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#listen i have a headache today and i wanted to draw something shitty
artbymintcookies · 5 years
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endgame au where it’s actually good and refers to bruce and thor’s relationship
their wedding is beautiful
only the characters i personally care about are there (t’challa's there even though he doesn’t really know anyone and feels awkward the whole time,) carol is allowed to have her really butch short hair, foggy nelson is also in attendance,,,
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iwritesickfic · 3 years
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"i kinda have a crush"
synopsis: Henry has a crush on his roommate's best friend Tom. When he gets sick, he's not sure whether Tom's concern means he feels the same.
Henry doesn't have time for a cold. Especially not now. Finals start next week, and between studying for exams, finishing final projects, and going to class, pretty much all his time is going to be occupied. Today, he woke up with a headache and a sore throat, which he's trying to convince himself is just a product of poor sleep, but deep down he knows is just the beginning of something worse to come.
Now, he's in his room, wrapped in his comforter and highlighting passages in his bio textbook, hearing his roommate Sam and his loud friends watching something equally loud in the living room. It's useless trying to ask them to quiet down - he learned after the sixth or seventh time asking that even though they all seem accommodating, they forget pretty quickly. Normally he'd be able to tune them out, but his steadily worsening headache is making it near impossible.
He gets up and starts pulling on clothes - the walk to the library may be freezing, but at least he'll get some quiet. Leaving his room, he's aware of how pissed off he must look, but he doesn't care enough to feign politeness to Sam and his friends.
He heads to the kitchen and grabs his travel mug - he's going to need coffee if he's going to last at the library. He's just filling it up when he hears a voice behind him.
"Hey! Henry! I didn't know you were home!" It's Tom. He's probably Sam's best friend - at the very least, he's the friend who's over more than anyone else. Henry suppresses a sigh. Tom is the exact kind of guy he doesn't like. Bro-y, athletic, always overly friendly to everyone - it just comes off as phony. It also just so happens that guys like this are always very attractive, and Tom is no exception. He turns around to grab milk from the fridge.
"Hey," he says, trying not to sound as annoyed as he feels.
"If I knew you were here I would've been a little quieter - you have finals coming up too, right?" Tom asks, leaning against the door frame in that way he always does.
"Mmhmm. It's fine. I'm going to the library." Talking to Tom is not helping the throbbing in his head. He starts to add the sugar and milk to his coffee.
"Are you sure? I can ask the guys to quiet down."
"No, it's fine." He snaps the cover onto his coffee and starts toward the door.
"Alright, well have a good day!"
"Thanks, you too." When he closes the front door he sighs, rubbing his eyes. He starts down the stairs. Being around people like that is exhausting on a normal day - Henry's always been quiet. Reserved. With the beginnings of a cold it's almost aggravating.
The frigid air outside makes his throat burn and his eyes water. His nose starts to run too, and he hopes it's just the temperature and not a new symptom. Knowing his luck he's going to be the one annoying person in the library constantly sniffling.
His time at the library is mostly uneventful, apart from going through a pack of travel tissues and getting dirty looks from other students. By the time they're ready to close, he feels significantly worse than he did this morning, but he's finished his biology review and is almost done with a paper for Transformative Design.
The trudge home feels like it takes forever - it's only about a 15 minute walk, but between the cold and feeling like crap it seems neverending. He can hear from the hallway outside the apartment that Sam's friends are still here, which makes him want to tear his hair out.
It's almost midnight when they leave, so it's only about that time he can get to sleep. He has class the next morning at 8, and when he wakes up with his alarm, he knows he's in for a full blown cold. His head still aches, and his sinuses feel sore and swollen. His throat kills too, and he feels shivery, despite the heavy comforter.
He lets himself lie in bed for a while, sniffling and trying to absorb as much warmth as he can from the comforter, before he drags himself up. He immediately pulls on his warmest sweater, even though he's just going to the bathroom. It doesn't help the shivering much, but it's something. He probably looks ridiculous, in just a pair of boxers and his oversized sweater, but he feels so shitty he doesn't really care.
