn and stopped with my front tire very slightly over the line at a#red light. which is technically illegal. and then from behind me a cop car turns on its lights and sirens and im like oh my god im about to#get slapped with a fine for my minor bike infringement. but they went right past me. thank the lord for small miracles.
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save your tears — lee minho
bully!minho (stray kids) x afab!reader
genre ;; angst, fluff
word count ;; 13,375 words
warnings ;; high school!au, friends-to-enemies-to-lovers!au, cliché themes, strong language, slice of life(?), mentions of bullying (physical and emotional), ooc!chaeryeong, chaeryeong has a bit of ocd, anxiety mention, depersonalization, anaphylactic shock mention (fish), kick to the jaw (assault), reader has both parents, mother mention, principal/headmaster visit, tense family relationship.
playlist: spotify
Lee Minho. He’s the most popular boy in school: he’s as smart as a whip, as funny as a bumblebee and handsome as if Aphrodite sculpted him from clay herself. Minho had friends all over the school, in different grades and status. The teachers loved him, his peers loved him. Except one — except you. Minho and you have been in the same class since before you two could walk. Once upon a time, you used to be best friends, living in the same neighborhood and playing in the dirt while you chased him with a worm you plucked out. But his interests didn't align with your own anymore and you both drifted apart.
The geeky kid who used to wear thick framed glasses and was deathly afraid of worms and other insects didn't exist anymore. He switched to contacts, around middle school. and he could hold a ladybug, no problem, even chasing the other girls in the class with them. You still remember seeing that sight and feeling left out by him.
By the time the two of you were in high school, the wavelength was completely off — Minho hung out with a big, popular circle, the crowd everyone wanted to be apart of. and you hung out by yourself. With two or three of your friends you made in middle school. You missed him being your right-hand man and vice versa. But, what you missed even more than having him around, was him treating you like any normal person. When he saw you in the hallway, he’d either do three things: 1) he’d stare you down with the blandest look on his face until you got uncomfortable and stared down at your feet, this usually happens if he’s too far away to do anything physical. 2) he’d give you a flat tire, and watch you stumble at the pressure on the back of your shoe. This normally happens when there’s a lot of people around. He’d always give a half-assed smile and apology that you knew wasn’t real. 3) If it was just him and his friends in the hallway, he’d trip you, especially if you have books or you're looking down at your phone. It was something that always made him and a select few of his friends burst out laugh. Because of the stone glossed floor, you’d often get a friction burn, leaving you to return to the nurse’s office characteristically for the sixth time that week. How’d this happen, the male nurse would ask you as he applied anti-inflammatory cream to the burn, and there was always a voice in the back of your head, whispering, he’s only doing this to make his friend’s laugh. And, you believed it. And you’d come up with a totally unbelievable lie, such as “I tripped over my shoelace.” When the white shoelaces were completely clean, or “I tripped over air.” When clumsiness wasn’t something you were plagued with. And the nurse believed you.
You’d find yourself making up pathetic excuses for Minho, when you knew those weren’t the case. Minho would purposefully turn up the heat on your Bunsen burner, so the chemical goes spilling over, or he’s adding an extra five minutes to your egg timer in Home Ec, so the eggs burn. Or, he distracts the teacher to steal your scantron and throw your answers in the trash for a math test. You’d tell yourself, “I accidentally hit the valve,” or, “I accidentally turned up the timer,” or, “It must’ve slipped out.” You’d even relayed those excuses onto your teachers. Something inside you told you that if you keep making these excuses, maybe Minho would return to your side, he’d see how loyal you were and he’d be your best friend again.
The Winter Ball was approaching, and fast. On December 31, the ball would extend past midnight to New Years Day. It was a popular event at your school, one that your classmates prepared months before the day actually came. Girls would reserve their dresses, testing out different foundation and setting powder or spray for the longest wear time, that they could wear from 5:30pm to midnight. Boys reserved their tuxedos and made plans for transportation long before. Couples already decided the matching colors and the corsage and boutonniere to match one another, to recognize one another in a crowd. Single folks often attended, some even finding a date halfway through the night to share a New Year’s kiss. Couples were on the ballots for Winter Court, the equivalent of Prom Queen and Prom King, as well as a write-in area, where you can write in your friends name as a joke. You were excited, you already had a wonderful dress reserved just at the last minute, and your new driver’s license would come in handy at such a time.
Standing in the hallway, you pinned up a Winter Ball poster, smiling at it softly. Being in charge of Winter Ball preparations and advertisement definitely had it’s perks. Sitting on the collapsable chair, you placed out the clipboards with the ballots along them. Submitting your ballots was always encouraged, but they were still able to do it at the ball whenever they wanted, so long as it wasn’t past midnight.
You nodded, standing from the metal chair, “I thought doing something other than adding fake snow everywhere would be better for everyone.” You chuckled softly.
Chaeryeong was your friend that you met in middle school. You both bonded over how much you despised your math teacher that year, and instantly became friends. She was bubbly, and damn near perfect. It was amazing how she decided to go to Winter Ball alone despite all the others asking her out. If you recall, her response was, “I want to enjoy my night with my friend.” Before she connected her arm with yours and walked you both off to the gym where you, her and six others helped to raise the giant christmas tree you got.
Chaeryeong was your friend that you met in middle school. You both bonded over how much you despised your math teacher that year, and instantly became friends. She was bubbly, and damn near perfect. It was amazing how she decided to go to Winter Ball alone despite all the others asking her out. If you recall, her response was, “I want to enjoy my night with my friend.” Before she connected her arm with yours and walked you both off to the gym where you, her and six others helped to raise the giant christmas tree you got.
“Need any help?” She grabbed a pen and began to scribble down a coiled mark next to a couple’s name, “I can flag people down here.” Placing the pen back in the holder, she folded the page and passed it to you.
“If you’d like to help, that would be appreciated.” You smiled, dropping the ballot into the giant red box beside your seat. “Heaven knows I need it.”
“I got you!” She wrapped her hands around her bags strap and dashed down the hallway, yelling something along the lines of, “Submit your ballots for Winter Ball by the North Entrance.”
Smiling softly, you silently wondered how she didn’t bite her tongue while running. Sitting back down on the seat, you greeted all who submitted a ballot, noticing some even voting for or writing in themself. And when they’d pass you the ballot to drop in the box, you’d pass them a candy cane, bidding them a good day, seeing them smile as they began to suck on it.
You sat there for the remainder of the morning, packing everything back up and hurrying to class once the warning bell rang. You pushed open the door and sat in the classroom for the next three hours, absorbing the information like a sponge.
Lunch arrived quickly. The hallway filled with students, many walking one way or the other.
“Chaeryeong!” You waved to your friend, who stopped in front of you with a bag thrown over her shoulder, “Ready for lunch?”
She nodded, “Yup.” Chaeryeong wrapped her arm with yours, “I hope we get there before the rush.”
“Me too. I really want some of that salad.” You rubbed your stomach, opening the cafeteria doors for your friend and yourself. There was a strong tension in the air — as there was every lunch. The “battlefield” was split in two: Popular folks on one end and the regular folks on the other.
Chaeryeong guided you over to a table by the doors, “What would you define as a popular person?” She mumbled, setting her bag on the table.
You sat there for a moment, digging through your bag to find your wallet, “Someone who's well known. Reputation doesn't matter. Bad publicity is still publicity.” The response was one you thought of a lot. “Although, I don't understand why someone would want to be popular in school. All of that falls away after graduation.” You shrugged, pulling the wallet out, “Found it.” You nodded to Chaeryeong and walked towards the line for lunch.
The doors opened beside your bag and Minho strolled in — Changbin, and Jisung in tow. It was like time stopped inside of the cafeteria while time continued to tick on the outside.
“Here comes those bastards.” Chaeryeong whispered, leaning against the wall as she picked at the chipped nail polish on her fingernails.
Nodding stiffly, you watched them as they walked across the room and sat at the table they regularly sat at. Minho sat beside Irene, his girlfriend for four months — who also happened to be one of your best friends in the past — and kissed her cheek, a goofy smile crossing his lips. And you couldn't help the small smile that stretched your lips once you saw his silly one, looking away.
Chaeryeong looked at you, “Are you okay? What are you smiling at?”
Really, there wasn't anything wrong with wanting your ex-best friend to be happy after your crazy adventures come to a stop, and you wanted to say so, but all that got past your lips was “Thought of something funny.” Chaeryeong and you grabbed your lunches, much to your dismay, the salads were all gone, so you grabbed something small — a chicken burger. When the lunch lady rang you up, and you both paid, you returned to your table, sitting down.
On what, you asked yourself. Standing up, you noticed the entire back of your skirt covered in chocolate, a crushed brownie on the seat. You went red in the cheeks, dizzy in the head.
“What? What’s wrong?” Chaeryeong leaned across and looked at the seat, gasping, “They put an entire lava cake brownie on your seat!”
You quaked, “Chaeryeong, do you have a coat I can borrow?” Your teeth were clenched.
As much as you made excuses for your former friend, it was nerve wracking for it to happen so often.
Chaeryeong pulled out a blue sweater, and you quickly tied it around your waist, “I’ll be back.” You mumbled and walked out of the cafeteria, your eyes glancing back at Minho across the room, watching everything happening.
You gave him a blunt smile, and stalked your way to the office. Pushing open the door, you shyly asked for a new skirt to replace the one you had on.
The receptionist was always kind, and she pulled out a replacement skirt, “What happened to the one you’re wearing now?” She asked sweetly.
No more excuses, you thought to yourself, It's time to stand up for yourself, clearing your throat, you shrugged, “Lee Minho. He’s been tormenting me for years.”
“Is that so? Lee Minho is always so sweet. It couldn't be him.” The receptionist shrugged as she typed away on the computer, “Are you sure it isn't someone else? You know, boys are mean to girls they like. It couldn't be Lee Minho, do you have any proof?”
You stood there, gaping: Proof? Other than the last four years of my life? Opening your wallet in a huff, you grumbled out a “how much is it?” Only for the receptionist to pass a receipt across the counter and advise you to visit the bookkeeper — who was all the way on the other side of campus.
Holding in a groan until you exit the office, you go to the restroom and quickly change your skirt, wincing at the brownie staining the fabric of your other. You take a look in the mirror, wetting a paper towel and clean off as much as you can of the brownie on the back of your thighs.
You took a moment to look yourself in the mirror. As much as you loved Minho, he was like a brother to you, this was a breach of your brother-from-another-mother, sister-from-another-mister contract. Sure, brothers prank their sisters, but was it really this bad? Wasn't this just hatred? You felt your eyes water as you looked at yourself deeper. There was cinched hair from the time Minho turned on the Bunsen burner without you knowing — that was a dark day. Emotional turmoil from all the teacher visits and calls, meaning your mother would corner you and ask why your grades were so bad. Your legs were bruised and tattered to how often you were tripped. You had stitches on your chin from the one time you busted said chin from being tripped. No one except Chaeryeong visited.