Walking by the couch, he sees Tom asleep, shirtless. His heart flutters - he knew Tom was fit but it was something else to see it. The butterflies are almost annoying. There a million guys on campus, why does he have to get so worked up over this one?
In the shower, he cranks up the heat and lets the steam ease the aching in his sinuses. He's in there for too long, but the thought of having to actually walk to class in the cold makes him reluctant to get out.
He arrives to class a few minutes late - nose still dripping from the cold. Luckily today is just a lecture, but it's a five hour class, and he didn't have time to make any coffee this morning. He brought another little travel pack of tissues, but he's definitely going to have to ration them.
He's still shivering. It's worse after being out in the cold, and even though it should get better over time, nothing changes. He just sits there, achy and shivering and congested and miserable until 10:30, when the professor calls for a 10 minute break. Thank god. He needs coffee. There's a small shop in the building, so he forces himself up and out of his seat - which leads to a few seconds of particularly bad throbbing in his head - and out into the hall.
He almost groans when he sees who's working. Tom. Of course he's been to this little coffee spot a million times and he knows it's where Tom works, but he didn't think he'd have to see him this morning. Part of him is annoyed - he definitely does not have the energy to deal with him at the moment - but another part is a little embarrassed at how awful he must look. Not that he should care what Tom thinks of him, he reminds himself. Regardless, he walks up the counter, half occupied rubbing at his nose with a tissue.
"Hey," he says, and is surprised how congested he sounds. Tom turns, eyes lighting up.
"Hey!" He dims a little when he takes in his full appearance. "You ok?" Henry sniffles.
"Yeah. Fine. Can I get-"
"Large hot coffee, oat milk and sugar, right?" Henry's taken aback.
"Uh, yeah. You know my order?"
"Of course. It's an easy order." He goes about starting to make the drink. "Hope we didn't keep you up last night. I kept telling Sam to shut the fuck up but he doesn't listen to me."
"It's fine. I'm used to it." He sniffles again.
"You sound like you're coming down with something."
"And you sound like my mom." That makes Tom laugh, and again, Henry feels a stirring in his chest. Tom puts the lid on the drink and hands it to him, and Henry tries to hand him the money. Tom shakes his head.
"That's ok - on the house." That draws a little smile out of Henry. Tom smiles back, and for a minute he forgets how shitty he feels. "I hope you feel better."
"Thanks."
He heads back to class and sits down, taking a sip of the coffee. It tastes great, as always when Tom makes it, and the warmth helps to ease the chills at least somewhat. The rest of the lecture is spent half paying attention, and half worrying his sniffling and nose blowing is annoying. When it's finally over, he wants nothing more than to just go home and take a nap, but he has a problem set for calculus due tomorrow that he hasn't even started. So, reluctantly, he makes the trek to the library. He's able to work for most of the day uninterrupted - he's not very hungry, which maybe should be concerning but is convenient nonetheless.
By the time he's done, it's already dark out, and the walk home is brutal. The wind is whipping, and his scarf and hat aren't doing much to keep the cold out. His nose is running like a faucet and the cough he developed over the course of the day drags the cold air even further into his lungs. The coughs hurt, like they come from somewhere deep in his chest, and by the time he gets home his throat is destroyed.
When he gets home, he's glad to see Sam isn't making a racket for once. Still, he knows he's in for a restless night anyway. He puts a can of soup on the stove to heat up while he changes into sweatpants and a hoodie. His reflection in the mirror is definitely a sight - he's flushed from the cold, his hair a mess, and his eyes red rimmed.
He knows he should really fit in some more studying before he calls it a night, but after he picks at his soup and does the dishes, he's ready to fall over, so he just curls up in bed, coughing and shivery, and goes to sleep.
He wakes up a few times in the night coughing, and the soreness in his throat makes his eyes water. He's barely able to drag himself out of bed the next morning. His shivers have become more like shakes, and his cough feels like it never stops. He got a decent amount of sleep, but he still feels totally exhausted - even his muscles are sore.
His classes are a blur - he's too preoccupied with feeling awful to focus, and by the time he's done at 6, all he wants to do is go home and sleep until tomorrow morning. But, he knows he has to get at least one assignment done. After tomorrow, he'll have the whole weekend to relax. Not totally, but still.
Just the assignment tonight, classes tomorrow, then he can finally get some rest. The library probably isn't a good choice - his cough is too distracting, and he knows the walk home later will be torture. So instead, he goes back to the apartment. The cold air always exacerbates the cough, so the whole way home he's hacking, his nose running like a faucet. His ribs have started to hurt from all the coughing.
He almost wants to cry when he gets home and hears the sound of Sam and his friends in the living room. Why tonight of all nights? He trudges into his bedroom and changes - he's started to feel warm, which is a relief after feeling so cold all the time, but now it's becoming a both too warm and too cold feeling, so he tugs on his sweater and a fresh pair of boxers.
He starts to work on the physics problem set - there are only three problems total, but each of them usually take an hour at least, and that's when he's not feeling like death. He works for a while, but it's only when he starts to feel lightheaded he realizes he hasn't eaten yet today.
So, he heads into the kitchen and rummages around for a can of chicken noodle. He finds it, but he's too weak and shaky to work the can open right. He tries for a good three minutes before he feels a lump form in his throat.
"Hey, do you want some help with that?" He turns to see Tom standing in the doorway. Self consciously, he sniffles and clears his throat.
"Uh, y-yeah, that would be great." Tom smiles softly and walks over, making quick work of the can. Henry expects him to just go back into the living room, but he grabs the pot from the cabinet and turns on the stove.
"You've got quite a cough there." Henry feels himself blush. They all must be able to hear him from his room.
“Sorry, I-”
“Hey, no, no don’t be sorry. We make enough noise, you’re allowed to be sick.” He pours the soup into the pot and starts to grab spices from the shelf.
“I’m not sick.” Henry isn’t sure why he’s being so defensive, but Tom doesn’t challenge him, just smirks.
“Well whatever it is, it sounds brutal.” He shakes a few of the spices into the soup, stirring slowly.
“I’m ok. Really.” There’s a bit of an awkward silence before someone calls Tom from the other room. He looks a little dismayed, but puts on a smile.
“Feel better, ok?” He rests his arm on Henry’s upper arm, giving him a soft smile, before heading back into the living room. And there’s that fluttering in his chest again.
On his way back to his room, he catches a bit of a conversation.
“I think we should go out.” That’s Tom’s voice.
“Nah dude, it’s freezing.” That’s Sam.
“C’mon, let’s go. It’ll be fine.”
“Alright, whatever.”
Henry smiles to himself. Maybe it’s reaching to think Tom did that specifically for him, but part of him really hopes he did.
The rest of the night is blissfully quiet, apart from his incessant cough. By the time he’s finished with the last problem, it’s midnight, and the world is swimming. He’s never been happier to lie down. But, it’s short lived. Despite being exhausted, his cough and what he suspects is a fever are making it all but impossible to sleep. He drifts in and out of half-sleep, sometimes too hot, sometimes too cold. Luckily his class isn’t until the afternoon, but he spends the whole morning much like the night before. When he finally gets up, he feels truly ready to fall over. His headache is horrendous, throbbing and pounding at the slightest provocation. His sinuses are still swollen, along with his poor throat that makes him wince with every swallow. The cough is the same if not a little worse, except now it sends cramping pain through his ribs.
On the walk to class, he just keeps repeating the same idea in his head. Just three hours, then you can rest. The class is truly a blur, but the walk home is too unpleasant to tune out. Once again, the freezing temperature isn’t any help, and forcing his aching body to walk through the snow gets harder with every step.
He turns the corner for the front door of his building, and a wave of relief washes over him. But, he’s confused when he sees someone standing near the buzzer. He’s even more confused when he realizes it’s Tom.