By the time you finished examining yourself in the mirror, you hated yourself too. The girl you knew would've been brave and told Minho what she actually thought, what she actually wanted to say. But, you’ve curled back into a shell, one you didn't know you had. Irene had left Chaeryeong and you, who’s to say Chaeryeong wouldn't leave you either?
Folding the skirt with a sniff and throwing the jacket over your arm, you headed towards the bookkeeper, paying the 15 dollars for the skirt and back to the cafeteria. There was a whisper among the air and you felt out of place.
Chaeryeong squatted on the ground, wiping the seat off with a napkin, “Welcome back.” She smiled.
“Hi.” You nodded, “I’ll wash this for you.” You lifted the coat, swinging it.
“Alright.” She hummed, “How much was the skirt?”
“15 dollars.” You sat on the seat beside the chocolate violated seat, digging in your backpack to pull out a piece of paper.
“That makes it one… hundred and 3 dollars, 65 cents.” She nodded.
Normally, keeping track of your expenses wasn't something you did — you didn't take money as seriously as you should — but the list you had was all from that month. With how often these pranks frequent, you decided to keep track of all the expenses that you spend and lose, considering you get paid once every two weeks. And when you and Minho get close again, you’d hang this debt over his head for however long it takes him to pay it off, either through payment or deeds.
“Do you know how much it would be as a total?” You tapped the pen against your chin.
Chaeryeong looked up, thinking for a moment. You could see the gears grind in her head as she calculated the difference, “In the last four years, five hundred 36 dollars and 12 cents.”
You clicked your tongue and scribbled the total. “He’s going over the average this month.” You clicked the pen closed and put the paper back into it’s safe space. “Ah, I don't even want to eat now. Who knows what they did while I was away?”
“They didn't do anything. You should eat.” She threw away the napkin, grabbed another and applied water to scrub it, “It's not like I’d let them do anything anyhow.”
“Thank you.” You ignored the feeling in your gut and pulled your tray towards yourself and began to eat the burger, a mouthful of seafood filling your nose. You spit the food out, and gaped, “There's fish in this.”
“Huh?”
“There's fish in my burger. My chicken burger.” You wiped your hands on your own napkin, “I thought you said they didn't do anything to my food.”
“They didn't.”
“How long have you been cleaning?” You looked at her, “Did you leave at all?” You questioned Chaeryeong, who sat on her knees as she began to scritch at the brownie in the crevices of the seat.
“Well,” she began, “Ever since you left the seat, I started cleaning it. And I only left to get napkins. But it's right there!” She defended herself, pointing at the despenser. “I didn't see them at all!”
“Chaeryeong.” You groaned, “Did you turn away from the table at any point?”
“Some of the napkins got stuck so I turned around for a second but I turned right back!”
You curled your fingers into your hair, pushing the meal away, “Great. Now my lunch is ruined, I lost 18 dollars today.” You grabbed the slip of paper again, scribbling down the added 3 dollars.
Chaeryeong looked down, “I’m sorry. I really tried to watch it.”
You turned towards her, shaking your head, “No. It's not your fault. If they just acted like decent people, this wouldn't have happened.” You patted her head, “I know how you get with cleaning.” You smiled at her, “I think the school should start paying you instead of the janitor.”
“They should, shouldn't they?”
The long, and very traumatic, lunch ended and you grabbed your bag, “Come on. Let's go to class.” You gripped the tray and threw the trash away. Your hands felt numb, so you buried them under your shirt, tugging at your collar, “It's hot.”
“Are you kidding? It's 32 degrees out.” She shivered, “How are you hot?” Chaeryeong looked over at you, “Hey, Y/N, you’re sweating like crazy. Are you okay?”
“Fine.” You wheezed, “I feel fine.”
Chaeryeong stood there for a second, before her face dropped, “Oh, shit.” She whispered.
It felt like air was becoming scarce. Like you have to be careful with every breath you take. You had cottonmouth, and it was hard to swallow. You felt dizzy.
“Shit!” Chaeryeong dragged you along to the nurse’s office, “Are you okay, Y/N? Do you have your EpiPen?”
You nodded, “In my bag.” You talked past your swelling tongue as she brought you into the nurse’s office.
“Why didn't you say she was allergic to seafood!” A voice whispered to Minho.
He looked at the two anxiously, “I didn't know!” He mumbled, “She didn't have that when we were kids.” He turned to Irene, “You should’ve told me.”
“I thought you knew!” She defended, “Why do you even bother bullying her anymore? It's no fun.” Irene grumbled, burying her face into the scarf.
Jisung’s hand clenched his hair, the beanie on his head flying up, “Oh, god. She’s gonna die and we’re gonna be murderers! She’s gonna die.”
“She’s not gonna die. You're so overdramatic.” Changbin mumbled, “They’re heading to the nurse's office now. They should be able to give her the EpiPen.”
“Let's just go.” Irene began to walk off, Changbin and Jisung following, Minho trailing on after a gaze at the two entering the office.
After the uncomfortable few moments where you couldn't breathe, talk or think, the swelling of your tongue was going down, your airways began to return to normal and the sweat disappeared. You laid on the bed in the nurse's office, staring at the ceiling.
Chaeryeong sat on a chair, looking at you, “I’m sorry.” She whispered.
“Not your fault.” You chuckled, “It's good to go into anaphylactic shock every once in a while. You know, for my immune system?”
Chaeryeong gave you a look, “This isn't time to be joking! Imagine what would've happened if you didn't have your EpiPen on you!”
“I always have my EpiPen on me.” You rolled your eyes, rolling onto your side, “You should get to class. I’ll be there soon.” You nodded at her.
“Are you sure?” She asked warily.
“Yes. Go.” You nodded.
Chaeryeong grabbed her bag at her side and zipped up her coat, “I’ll see you at Winter Ball prep.”
“Bye.” You waved, and returned to lay on your back.
Had it really been so long that Minho forgot about my seafood allergy, you questioned, It's only been 4 years.
The door was pushed open, and you lifted your head to glance at whoever walked inside.
But, when you speak of the devil, he shall appear. And the devil oddly looked like Minho. He nodded to the nurse and even held his stomach in faux pain, walking stiffly over to the bed next to you.
The nurse left the room not a second later. And Minho, who not even laid down an entire two seconds ago, sat up and walked around to your bed, sitting on the edge.
You had a certain anxiety boil in your chest as soon as he entered the room, and there was a settling tension that could easily be cut with a knife. You were sure something was coming, yet you weren't sure what.
“How ya feeling?” He asked softly, as if he wasn't the cause for the anaphylactic shock you experienced, probably the worst one of your life.
It came crashing over you like a wave: the anger, the frustration and the second pair of eyes you had on your back. Why you? Why were you his sole target? Why was he like this in the first place? What happened to him that made him a cruel, even bully?
Minho dedicated his four years of high school to making your life a living hell. What he didn't expect was you to retaliate. And he definitely didn't expect you to kick his ass.
After such a dumb and idiotic prank he pulled, you were in the nurse’s office, resting on the bed, and you knew, before Minho could even get comfortable and apologize for the torment he inflicted upon you, you met your foot to his face, sending him to the ground. The anxiety and panic you were plagued with seemed to leave your body the second you saw him.
You glared down at him, your eyes sharped and curled with your fists, “You messed with the wrong person, dickhead.” It slipped past your lips like velvet, and you didn't even recognize your own voice.
Minho rubbed his cheek where your foot met, and looked up at you, “What are you gonna do?”
“I don't know yet. But all I know is that I was made for this.” You leaned forward, your eyebrows creasing, “When i speak about everything you've done, you should know my words are true. The school, no — the world — will know of what you’ve done.”
Minho’s eyes narrowed, and he stood up. He was a bit taller than you, but you could still look him in the eyes, “You think just because one person says something they’ll believe it?”
“It's not one person. It's two — three if i can convince Irene.” You crossed your arms, “You aren't the only one who’s sly, Minho.”
Minho chuckled softly, his tongue prodding at his cheek, “Clearly.”
You noticed his cheek swelling as he ran his hand over it, “You’ve bullied me for the last time, Lee Minho.” The declaration was bold, strong and Minho clearly stood there, shook to his core.
You’ve always been one to avoid conflict, Minho noted, but this was an entirely new Y/N, one he has never seen. It confused him, on how the same girl at the beginning of their high school career who easily calmed down two boys before they threw fists at one another could have kicked him in the jaw just a second ago.
With your fists curled and Minho holding his swollen cheek, the sight before anyone could clearly show the relationship you had with the boy across from you.
“What is going on here?” The nurse called, his feet shoulder length apart, clearly upset and examining the situation, “Miss Y/N, did you injure Minho?” He approached and you stepped away, your anger settling as anxiety filled you. You stammered, trying to come up with a proper excuse, but all that could come out was a small “he started it.”
The nurse checked Minho’s cheek, giving the boy an ice pack, looking at you with shifty eyes, “This could get you in serious trouble, Miss Y/N.”
And it did. The nurse sent you to the office, making a call to the secretary, who called your own mother. Sitting in the office, bouncing your leg as you took in a deep breath, already holding back tears. You seriously messed up, you really, really, really, messed up. Being on thin ice with your parents was already dangerous, but when they find out you physically assaulted a boy — Not just any boy, your childhood friend and neighbor — You’d be in bigger trouble than you thought. You’d be dead. You shouldn’t be here in the office after 4 years of torment from Lee Minho, after 4 years of anxiety in your chest when you passed him in the hallway, and 4 years of absolute hatred. Your high school years were destroyed because of one person, the one person who knew all your weaknesses, the one person you trusted to keep those hidden. And yet, no one believed you enough to say whether or not he did destroy your highschool years.
The office door opened and your mother walked in, the lines already settling into her face as she looked over at you, disappointment evident in her eyes. You could feel it radiating off of her. Burying your head in your hands, you sighed, feeling tears well in your eyes.
“Mrs. L/N, thank you for coming.” The receptionist greeted, “Principal Jung will be right with you.” Looking over at you, the receptionist sighed, “This is the second time she’s been in here. She came in blathering about Lee Minho and him taunting her.”
Your mother didn't say anything, and turned to look at you as well.
You shifted uncomfortably in the chair feeling their eyes on you. Please, stop looking, you whined to yourself.
The receptionist continued, “I told her that's not possible. He's such a sweet student and he's so smart.”
Humming, your mother began to sign the visitor list, “Yes, I know. We've been close to the Lee family for years. It's hard to believe an absurd rumor like that.” She smiled stiffly at the receptionist, moving to sit beside you, her legs crossed and arms across her chest, “Get all your excuses out now.”
You looked at your mother, eyes red and your lips almost purple from the previous anaphylactic shock you went through, “Excuses?” You almost glared, “You think I’m lying about this? You think I’m lying?”
“What would Minho gain from taunting you?”
“He’s not just taunting me, Mom. He's tormenting me.” Your voice cracked, your emotions pulling through like sled dogs dragging a musher through the snow, “He has been for 4 years.”
“You didn't answer my question.”
“I don't know what he’d gain. But, whatever it is, he really wants it.” You crossed your arms, the anger bubbling with every second.
“Mrs. L/N, it's a pleasure to see you again. Although, we're here for an entirely different reason rather than a citizenship award.” Principal Jung greeted your mother, giving you a look, “Follow me along to my office.”
Throwing your bag over your shoulder, you followed behind both adults.
The principal's office was right behind the receptionist’s desk, two seats in front of her desk, “Now, let's get into the situation. Miss Y/N here assaulted Mr. Minho when he was visiting the nurse’s office for a stomach cramp.” She used the mouse to click on the computer, going through the emails from the nurse. “There are two sides of every story, and I’d love to hear Miss Y/N’s.”
You took in a deep breath, going over the last 4 years of your educational career: The physical abuse, the emotional torture. Spreading weird rumors about you, tripping you in the hall. Strategically hiding seafood in a chicken burger and causing you to go into the worst anaphylactic shock you’ve experienced. You even pulled out the 10 pages filled with wasted money and the exact cause behind them. Tattered skirt — Minho found a stray string and let you walk until the skirt was much shorter than the requirement in your second year. $15.25. School supplies — Minho and Changbin stole them and dumped them in the upstairs boy's bathroom, not only causing you to lose the Summer final study guide of your first year, but also causing a giant flooding to close off the bathroom, both upstairs and downstairs (due to water damage above a stall). $120, not including the fifty dollars of ink you had to buy to reprint the study guide. And you couldn't forget the unreplaceable earrings you received from Chaeryeong on your birthday that you wore to school, only for Minho to kick a soccer ball a bit too hard right into your face, the earring tearing through your lobe, leaving an unforgiving scar and bloody nose.
In every retelling, you could recall your mother's not so subtle eye roll or scoff. Although she didn't believe it, you could see the principal nod her head as she half-listened.
“Although, this may be true, we have zero tolerance for physical altercations. We have zero evidence that this may be true, but we have evidence that you did assault Minho.”
“What?”
“Due to this, we're going to place you on a two day suspension and your tickets to the Winter Ball be refused at the door. I’m afraid your citizenship award will also be revoked, due to this behavior.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Y/N, but you should've thought about this before you hurt one of your fellow classmates.” She typed away on the computer, “Unless you can gather witnesses, these are the terms.”
“Call in Lee Chaeryeong in class 4-C. She can vouch for me!” You looked at the woman across the desk, in disbelief this was happening.
Your mother scoffed, “Chaeryeong is your best friend, who’s to say that she won't cover for you?”
Your brows were frustratedly furrowed together, your anger seeping over, “This is ridiculous.” You sighed.
“If you had been tormented for so many years, why didn't you let someone know sooner?”
“Because my mother clearly doesn't believe me. Who knows what my dad thinks? This school is protecting him, and I, as the victim, get two day suspension and I’m unable to attend the Winter Ball.”
“I think that's all for now.” Your mother stood up, “Thank you for your time, Principal Jung. I apologize for my daughter's negligence.” She bowed deeply, “Let's go, Y/N.” She wandered over to the door and opened it for you.
You grabbed your bag, dragging it in your hand and out the office doors, stomping your way to the passenger door of the car.
You have never felt so… so angry, so disrespected and so abused.
You had every single right to be upset at your mother, at the school, and at Minho. None of this would have happened if the… fucker just told you what his issue was with you.
Every single memory in your mind of him suddenly burnt up in the fictional flame, his face scratched out like a lottery ticket and torn up like a cat using a scratching post. When your mother unlocked the door, you pulled open the passenger door with all your might, you were sure that the door was going to fly off.
She climbed in just after you, setting her purse on the jockey box, “I can't believe you would make up such a rumor like that.” She scolded, “And that fake list.”
“Make up? Rumor?” You had to pull back your voice, “You think I wanted to blow all my money on 16 different skirts in my school years? That I wanted to spend 536 dollars and 12 cents?I don't even get that much on my paycheck, Mom!”
“Cut the bullshit.” Her voice was different than when she was speaking to the Principal and the receptionist. No, she was furious, but her fury could never match yours, “When we get home, you’re going to apologize to the Lee family for what you did.”
“No. I’m not apologizing to him.” You glared, “I’m not. Why should I apologize for finally sticking up for myself? Why should I apologize for going into anaphylactic shock when they're the ones who put seafood in my chicken burger!”
“You are going to.” She turned on the car, pulling out of the parking spot, “Two day suspension. What would your father say?”
“Probably the same thing you did.” You mumbled, staring out the window with your hand against your head, “I should've never said anything.” You whispered more to yourself than anyone, but your mother still heard you, although not paying any mind.
The neighborhood you lived in wasn't as lively as it used to be. It became one that a lot of older people moved into due to the quiet nature and lack of foot traffic. Stray animals often wandered through to find comfort for the evening. Parking in the driveway, before your mother could even turn off the car, you exited the vehicle and entered the house, kicking off your shoes and stomped up to your room. You pushed open the door, throwing your bag onto the floor.
Your window was open, which ironically peered into Minho’s room.
Sitting on your bed, you recalled staying up way past your bedtime with him to communicate through stringed cups and drawings on your notepads. And up until 4 years ago, he used to throw rocks from his succulent planter at your window in the middle of the night if he was having a particular hard time sleeping. But now, you look at the window with anger, disdain. You hated it. You hated him.
Grabbing the string to the blinds, you gave one final look into the room, Minho asleep on his bed (as he got picked up early from school due to the situation) and shut the blinds, that your mother opened for an unknown reason.
Your phone chimed, and you glanced at it, seeing a text from Chaeryeong, asking what the verdict was. Giving a brief synopsis, you opened your laptop, and typed in the social media handle, his social media handle. You had followed him on social media up until this exact moment for the same reason you were unfollowing him: an impossible change of heart. You wanted to keep him on your close friends list in case he had come to the realization that you were a catch, that you were a good friend. But now, you know it wasn't possible.
You and Chaeryeong kept the text thread going up until it was time for her to give up her phone to her parents.
You leaned back in your desk chair, sighing softly.
Two day suspension, you thought, Couldn't be so bad. Sure, it goes on my record, but, it's like a break, isn't it? You nodded to yourself, already enjoying the time to yourself.
Who needs a shitty Winter Ball when I can have my own in my room?
The thoughts you had varied. You were home, alone, for 2 days. You were excited. Then you got upset as your suspension ended the day before the ball, and you already had everything you needed for the evening. Then angry again. And you could have had more time to gather your thoughts and emotions and really understand them, if it wasn't for the tapping on your window.
You jumped when you first heard it. And you even began to wonder if it was raining. Rolling your chair to the window, you opened the blinds.
The person you definitely didn't want to see even if the world was ending sat across from your window, his cheek significantly less swollen and dropped the rocks back into the planter. Grabbing the notepad beside him, he showed it to you.
“What happened? Like you care.” You scoffed to yourself, and grabbed your own to scribble down a straightforward message, tearing off a piece of tape to tape it onto the window.
Minho chuckled, “I hate you, huh? How cliché.”
You closed the blinds again, leaving the paper there before turning back to your laptop.
You’d be receiving work from your teacher's, and you were sure that the work sent would be harder, considering you're going to miss 2 days worth of lessons.
The world could send what it wanted at you, you were ready to look at the face of it all with unwavering strength. After all, if you learned anything in your mythology class, it's that Icarus laughed as he fell.
You slept in late the next morning, only for your mother to wake you up with the pull of the blinds string. You haven't spoken to her since you were in the car with her, so you just sat up without any repercussions.
Rubbing your eyes with your hand, you caught sight of the paper still taped to the window, chuckling to yourself.
Minho pulled on a sweater, still dressed in his pajamas, holding an ice pack against his cheek and eye with one hand as he scrolled through his phone with the other. You couldn't help but smile to yourself.
You remember that sweater — You had bought it for him in eighth grade. He was upset that everyone was getting something from the aquarium gift shop, so you decided to give it to him, yourself settling for a small plush of a penguin. He loved it when you gave it to him. He didn't take it off for a month.
You could see the imaginary torn, burned and scratched out memory reappear in your mind, and your smile was ripped away from your face.
No, no, you hate him, you shook your head, running your fingers through your hair.
A soft chime.
Minho: You’re staring.
The message was all you needed to stand up and close the blinds, making your way to the bathroom. There were three or four chimes from your phone and you noted to yourself that you’ll check them when you got back, at least one of them should be from Chaeryeong.
Drying your hands off after using the restroom and brushing your teeth, you tapped your phone screen, four obnoxious messages covering your screen, all from Minho.
Minho: Don't close the blinds.
Minho: I hope you know I’m sorry.
Minho: I really don't have an explanation for what I did.
Minho: What if I told you I could get you into the Winter Ball.
Now that sounded interesting.
Y/N: Tell me.
Minho: On one condition, you go with me like nothing happened.
You clicked your tongue, furrowing your brows and locked your phone.
Y/N: I’d rather be dragged through every layer of Dante’s Inferno and rot.
Typing in the password to your laptop, you opened your email, finding over 15 emails from your teachers — why they sent so many assignments, you’d never know.
Although you tried to ignore the devil next door, the text message showed up in the notification bar on your laptop.
Minho: Alright. You don't have to go with me. And you can still hold your grudge for me. You can hang it over my head for however many years.
Clicking the “x” hovering over the message, another one chimed through.
Minho: If you come to the gymnasium at 6:30, I’ll let you in through the back door.
“X”
Minho: You don't deserve to have your Winter Ball torn away from you because Principal Jung didn't believe you.
“X”
Minho: I’m sorry, for what it's worth. I hope we can be friends again.
That’s it, you clicked the message, typing out a long message as follows: “Your apology as it is now means jackshit to me. For the entirety of my high school year, I had to live in fear of you. Nothing can make up for that, except perhaps for the 530 dollars you owe me in expenses. Friendship comes at an expensive price with me, and you threw it away as if it was worthless. If you want me to forgive you, admitting to what you did and taking the proper punishment for it might fit well. Until you grow a pair, do not talk to me, do not text me, and definitely do not throw rocks at my window.”
You were pretty proud with the message, and you turned back to your work, thoughtlessly scribbling down the notes shared with you, and completed the online work assigned.
And when the 15 assignments of the day were finished, you settled down on your bed, your thoughts finally returning to your head. He wants to be friends again, you couldn't ignore the gentle smile crossing your lips, before you shook it off. That ship sailed just yesterday, you reminded yourself. But no matter how many times you shook it off, it kept returning to your face.
He really wants to be friends again.
It repeated in your head, and no matter how many you tried to make it stop, it wouldn't. It stuck to you like glue, and you rolled around onto your bed, burying your idiotic smile into the pillow, glancing at the window.
You waited 4 years for this, for him to finally admit that he wanted to be friends again. And although you were in the position you were in now, you felt like maybe that's what tipped the iceberg. Maybe he caused all these problems just for you to fight back, for you to prove yourself.
“Y/N, dinner's ready.” Your father knocked.
It was the only time he actually spoke to you since yesterday, and it was three words. Standing up from your bed, and headed down the stairs.
I wonder what's for dinner, you thought, Probably steak again. Dad always—
Getting pulled from your thoughts, you noticed three extra pairs of eyes on you: the Lee family.
Cursing to yourself, you rubbed your head, greeting the family, giving Minho a sideways glance.
“I considered since you weren't going to go over, I’d ask them to dinner here.” Your mother sat at the head of the table, your father at the other end. Minho and you were seated next to each other with his parents straight across from you two.
It was nerve wracking. Tension was high and clearly uncomfortable for everyone.
Despite you being dressed in your pajamas — short shorts and a sweater — you did assault the boy beside you, and his parents watched you like a hawk. Every move you made, they analyzed it and watched. Every bite into the food, every breath, or every shiver. You felt imprisoned in your own home.
Your mother set her chopsticks down, turning to look at you, “Don't you have something to say?” She picked up the wine glass, filled with what you assumed was chardonnay, and took a small sip.
You shrugged gently, “Are you going to believe it if I say it?”
“Depends on what you're going to say.”
You sighed, “Alright.” Setting your own chopsticks down, you smiled at the Lee family across from you, “Your son has been tormenting me for 4 years.” Looking at your mother, you pretended to feign innocence, “Is that all?”
“How dare you?” Your mother glared at you.
Minho cleared his throat, “If I may,” He smiled gently, wiping his face with his napkin, “Mrs. L/N, I appreciate the sentiment, but she isn't lying.” He mumbled.
The entire table's mouth gaped — including your mother's, who had a strong sense of pride in him being innocent. You began to pick around your food, eating whatever didn't seem too tough for you.
Minho began to explain, although you weren't really listening. And when he finished, he looked at you with his black and blue eye, almost as if he was asking for your opinion.
You shook your head, going right back to eating your meal.
“I think…” Your father started, “we own you an apology, Y/N.” He mumbled, so desperately upset he had even doubted your word.
Wiping your mouth, you stood up, “It's okay.” And left the table, walking back up the steps to your bedroom.
Minho thought this was his redemption arc, but you wanted the school to see him as he was. A conniving, self centered bully.
Pulling down the sheets to your bed, you shut your blinds and laid down to sleep the next day away.
Downstairs, your mother and father awkwardly excused the table, collecting the plates and seeing the family out. They entered the house doubting every word you said, only to leave doubting everything their own son said.
Their own son. The one they raised to be a perfect gentleman, the one they raised to treat everyone with respect no matter what.
When they arrived to the house next door, they sent the boy up to his room and informed him they’d be up there to talk to him in a moment. Obeying, Minho entered his bedroom, opening the window, only to see your blinds still closed, the reminder taped to your window.
I hate you, it read in your handwriting. And who was he to blame you? Because of what he did, he was facing the consequences. And he didn't realize how much he ruined the relationship you two had, all because he thought he was better than you.
The two of you were on the same level: academically and socially, once upon a time. And he was aware that every family compares the child to their friends, because they never see the real them.
But with his parents, it was the same conversation with everything: “Why can’t you be more like Y/N?” or “Why can't you do this like Y/N can?” They’d ask how you were doing before their own son. You were like their second child. They saw you in all your glory.
And he was sick of being compared to that glory. That's when he began to sneakily throw your test scantrons into the trash, or when he began to spread those disgusting rumors about you. He did all that out of envy. Of anger.
He understood the anger you felt when your parents wrongfully accused you of lying about what was happening. He wanted you to feel how he felt it.
But, with that, you had an award you worked hard for ripped from your grasp, suspension for assault listed on your permanent record, and of course, your Winter Ball stolen from you.
Sitting at his desk while his father scolded him, he noticed his mother taking his electronics: his cell phone and his gaming consoles. She left the laptop, but only after explaining that the only things open to him was school websites and everything was blocked.
They were disappointed in him once again.
He knew it wasn't enough for him to just admit it to his parents. He picked that up during dinner when you so much as gave him a glance. He’d have to do more. A lot more.
And he had just the plan.
The next day, despite your plan to sleep in, you woke up as if it was every other day and got to work on the assignment given by your teachers. It wasn't as bad as the day before, but it was still a lot. You went to bed without dinner that night.
You haven't spoken to Minho, however, you did relay his plan over to Chaeryeong, who agreed to help you. You both tried to come up with a convincing lie for your parents and you decided to say that Chaeryeong wasn't going, which leads to Chaeryeong sending you photos of her working on fake assignments, which makes you question what she's been doing for her having such good photos like those.
And when the Winter Ball D-Day arrived, you returned to school like it was nothing. The hallways were decorated with snowflakes and candy canes, groups chattering about how excited they were, what they were wearing and what they’d be arriving in. Although you were sneaking in, you felt left out. You didn't have anything exciting to converse with them.
“Vote for Winter Court! Last few hours before the box closes until this evening.” A voice called in the hallway, and you peeked down to see Irene waving the flyers around, stopping the passers to ask them to vote if they haven't.
Chaeryeong stopped beside you, “I didn't think I’d see that on the day of.” She held her bag straps, “Must be Winter Ball fever.”
Shrugging, you tightened your own bag straps, “Someone had to take over. I guess she was just the next best thing.”
“How do you like the decorations? I think we did a good job.”
Looking across the ceiling, you nodded, “It looks great.”
“I tried to stick as close to the plans as possible. And, I even volunteered to clean up after the ball ends.” She changed her shoes and followed you in, “Did you tell your parents what we decided on?”
“Yeah, they said it's fine.” You nodded, “They’ve been lenient since Minho fessed up.”
“I can't believe he did that.” Chaeryeong crossed her arms, pulling a face, “He should’ve done it sooner!” She threw her arms in the air, her brows furrowed.
Walking down the hall, Irene stopped you.
“Y/N.”
You jumped back, “Hi, Irene.”
“Oh, I’m so glad you're okay.” She hugged you tightly, smiling softly, “I didn't know how to react when you went into shock like that!”
You chuckled nervously, “Yeah…”
“Everyone's been talking about you!” Her eyes sparkled, “They're all happy someone finally stood up to Minho.”
“Alright. Back away from Y/N.” Chaeryeong had to lead her back to the table, “You can talk to her all you’d like after the Winter Ball.”
“Oh, did you vote, Chaeryeong? They added someone new onto the ballot.” Irene smiled.
“Yes, I did.” She patted the other girls head, “I’ll see you later.” Nodding to you, you both continued down the hallway until you reached the classroom.
“See you after school.” You and Chaeryeong shared your secret handshake before you both walked off to your respective classes.
It was so odd. When you sat down in class, everyone began to whisper, but it wasn't because of your tattered skirt, or the bandage around your head for the torn earlobe, or for your tear stained cheeks.
It was for how courageous you were to stand up to someone so cruel like Minho, how you were so brave.
Looking behind you, the small group of three: Minho, Jisung and Changbin — watched as the group gathered around your desk, as if you weren't invisible anymore. Awkwardly taking your seat, you smiled, the teacher stepping in just in time as you were getting claustrophobic.
And the entire day was like that. A relaxing class, a stressful passing period. Hell, they even gathered around you at lunch, while you ate the turkey sandwich your mother made you. They watched you like a hawk.
“So, are you going to the Winter Ball?” One of them asked.
You responded with a stiff, “No, I got banned.”
And then that gave the group something to chatter about: Banned? For kicking someone in the jaw? Banned? For sticking up for yourself? It looped around, making you question how the word got around school.
You finished your meal while they all questioned the school's moral compass, and you stood up to throw out the trash you collected from your box. And once the final bell rang, you sat back in your seat, cleaning up your desk to finish your studies for the day.
Dismissal from school was so much more odd: Some students decided to hang back in order to get ready, already finding themselves burrowing into the bathroom to stare into the mirror for the next 45 minutes while they patted on makeup and pulled on their dress.
Your two day suspension made you realize something. Teenagers hold physical experiences so much higher than the other kinds. They always think back to parties or dances and hold it up on a pedestal. Meanwhile, they have perfectly fun moments at home, yet they're decreased to nothing but a passing thought. If it wasn't for the 105 dollar collateral you placed on the dress for this evening, you would have to agree with your thoughts, but for now, you’d have to dance the night away like there was no tomorrow.
Chaeryeong stood beside your car, scrolling through her phone screen as she looked around for you. And when she saw you, she waved and smiled.
Unlocking the door, you sat down in the driver's seat with her in the passenger’s seat.
“So, good news.” She smiled, “Someone offered to help us tonight.”
“Who?” You started the car, buckling in your seatbelt.
“Let's just say that they're someone we haven't entirely enjoyed for the last 4 months, and that they just wanna make it up to us.”
You paused, turning to look at Chaeryeong. You would've been surprised at the girl who approached the window, if it would have been on your side, but instead, Irene gave a hearty “boo” through the window, Chaeryeong rolling down the window with narrowed eyes.
Irene pulled a face before she climbed into the backseat, “Hello.”
You smiled at her, “Finally joining the right side of history?”
“It's always good to do a little flip flopping now and then.” She shrugged, setting her bag down on the floor.
Chaeryeong looked at you, “Alright, so what's the plan?”
“You both walk in there like it's just you two, showing your tickets and everything. I’ll park my car at the park behind the school and sneak onto campus through the gate after 20 minutes, at 6:50. I’ll knock on the back door 5 times, and Chaeryeong, you open the door when you think the coast is clear.” Pulling out of the driveway, you drove towards Chaeryeong’s house, “That's pretty much it.”
“It feels like we're in a spy movie!”
Chaeryeong turned to look at the girl in the backseat, “What made you change your mind?”
“Well, I always knew Minho didn't like me around. And he just wanted to hit Y/N where it hurts.” She played with her fingernails, “I’m sorry I left you guys. If I’m being honest, spending time with those three is stressful! They're so dirty.”
You looked in the rearview mirror, smiling at Irene softly, “It's all cool, Irene. Everyone wants a taste of popular life.”
Pulling up to Chaeryeong’s house, the three of you grabbed your things and climbed out of the car. You had your dress thrown over your arm and your backpack hanging off your shoulder.
The scene of entering her home, too excited to greet her family and preparing for the night with gentle music in the background felt exactly like a 80’s movie. Scene-for-scene, Irene getting dressed in the closet as she chattered with Chaeryeong about what type of music she hoped they’d play and if she’d find the perfect person to dance to a slow song with. Chaeryeong pulled on her own dress, dusting a gentle blush on the apples of her cheeks and her nose, looking at you, who was nearly bending over backwards to tie the upper corset of the dress.
“Y/N, come sit down! Let me do your makeup!” She smiled, patting her bed, crossing her legs on the vanity chair.
“I don't know…” You mumble, “Last time you did my makeup for an outing, you made me look like that dragon from Shrek.” You laughed, teasing the girl.
Chaeryeong sputtered, “Fine, I promise I won't make you look like the dragon from Shrek, or any other freaky characters or whatever.” She patted the bed again.
You sat down, anxiously fidgeting with the skirt, going over the plan once more, including collateral damage in case a teacher is suspecting something, before you finally voiced your anxiety, “What if this is all a hoax?”
“What do you mean?” Irene swiped the lip gloss across her lips, popping them twice and cleaning the edge with her finger.
“With Minho.” You mumbled, “What if he tipped off the principal about what I’m doing?”
Chaeryeong shook her head, “We won't let that happen, Y/N.” She lined your lips slowly, “That's what Irene and I are here for.”
Irene settled behind you, gently brushing your hair back with her fingers, “I won't let Principal Jung get close to you.”
Chaeryeong smiled softly, “There. Makeup's all done. Irene’s doing your hair. And we still have 40 minutes left to spare. We can get pictures and everything done then.”
You smiled gently, “Even if I don't get to go in, I’m happy I could have this experience with you two again.”
“Principal Jung’s a jerk for taking away the Winter Ball for you. It's your last year at the school.” Irene mumbled.
Chaeryeong joined in, “And, you helped decorate. The least she could have done was let you go.”
You chuckled, “It was my own lack of judgement. When I saw his face, I wanted to do nothing but punch him.”
Irene pulled her hands away from your hair, smiling, “Picture time!” Before adding the final touch; a white feathered headband, clipping it into your hair.
The three of you all wandered down the steps, Chaeryeong’s parents at the bottom of the stairs, a camera in her dad’s hands and her mother gushing about how wonderful the three of you all looked. Guiding you all along to the area in front of their fire place, Chaeryeong stood in the middle, placing her hand on her hip and nodded to her father.
“Big smiles.” He chuckled, the shutter closing and capturing the photo. You all took a few more, taking joking pictures with one another, serious ones, and even having individual pictures taken of each of you, with one of the others holding you as if they were your date to the dance.
Chaeryeong's mother chuckle, "Okay, you three. You should head out before you waste the dance just taking pictures."
The three of you waddled to the front door, Chaeryeong's mother giving a peck to her head, and rubbing her cheeks, smiling softly.
Irene and yourself headed out to the car, climbing into the front seats.
And when Chaeryeong joined, she climbed into the backseat, "Why do you get shotgun, Irene! You just joined us again."
"Move your feet, lose your seat!" The two bickered back and forth.
You chuckled, turning down the music a bit to listen to their argument. It was like that the entire ride.
"The front seat is about loyalty, Irene! And you decided to not only be friends with Minho, but to date him!" Chaeryeong scolded.
Irene fired back, "He's the one who asked! I went in as a secret spy."
Pulling into the parking lot, you took your regular spot and shut off the car, "Okay, let's go over the plan one more time."
Chaeryeong groaned playful, "At 6:50, we open the back door of the gym to you, and then we party like we've never partied before."
"Yeah." Irene nodded.
You looked between the two, "What are you both going to do if a teacher comes and asks what you're doing?"
"I'll peek my head out and knock three times while you go run off to the girl's locker room and hide away in the shower stalls. And I'll tell the teacher I must've heard something." Chaeryeong responded plainly, already getting annoyed of the rehearsals.
Irene mumbled along.
You sent them a thumb's up, "See, was that so hard?" You laughed, "Alright, get up to the door and turn in your ticket. I'll be at the park behind the school until-"
"6:50 on the dot!" You all blurted out together, Chaeryeong and Irene giving each other an eye roll before they slammed the door and headed to the front doors, turning in their tickets to join the dance.
You pulled out from the spot and drove around the corner to the park, plopping down on a park bench, sifting through your bag. You mindlessly began to reorganize your bag, keeping your phone propped up to show the time.
"20 whole minutes." You sighed to yourself, tapping the items against the table, clicking your tongue.
You could see the gymnasium door just across the way, your eyes catching on the door, hopeful.
God, please let this work, you thought to yourself.
It never stuck with you just how screwed up this whole situation was: You lost a citizenship award you worked so hard for, you planted the trees just outside the baseball field for Arbor Day, for Christ sake. You donated approximately 6 pints of blood for blood drives. You volunteered at the hospital. You volunteered at the dentists. You volunteered at shelters, the same exact shelters Minho picked his three cats for adoption, it so happens. You didn't just lose your citizenship award, no, you lost all dignity in the eyes of your teachers, your supervisors. You felt so wronged because, what? You threw a little kick to the boy who has been taunting you?
You set up the entire Winter Ball. You were the one who introduced it to the council after it was pushed back for something else. You were the one who designed it. You were the one who made the ballots based on the students suggestions. You did this, all of it, aside from physically setting it up. You couldn't take credit from Chaeryeong and the others who worked so hard to make it a reality.
No, it wasn't just you who did all of it. It was plenty of others. It was the students who donated money to help make their dream a reality. It was the students who voted. It was the council for agreeing to it in the first place. It was your parents for getting you all those volunteering hours, it was your parents who gave you direction.
And, God, you didn't want to admit it, but it was also Minho. You could remember his voice as a child, saying, "If we ever have a dance, I'll take you as my date."
Maybe you haven't been completely honest to yourself. To anyone really.
You loved Minho, and maybe the whole reason you let him get away with everything before was because you couldn't blame him; you blamed something else. You blamed his parents for being more obsessed with you than him. You blamed media for telling people that if a boy is mean to you, he like-likes you.
And Minho, in all his bitter rage to his parents, you couldn't blame yourself for loving that smart-as-a-whip, as-funny-as-a-bumblebee and handsome-as-hell, Lee Minho.
The realization almost brought you to tears. But, leaning your head back just as the tears welled, you decided to sacrifice your confession, rather than your makeup.
You grabbed a tissue from your bag, holding the corner to your waterline and used it to soak up the tears in both eyes.
Fanning your face as you looked back at your phone, you realized the time, shoving everything back into your bag and stood up, nearly dashing to the back door of the gym, knocking 5 times.
Chaeryeong opened the door almost immediately, waving you along.
"We did it." She cheered, "We did the plan!" She smiled brightly.
You looked at Chaeryeong as you squeezed through the door, holding your clutch bag in your hand, "Where's Irene?"
Chaeryeong looked over her shoulder, "On the dance floor."
You looked at the girl dancing with someone, smiling to yourself, "She looks happy."
Chaeryeong nodded, "It's so fun in here." She smiled, bouncing on her toes, "Come on! Let's go!"
You followed her to where Irene was, dancing with her.
Minho stood off in the corner of the gym, his hands in his dress pockets.
The disco lights on top of the stage echoed off your vibrance. The white feather headband around your head shined just as bright as your smile. The white dress encasing you so brilliantly, he could almost think you were an angel.
The music echoed off the walls, Heaven by EXO played, Minho's thoughts echoing in the song, silently wishing that you picked up the message that he was telepathically sent you.
All he saw was you in the room, among all the bodies that danced, he was only focused on you.
Minho couldn't help the gentle smile crossing his lips as he saw you dancing with Chaeryeong and Irene, the laugh escaping your lungs at a joke one of the two said. The gentle reminder from his swollen cheek and black eye echoing in his head.
"Dude," Changbin nudged Minho's back with his elbow, "Go talk to her."
Minho shook his head, "She won't talk to me." He mumbled, kicking up an invisible piece of dirt with his shoe.
"Well, we're gonna go dance." Jisung mumbled, "If you wanna join, you know where to find us."
Changbin and Jisung began walking off before Minho stopped them with his hand, "Wait." He started, "You guys got all those ballots in, right?"
"Yes, dude. We put them in all around the school." Jisung shrugged, "Don't worry, Minho. She'll come around."
Minho looked over Jisung's shoulder, glancing at your figure, "Yeah, you're right."
Jisung scoffed, "Of course I am." He shrugged.
The two wandered back to their dates, grabbing their hands and leading them to the dance floor, not very far from where you three were.
Irene greeted the two, smiling softly and talking over the music. And it seems, as aware you've been in the past, that wherever those two were, Minho wasn't far behind. Turning your head over your shoulder, you saw Minho standing at the refreshments table, nodding his head to you.
And by some miracle, you nodded back, turning back to your friends, whispering to Chaeryeong about who knows what, and looked back at him, the well in your eyes clear under the fairy lights and led's.
He wanted you to have fun. And he was sure to let you have it, even if it meant destroying his own evening.
Chaeryeong rubbed your back as you whispered to her, "Hey, Y/N, you'll be okay." She calmed you down, "I understand the anxiety, but I promise you, I won't let anything happen to you here. Not tonight. Not after everything we all went through."
Your chest heaved, "Yeah, you're right." You nodded.
Who were you to let your anxiety settle in your stomach at the sight of your oh-so gracious enemy? That same enemy you've had feelings for ever since he first got scared by that worm you held out to him on a rainy day? That same enemy you've had so many movie nights with?
No, you weren't going to let him get the best of you, not tonight; Especially not when Jisung was dancing like an old grandpa at his granddaughter's wedding.
Minho peeked over his shoulder again as he walked to the entrance of the entire gym, swirling the fruit punch in his hand.
Suddenly, an idea popped in his head. Not one of malice, but rather a way to settle your anxiety a bit. Something that'll get the supervisors out of the way. So, they didn't notice you.
Clicking his tongue, he grabbed a lemon from the refreshments table, something that was used as decoration and immediately squeezed it in his drink. Looking around, he wandered back to his spot by the door, and took a sip.
He pulled a face, smacking his tongue in disgust, "Oh, yeah. That's the real deal." He gagged. Holding up the drink, he looked at the bottom, hoping a seed or nothing got into his drink, just to really hitch off his plan. Wandering over to a supervisor, he gagged again, "Excuse me." He started, and when they turned he began to pull off the lies he's become so good at, "This... This fruit punch, I think the supervisor there spiked it, or something. It tastes off." He shrugged.
The supervisor he told immediately looked at the refreshments table and furrowed his brows, "May I take a sip?"
Minho passed him the clear plastic cup, "All yours. I think I'm good for the night." He held his hands up, straighten his face.
The supervisor took a sip, their brows furrowing, "Oh, that's foul!" They complained, "Thank you for telling me, Minho. I'll get on that immediately." They threw the drink out and called the security over.
Minho walked off, laughing quietly to himself, stuffing his hands back in his pockets.
The supervisor asked the other to follow them out, and just like that, all the other's followed, wanting to see what was going on with the refreshments supervisor.
His eyes were captivated by you, leaning against the table of the unattended refreshments, letting out his own little laugh as Changbin and Jisung were dancing like idiots, his eyes stuck on you.
He couldn't get over how... beautiful you looked. Ethereal, even. Minho was shocked how no one else was looking at you, how no one was as captivated as he was.
And he would've mustered up the courage to walk up to you if it wasn't for the student announcer walking across the stage, clearing their throat and tapping on the microphone to get the attention of the student body.
"Attention all students!" They started, "Congratulations to all of you for joining us at this wonderful ball. None of this would've been accomplished if it wasn't for all your support and ideas. We appreciate it so, so much."
The crowd cheered, Jisung letting out a loud whoop at the thanks.
"This evening, in this envelope, I have the official results for our school wide ballot that will decide our Winter Ball Court for this event." They smiled as another eruption of cheers came out, "Now, please, join me in this wonderful reveal of our court."
Tearing open the envelope, Minho smiled to himself, looking up at you as he hoped you were just as excited for this reveal as he was.
"First, our Winter Ball Princess, is..." The anticipation built.
Jisung and Changbin obnoxiously hyped the crowd with what sounded like barks, and whoops, and cheers.
"Bae Joohyun, also known as, Irene!" The student announcer clapped.
"Oh my god, Irene!" Chaeryeong hugged her friend, a wide smile on her face, "You won Princess!"
"Congratulations, Irene!" You hugged her tightly, "Go up there and get your prize."
Irene smiled brightly, giving Jisung and Changbin and their dates their own hugs, as she walked up the stage, her dress glittering in the light.
"For our Winter Ball Princess this evening, we'll be gifting her not only a crown, but a $200 dollar gift certificate to our proud sponsor, Seoul Queen Spa!" The student announcer held up the certificate, passing it to Irene.
"Woo! Let's go, Irene!" Jisung cheered, clapping loudly, leading the entire crowd to follow.
Irene bowed deeply, giving her thanks.
"How wonderful!" The announcer clapped themselves, "Alright, who is our Winter Ball Prince?" They cleared their throat once again, "Our Winter Ball Prince will be getting a $150 gift certificate to, I'm sure, a school favorite bakery." They smiled, the crowd cheering, "Our Winter Ball Prince, is..." They drummed their hands on the podium, "Seo Changbin!"
"Let's go!" Jisung cheered, giving his friend a giant hug, patting his back with his hand, "Hey, man, get me one of those chocolate muffins at that bakery."
Changbin chuckled, pushing the younger's head playfully, giving a kiss to his date's cheek and walked up to the stage, just as everyone began to cheer loudly, a chorus of his name being chanted. Jokingly, Changbin waved his head, bowing and letting the announcer place the crown on his head.
"Now, for the moment you've all been waiting for. The Winter Ball King and Queen!"
Another cheer, Jisung making obnoxious noises just as it was announced, and Chaeryeong letting out her own cheer.
"Our Winter Ball King and Queen will not only be getting special gifts, our King and Queen will have a special date together, provided by our wonderful supervisors here this evening." The announcer smiled.
"Oh, this is so exciting!" Chaeryeong squealed, "So many weeks of getting people to vote! I wonder who won!"
"I know!" You both held each other's hands in anticipation.
Looking up just a bit, everything almost moving in slow motion, you caught eyes with Minho, feeling your heart pounding in your chest.
You could swear that the glimpse Minho sent to you had a smile across his face, a mischievous glint in his eyes, one with a bruise decorating his orbital. And when you met your unwavering eyes at him, he bit his bottom lip and turned his head away from you.
“And the Winter Ball Royal Court starts with...” the student announcer opened the envelope, a smile crossing their lips as the turned the card to the crowd, “Y/N!" They called.
"Y/N, you won!" Chaeryeong gasped, "Those write in ballots must've been the one's who elected you!"
"Huh, probably." You mumbled.
"Well, go! Go! Get your crown." Chaeryeong almost pushed you to the stairs.
You're eyes widened while looking at Minho, the fear and hyperawareness that this could become a Carrie situation.
“Come on up, Y/N.” The announcer called, holding a hand out to you, helping you up the steps. The anxiety that settled inside your chest drowned out the applause around you as you scanned the ceiling before you relaxed and accepted the crown to be placed on your head.
The announcer turned to the microphone, smiling, “The final winner for Winter Royal Court is... Lee Minho.” They clapped.
You froze, looking into the crowd as Minho pushed past some students, nodding to them in response to their congratulations. He bent down for the announcer to place the crown on his head, the crowd laughing with him just as he planted himself right beside you, scratching at the black eye, wincing just a bit at the bruising.
Minho looked at you, clearing his throat, “You look nice.” He whispered, fixing his suit.
“As do you.” You mumbled bluntly, taking a small step away from him, “So, how’d you win? We both weren’t on the ballot.”
“Jisung and Changbin dumped some faux write-in ballots in the box.” He nodded to his group of friends, giving a high five to Changbin, “Thought this would be the easiest way to talk to you without you physically assaulting me.”
The announcer smiled, “Now, it’s time for the dance with the winter court! Everyone, grab a partner, and get ready to share the waltz with one another.”
The lights dimmed and the music began. Minho turned to you, settling one hand on your hip, and the other holding your hand. “I hope you know I don’t hate you.” he started, “They were just impractical jokes.”
You could remember vividly when you were imagining this as a kid; On The Snow by EXO would be playing, Minho holding your hand in his, and you both would share a meaningful moment.
And only two of those were true; On The Snow was definitely playing, and Minho was definitely holding your hand.
You furrowed your brows, “Impractical jokes? You gave me food poisoning on one occasion, and the flu on the other.” You glared at him, "I could've died a few days ago."
Minho sighed, "Listen, I'm sorry. Okay? I didn't mean to try to kill you." He sighed, "Isn't that what all boys do to their crush?"
“No.” you growled, “Normally, boys would just give their crush their jacket on a cold day, or flowers when they’re sad. What you did was just... cruel.” You looked away, feeling both embarrassed and upset.
Minho chuckled softly, shaking his head, “You're thinking of chick-flic endings.”
“There's nothing wrong with someone wanting to be treated correctly.” You squeezed his hand until your fingertips turned white, “Who knows? Maybe if you did treat me with an ounce of respect, I could’ve been your date tonight instead of you having to find a way to talk to me and ruin my winter ball.”
Minho looked at you softly, "Let's start from the beginning."
"What?"
"From the beginning. From that day I told you you'd be my date to something like this."
You looked away, "I can't forget what you did to me."
"I never said you did. I just said we can start from the beginning." He lifted your head with his finger, "You can hang all of those cruel things I did to you over my head."
Your heart thumped in your chest, "You owe me 536 dollars and 12 cents." You mumbled, "And, I get to choose the movies we watch for a month."
Minho smiled, "Deal." Using his fingers to brush an invisible strand of hair from your face, he held your face in your hand for a little bit, "Can I kiss you?"
You looked at him softly, "You haven't had any fish, have you?"
Minho chuckled, "No, I haven't. Not today, at least." He smiled, "Not tonight. I wouldn't have done that to you."
"Then, yes." You whispered.
All three came true, you thought to yourself, feeling your inner-child jumping with joy.
But before he could press his lips against yours, a loud booming voice stopped you both.
"Miss Y/N!"
"Oh, no." You turned to find the principal entering the gymnasium, "Gotta run." You whispered, lifting your dress so you didn't trip over it as you ran down the steps and out the back door, dashing to your car.
The principal and other supervisors stood at the exit and watched as you sat in your car, a giant smile across your face as you watched them right back.
Minho raised his arms in frustration, debating on what exactly to do in this situation.
Changbin chuckled, "Modern day Cinderella."
"But she didn't drop a shoe." Jisung shrugged, leaning against the edge of the stage, before gasping, "But she did leave that!" He pointed before grabbing the discarded item on the ground.
It was the white feathered headband, and Minho nearly snatched it from his hands, looking at the door you ran out.
Chaeryeong and Irene shared a look, before they ran out the door the supervisors returned through.
Chaeryeong paused, "We're really sorry, miss, but what you did was... incredibly wrong to do." She looked at the principal with anger in her eyes, "Sorry, again!"
Minho hurried down the stage and followed the two out the door, "Sorry, miss, but, maybe you should've listened to your number one citizen!" He shouted as he ran behind the two girls, following them to your parked car.
"Minho?!" Chaeryeong shouted behind her, "What are you doing?!"
"I'm not letting her think I don't care again." He chuckled, knocking at the window of your car, motioning for you to roll down the window.
And when you did, Minho popped his head through, kissing you in the lips, the headband forgotten in his hand.
You gasped softly, feeling all that anxiety you had melt away, holding his wrists as he kissed you before he pulled away to breathe.
Minho smiled softly, "I think I love you, Cinderella."
You chuckled softly, "Come over and we can talk more about it." You ran your thumb across his swollen cheek, and his bruised eye, a sad reminder of what the two of you experienced.
Minho laughed, setting the headband just the way it was on your head, "I'll see you then."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Good."
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sight glass valve manufacturer in Ahmedabad
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The Time Machine by H.G. Wells
Chapter 11
The Palace of Green Porcelain
“I found the Palace of Green Porcelain, when we approached it about
noon, deserted and falling into ruin. Only ragged vestiges of glass
remained in its windows, and great sheets of the green facing had
fallen away from the corroded metallic framework. It lay very high upon a turfy down, and looking north-eastward before I entered it, I was surprised to see a large estuary, or even creek, where I judged
Wandsworth and Battersea must once have been. I thought then—though I never followed up the thought—of what might have happened, or might be happening, to the living things in the sea.
“The material of the Palace proved on examination to be indeed
porcelain, and along the face of it I saw an inscription in some
unknown character. I thought, rather foolishly, that Weena might help
me to interpret this, but I only learnt that the bare idea of writing
had never entered her head. She always seemed to me, I fancy, more
human than she was, perhaps because her affection was so human.
“Within the big valves of the door—which were open and broken—we found,
instead of the customary hall, a long gallery lit by many side windows.
At the first glance I was reminded of a museum. The tiled floor was
thick with dust, and a remarkable array of miscellaneous objects was
shrouded in the same grey covering. Then I perceived, standing strange
and gaunt in the centre of the hall, what was clearly the lower part of
a huge skeleton. I recognised by the oblique feet that it was some
extinct creature after the fashion of the Megatherium. The skull and
the upper bones lay beside it in the thick dust, and in one place,
where rain-water had dropped through a leak in the roof, the thing
itself had been worn away. Further in the gallery was the huge skeleton
barrel of a Brontosaurus. My museum hypothesis was confirmed. Going
towards the side I found what appeared to be sloping shelves, and
clearing away the thick dust, I found the old familiar glass cases of
our own time. But they must have been air-tight to judge from the fair
preservation of some of their contents.
“Clearly we stood among the ruins of some latter-day South Kensington!
Here, apparently, was the Palæontological Section, and a very splendid
array of fossils it must have been, though the inevitable process of
decay that had been staved off for a time, and had, through the
extinction of bacteria and fungi, lost ninety-nine hundredths of its
force, was nevertheless, with extreme sureness if with extreme slowness
at work again upon all its treasures. Here and there I found traces of
the little people in the shape of rare fossils broken to pieces or
threaded in strings upon reeds. And the cases had in some instances
been bodily removed—by the Morlocks, as I judged. The place was very
silent. The thick dust deadened our footsteps. Weena, who had been
rolling a sea urchin down the sloping glass of a case, presently came,
as I stared about me, and very quietly took my hand and stood beside
me.
“And at first I was so much surprised by this ancient monument of an
intellectual age that I gave no thought to the possibilities it
presented. Even my preoccupation about the Time Machine receded a
little from my mind.
“To judge from the size of the place, this Palace of Green Porcelain
had a great deal more in it than a Gallery of Palæontology; possibly
historical galleries; it might be, even a library! To me, at least in
my present circumstances, these would be vastly more interesting than
this spectacle of old-time geology in decay. Exploring, I found another
short gallery running transversely to the first. This appeared to be
devoted to minerals, and the sight of a block of sulphur set my mind
running on gunpowder. But I could find no saltpetre; indeed, no
nitrates of any kind. Doubtless they had deliquesced ages ago. Yet the
sulphur hung in my mind, and set up a train of thinking. As for the
rest of the contents of that gallery, though on the whole they were the
best preserved of all I saw, I had little interest. I am no specialist
in mineralogy, and I went on down a very ruinous aisle running parallel
to the first hall I had entered. Apparently this section had been
devoted to natural history, but everything had long since passed out of
recognition. A few shrivelled and blackened vestiges of what had once
been stuffed animals, desiccated mummies in jars that had once held
spirit, a brown dust of departed plants: that was all! I was sorry for
that, because I should have been glad to trace the patient
readjustments by which the conquest of animated nature had been
attained. Then we came to a gallery of simply colossal proportions, but
singularly ill-lit, the floor of it running downward at a slight angle
from the end at which I entered. At intervals white globes hung from
the ceiling—many of them cracked and smashed—which suggested that
originally the place had been artificially lit. Here I was more in my
element, for rising on either side of me were the huge bulks of big
machines, all greatly corroded and many broken down, but some still
fairly complete. You know I have a certain weakness for mechanism, and
I was inclined to linger among these; the more so as for the most part
they had the interest of puzzles, and I could make only the vaguest
guesses at what they were for. I fancied that if I could solve their
puzzles I should find myself in possession of powers that might be of
use against the Morlocks.
“Suddenly Weena came very close to my side. So suddenly that she
startled me. Had it not been for her I do not think I should have
noticed that the floor of the gallery sloped at all. [Footnote: It may
be, of course, that the floor did not slope, but that the museum was
built into the side of a hill.—ED.] The end I had come in at was quite
above ground, and was lit by rare slit-like windows. As you went down
the length, the ground came up against these windows, until at last
there was a pit like the ‘area‘ of a London house before each, and only
a narrow line of daylight at the top. I went slowly along, puzzling
about the machines, and had been too intent upon them to notice the
gradual diminution of the light, until Weena’s increasing apprehensions
drew my attention. Then I saw that the gallery ran down at last into a
thick darkness. I hesitated, and then, as I looked round me, I saw that
the dust was less abundant and its surface less even. Further away
towards the dimness, it appeared to be broken by a number of small
narrow footprints. My sense of the immediate presence of the Morlocks
revived at that. I felt that I was wasting my time in the academic
examination of machinery. I called to mind that it was already far
advanced in the afternoon, and that I had still no weapon, no refuge,
and no means of making a fire. And then down in the remote blackness of
the gallery I heard a peculiar pattering, and the same odd noises I had
heard down the well.
“I took Weena’s hand. Then, struck with a sudden idea, I left her and
turned to a machine from which projected a lever not unlike those in a
signal-box. Clambering upon the stand, and grasping this lever in my
hands, I put all my weight upon it sideways. Suddenly Weena, deserted
in the central aisle, began to whimper. I had judged the strength of
the lever pretty correctly, for it snapped after a minute’s strain, and
I rejoined her with a mace in my hand more than sufficient, I judged,
for any Morlock skull I might encounter. And I longed very much to kill
a Morlock or so. Very inhuman, you may think, to want to go killing
one’s own descendants! But it was impossible, somehow, to feel any
humanity in the things. Only my disinclination to leave Weena, and a
persuasion that if I began to slake my thirst for murder my Time
Machine might suffer, restrained me from going straight down the
gallery and killing the brutes I heard.
“Well, mace in one hand and Weena in the other, I went out of that
gallery and into another and still larger one, which at the first
glance reminded me of a military chapel hung with tattered flags. The
brown and charred rags that hung from the sides of it, I presently
recognised as the decaying vestiges of books. They had long since
dropped to pieces, and every semblance of print had left them. But here
and there were warped boards and cracked metallic clasps that told the
tale well enough. Had I been a literary man I might, perhaps, have
moralised upon the futility of all ambition. But as it was, the thing
that struck me with keenest force was the enormous waste of labour to
which this sombre wilderness of rotting paper testified. At the time I
will confess that I thought chiefly of the Philosophical Transactions
and my own seventeen papers upon physical optics.
“Then, going up a broad staircase, we came to what may once have been a
gallery of technical chemistry. And here I had not a little hope of
useful discoveries. Except at one end where the roof had collapsed,
this gallery was well preserved. I went eagerly to every unbroken case.
And at last, in one of the really air-tight cases, I found a box of
matches. Very eagerly I tried them. They were perfectly good. They were
not even damp. I turned to Weena. ‘Dance,’ I cried to her in her own
tongue. For now I had a weapon indeed against the horrible creatures we
feared. And so, in that derelict museum, upon the thick soft carpeting
of dust, to Weena’s huge delight, I solemnly performed a kind of
composite dance, whistling The Land of the Leal as cheerfully as I
could. In part it was a modest cancan, in part a step dance, in part
a skirt dance (so far as my tail-coat permitted), and in part original.
For I am naturally inventive, as you know.
“Now, I still think that for this box of matches to have escaped the
wear of time for immemorial years was a most strange, as for me it was
a most fortunate, thing. Yet, oddly enough, I found a far unlikelier
substance, and that was camphor. I found it in a sealed jar, that by
chance, I suppose, had been really hermetically sealed. I fancied at
first that it was paraffin wax, and smashed the glass accordingly. But
the odour of camphor was unmistakable. In the universal decay this
volatile substance had chanced to survive, perhaps through many
thousands of centuries. It reminded me of a sepia painting I had once
seen done from the ink of a fossil Belemnite that must have perished
and become fossilised millions of years ago. I was about to throw it
away, but I remembered that it was inflammable and burnt with a good
bright flame—was, in fact, an excellent candle—and I put it in my
pocket. I found no explosives, however, nor any means of breaking down
the bronze doors. As yet my iron crowbar was the most helpful thing I
had chanced upon. Nevertheless I left that gallery greatly elated.
“I cannot tell you all the story of that long afternoon. It would
require a great effort of memory to recall my explorations in at all
the proper order. I remember a long gallery of rusting stands of arms,
and how I hesitated between my crowbar and a hatchet or a sword. I
could not carry both, however, and my bar of iron promised best against
the bronze gates. There were numbers of guns, pistols, and rifles. The
most were masses of rust, but many were of some new metal, and still
fairly sound. But any cartridges or powder there may once have been had
rotted into dust. One corner I saw was charred and shattered; perhaps,
I thought, by an explosion among the specimens. In another place was a
vast array of idols—Polynesian, Mexican, Grecian, Phœnician, every
country on earth, I should think. And here, yielding to an irresistible
impulse, I wrote my name upon the nose of a steatite monster from South
America that particularly took my fancy.
“As the evening drew on, my interest waned. I went through gallery
after gallery, dusty, silent, often ruinous, the exhibits sometimes
mere heaps of rust and lignite, sometimes fresher. In one place I
suddenly found myself near the model of a tin mine, and then by the
merest accident I discovered, in an air-tight case, two dynamite
cartridges! I shouted ‘Eureka!’ and smashed the case with joy. Then
came a doubt. I hesitated. Then, selecting a little side gallery, I
made my essay. I never felt such a disappointment as I did in waiting
five, ten, fifteen minutes for an explosion that never came. Of course
the things were dummies, as I might have guessed from their presence. I
really believe that had they not been so, I should have rushed off
incontinently and blown Sphinx, bronze doors, and (as it proved) my
chances of finding the Time Machine, all together into non-existence.
“It was after that, I think, that we came to a little open court within
the palace. It was turfed, and had three fruit-trees. So we rested and
refreshed ourselves. Towards sunset I began to consider our position.
Night was creeping upon us, and my inaccessible hiding-place had still
to be found. But that troubled me very little now. I had in my
possession a thing that was, perhaps, the best of all defences against
the Morlocks—I had matches! I had the camphor in my pocket, too, if a
blaze were needed. It seemed to me that the best thing we could do
would be to pass the night in the open, protected by a fire. In the
morning there was the getting of the Time Machine. Towards that, as
yet, I had only my iron mace. But now, with my growing knowledge, I
felt very differently towards those bronze doors. Up to this, I had
refrained from forcing them, largely because of the mystery on the
other side. They had never impressed me as being very strong, and I
hoped to find my bar of iron not altogether inadequate for the work.
#hellsitesonlybookclub#the time machine#hg wells#sci fi#literature#book club#reading list#read along#chapter 11
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I feel so inspired by the raw metal peeling paints CONCRETE rebar glass STEEL industry factory scaffolding valves pipes with no humans to service them in sight. Dilapidated, without care, you'd think industry is without love or affection and who would have thought that neglect is a consequence of human action, or inaction, just as polishing the stainless steel and flaking rust off bulkheads??? You know??? let's talk about the relationship between man and machine. Just like Godley & Creme "I JUST LOVE THE WAY HE'S USED THE CAR LIKE AN EMPTY CANVAS AND LET THE RUST EAT ITSELF INTO THE OVERALL DESIGN WITH SUCH DEVASTATING SPONTANEITY" You know they are placing concrete blocks near my house and I walk by that, it is so great. Artistically. but I am not really sure what to do with my inspiration. I don't have space for sculpture (or the skills for it), and drawing concrete is boring. Pointless to me too because the appeal is in its tangibility. Well I suppose this means I am going to have to break into some abandoned factories. Who wants to join me
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XI.
The Palace of Green Porcelain
“I found the Palace of Green Porcelain, when we approached it about noon, deserted and falling into ruin. Only ragged vestiges of glass remained in its windows, and great sheets of the green facing had fallen away from the corroded metallic framework. It lay very high upon a turfy down, and looking north-eastward before I entered it, I was surprised to see a large estuary, or even creek, where I judged Wandsworth and Battersea must once have been. I thought then—though I never followed up the thought—of what might have happened, or might be happening, to the living things in the sea.
“The material of the Palace proved on examination to be indeed porcelain, and along the face of it I saw an inscription in some unknown character. I thought, rather foolishly, that Weena might help me to interpret this, but I only learnt that the bare idea of writing had never entered her head. She always seemed to me, I fancy, more human than she was, perhaps because her affection was so human.
“Within the big valves of the door—which were open and broken—we found, instead of the customary hall, a long gallery lit by many side windows. At the first glance I was reminded of a museum. The tiled floor was thick with dust, and a remarkable array of miscellaneous objects was shrouded in the same grey covering. Then I perceived, standing strange and gaunt in the centre of the hall, what was clearly the lower part of a huge skeleton. I recognised by the oblique feet that it was some extinct creature after the fashion of the Megatherium. The skull and the upper bones lay beside it in the thick dust, and in one place, where rain-water had dropped through a leak in the roof, the thing itself had been worn away. Further in the gallery was the huge skeleton barrel of a Brontosaurus. My museum hypothesis was confirmed. Going towards the side I found what appeared to be sloping shelves, and clearing away the thick dust, I found the old familiar glass cases of our own time. But they must have been air-tight to judge from the fair preservation of some of their contents.
“Clearly we stood among the ruins of some latter-day South Kensington! Here, apparently, was the Palæontological Section, and a very splendid array of fossils it must have been, though the inevitable process of decay that had been staved off for a time, and had, through the extinction of bacteria and fungi, lost ninety-nine hundredths of its force, was nevertheless, with extreme sureness if with extreme slowness at work again upon all its treasures. Here and there I found traces of the little people in the shape of rare fossils broken to pieces or threaded in strings upon reeds. And the cases had in some instances been bodily removed—by the Morlocks, as I judged. The place was very silent. The thick dust deadened our footsteps. Weena, who had been rolling a sea urchin down the sloping glass of a case, presently came, as I stared about me, and very quietly took my hand and stood beside me.
“And at first I was so much surprised by this ancient monument of an intellectual age that I gave no thought to the possibilities it presented. Even my preoccupation about the Time Machine receded a little from my mind.
“To judge from the size of the place, this Palace of Green Porcelain had a great deal more in it than a Gallery of Palæontology; possibly historical galleries; it might be, even a library! To me, at least in my present circumstances, these would be vastly more interesting than this spectacle of old-time geology in decay. Exploring, I found another short gallery running transversely to the first. This appeared to be devoted to minerals, and the sight of a block of sulphur set my mind running on gunpowder. But I could find no saltpetre; indeed, no nitrates of any kind. Doubtless they had deliquesced ages ago. Yet the sulphur hung in my mind, and set up a train of thinking. As for the rest of the contents of that gallery, though on the whole they were the best preserved of all I saw, I had little interest. I am no specialist in mineralogy, and I went on down a very ruinous aisle running parallel to the first hall I had entered. Apparently this section had been devoted to natural history, but everything had long since passed out of recognition. A few shrivelled and blackened vestiges of what had once been stuffed animals, desiccated mummies in jars that had once held spirit, a brown dust of departed plants: that was all! I was sorry for that, because I should have been glad to trace the patient readjustments by which the conquest of animated nature had been attained. Then we came to a gallery of simply colossal proportions, but singularly ill-lit, the floor of it running downward at a slight angle from the end at which I entered. At intervals white globes hung from the ceiling—many of them cracked and smashed—which suggested that originally the place had been artificially lit. Here I was more in my element, for rising on either side of me were the huge bulks of big machines, all greatly corroded and many broken down, but some still fairly complete. You know I have a certain weakness for mechanism, and I was inclined to linger among these; the more so as for the most part they had the interest of puzzles, and I could make only the vaguest guesses at what they were for. I fancied that if I could solve their puzzles I should find myself in possession of powers that might be of use against the Morlocks.
“Suddenly Weena came very close to my side. So suddenly that she startled me. Had it not been for her I do not think I should have noticed that the floor of the gallery sloped at all. [Footnote: It may be, of course, that the floor did not slope, but that the museum was built into the side of a hill.—ED.] The end I had come in at was quite above ground, and was lit by rare slit-like windows. As you went down the length, the ground came up against these windows, until at last there was a pit like the ‘area‘ of a London house before each, and only a narrow line of daylight at the top. I went slowly along, puzzling about the machines, and had been too intent upon them to notice the gradual diminution of the light, until Weena’s increasing apprehensions drew my attention. Then I saw that the gallery ran down at last into a thick darkness. I hesitated, and then, as I looked round me, I saw that the dust was less abundant and its surface less even. Further away towards the dimness, it appeared to be broken by a number of small narrow footprints. My sense of the immediate presence of the Morlocks revived at that. I felt that I was wasting my time in the academic examination of machinery. I called to mind that it was already far advanced in the afternoon, and that I had still no weapon, no refuge, and no means of making a fire. And then down in the remote blackness of the gallery I heard a peculiar pattering, and the same odd noises I had heard down the well.
“I took Weena’s hand. Then, struck with a sudden idea, I left her and turned to a machine from which projected a lever not unlike those in a signal-box. Clambering upon the stand, and grasping this lever in my hands, I put all my weight upon it sideways. Suddenly Weena, deserted in the central aisle, began to whimper. I had judged the strength of the lever pretty correctly, for it snapped after a minute’s strain, and I rejoined her with a mace in my hand more than sufficient, I judged, for any Morlock skull I might encounter. And I longed very much to kill a Morlock or so. Very inhuman, you may think, to want to go killing one’s own descendants! But it was impossible, somehow, to feel any humanity in the things. Only my disinclination to leave Weena, and a persuasion that if I began to slake my thirst for murder my Time Machine might suffer, restrained me from going straight down the gallery and killing the brutes I heard.
“Well, mace in one hand and Weena in the other, I went out of that gallery and into another and still larger one, which at the first glance reminded me of a military chapel hung with tattered flags. The brown and charred rags that hung from the sides of it, I presently recognised as the decaying vestiges of books. They had long since dropped to pieces, and every semblance of print had left them. But here and there were warped boards and cracked metallic clasps that told the tale well enough. Had I been a literary man I might, perhaps, have moralised upon the futility of all ambition. But as it was, the thing that struck me with keenest force was the enormous waste of labour to which this sombre wilderness of rotting paper testified. At the time I will confess that I thought chiefly of the Philosophical Transactions and my own seventeen papers upon physical optics.
“Then, going up a broad staircase, we came to what may once have been a gallery of technical chemistry. And here I had not a little hope of useful discoveries. Except at one end where the roof had collapsed, this gallery was well preserved. I went eagerly to every unbroken case. And at last, in one of the really air-tight cases, I found a box of matches. Very eagerly I tried them. They were perfectly good. They were not even damp. I turned to Weena. ‘Dance,’ I cried to her in her own tongue. For now I had a weapon indeed against the horrible creatures we feared. And so, in that derelict museum, upon the thick soft carpeting of dust, to Weena’s huge delight, I solemnly performed a kind of composite dance, whistling The Land of the Leal as cheerfully as I could. In part it was a modest cancan, in part a step dance, in part a skirt dance (so far as my tail-coat permitted), and in part original. For I am naturally inventive, as you know.
“Now, I still think that for this box of matches to have escaped the wear of time for immemorial years was a most strange, as for me it was a most fortunate, thing. Yet, oddly enough, I found a far unlikelier substance, and that was camphor. I found it in a sealed jar, that by chance, I suppose, had been really hermetically sealed. I fancied at first that it was paraffin wax, and smashed the glass accordingly. But the odour of camphor was unmistakable. In the universal decay this volatile substance had chanced to survive, perhaps through many thousands of centuries. It reminded me of a sepia painting I had once seen done from the ink of a fossil Belemnite that must have perished and become fossilised millions of years ago. I was about to throw it away, but I remembered that it was inflammable and burnt with a good bright flame—was, in fact, an excellent candle—and I put it in my pocket. I found no explosives, however, nor any means of breaking down the bronze doors. As yet my iron crowbar was the most helpful thing I had chanced upon. Nevertheless I left that gallery greatly elated.
“I cannot tell you all the story of that long afternoon. It would require a great effort of memory to recall my explorations in at all the proper order. I remember a long gallery of rusting stands of arms, and how I hesitated between my crowbar and a hatchet or a sword. I could not carry both, however, and my bar of iron promised best against the bronze gates. There were numbers of guns, pistols, and rifles. The most were masses of rust, but many were of some new metal, and still fairly sound. But any cartridges or powder there may once have been had rotted into dust. One corner I saw was charred and shattered; perhaps, I thought, by an explosion among the specimens. In another place was a vast array of idols—Polynesian, Mexican, Grecian, Phœnician, every country on earth, I should think. And here, yielding to an irresistible impulse, I wrote my name upon the nose of a steatite monster from South America that particularly took my fancy.
“As the evening drew on, my interest waned. I went through gallery after gallery, dusty, silent, often ruinous, the exhibits sometimes mere heaps of rust and lignite, sometimes fresher. In one place I suddenly found myself near the model of a tin mine, and then by the merest accident I discovered, in an air-tight case, two dynamite cartridges! I shouted ‘Eureka!’ and smashed the case with joy. Then came a doubt. I hesitated. Then, selecting a little side gallery, I made my essay. I never felt such a disappointment as I did in waiting five, ten, fifteen minutes for an explosion that never came. Of course the things were dummies, as I might have guessed from their presence. I really believe that had they not been so, I should have rushed off incontinently and blown Sphinx, bronze doors, and (as it proved) my chances of finding the Time Machine, all together into non-existence.
“It was after that, I think, that we came to a little open court within the palace. It was turfed, and had three fruit-trees. So we rested and refreshed ourselves. Towards sunset I began to consider our position. Night was creeping upon us, and my inaccessible hiding-place had still to be found. But that troubled me very little now. I had in my possession a thing that was, perhaps, the best of all defences against the Morlocks—I had matches! I had the camphor in my pocket, too, if a blaze were needed. It seemed to me that the best thing we could do would be to pass the night in the open, protected by a fire. In the morning there was the getting of the Time Machine. Towards that, as yet, I had only my iron mace. But now, with my growing knowledge, I felt very differently towards those bronze doors. Up to this, I had refrained from forcing them, largely because of the mystery on the other side. They had never impressed me as being very strong, and I hoped to find my bar of iron not altogether inadequate for the work.
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