“Hey, uh, Sam isn’t here. He’s gone for the weekend.” He says, embarrassed at how thready and weak his voice sounds. Tom turns, looking confused.
“Why are you out here? It’s freezing.” He says, and Henry isn’t sure whether it’s the fever that’s keeping him from putting the dots together or this just doesn’t make sense.
“Sam isn’t upstairs,” he repeats, and Tom sighs gently.
“I’m not here to see Sam.” It still isn’t clicking. “C’mon, let’s go inside.”
“Ok…” He unlocks the door and clumsily shakes the snow off his boots before getting into the elevator. Tom follows, and Henry figures someone else must be in the building that Tom wants to see, but Tom follows him right to the door. Henry sighs and rubs his eyes. “Tom, what do you want?”
For the first time, it looks like Tom might actually be nervous.
“I came to check up on you.” Henry suddenly feels a strange bundle of emotions unfurl in his stomach.
“Oh,” is all he can manage to get out. Tom bites his lip.
“Is that ok?”
“Yeah! Yeah, it’s fine, uh…” He takes a deep breath, but breaks into a fit of coughs before he can speak. He feels a steady hand on his back. After he’s done with the fit the world swims, and there’s a hand on his shoulder.
“Let’s go inside so you can sit down, ok?” Henry just nods, and after a few moments of struggling to fit the key into the lock, Tom does it for him. Immediately, he strips off his scarf and coat and practically collapses onto the couch, pulling off his boots. He leans back into the cushions, closing his eyes.
“Fuck…” he breathes, and he hears Tom laugh quietly. When he opens his eyes, he sees Tom sitting in front of him on the coffee table, still looking nervous. “Why would you wanna check on me?”
“Well you didn’t seem so good last night, and I wanted to make sure you were ok. Even though you hate my guts,” he says with a smile. He starts to rummage through his backpack, and pulls out a bottle of tylenol and a thermometer, as well as a quart container of soup.
“I don’t hate your guts,” Henry says quietly, and Tom gives him another smile.
“Well that’s good to hear.” He leans forward and starts to move his palm toward his forehead, but hesitates. “Is this ok?” Henry nods, and sighs when he feels the cool palm on his overheated skin. He moves his hand to his cheek. “Jesus, you’re really burning up.”
He lets out another volley of coughs, and Tom rubs his back again. It feels nice, but it doesn’t make the confusion go away. For now though, he’s happy to just be looked after.
“Here.” Tom slips the thermometer under his tongue, brushing some of his hair away from his face. When it beeps, he takes it out. “102. Not so bad.” Henry has a feeling he’s saying that more for his benefit than his own. “You want me to grab you some more comfortable clothes?” Henry just nods, and Tom smiles in return. “Alright.”
He gets up and walks into the bedroom, leaving Henry alone on the couch, finally giving him a moment to process all of this. Why on earth would Tom care about him? They’re not really friends, are they? And Tom was straight, wasn’t he? And even if he wasn’t, there’s no way he’d actually like Henry of all people. And did Henry even like him? Sure, he’s sweet and funny and impossibly hot, but he’s friends with Sam. And he’s on the soccer team. And he’s so outgoing and friendly all the time, wouldn’t that get annoying?
He almost doesn’t notice when Tom gets back.
“Here you go. You want me to go in the kitchen while you change?” He hands him the clothes, and Henry bites his lip.
“If you want to.” Is that a weird answer? Tom smirks.
“I’m fine if you’re fine.”
Henry starts to take off his shirt, but he’s so shaky and uncoordinated, Tom has to help him, which probably killed any romance the situation offered, he thinks. The clean fabric feels nice against his feverish skin. The pants go the same way, and he didn’t realize how uncomfortable he was until now.
“Here, lean your head back,” Tom says, and he does. Tom presses a cool, damp cloth to his forehead, and he sighs softly. “That feels good?” He nods. There’s a few moments of silence while he just relaxes into the feeling. Then, he sits up straight.
“Why are you doing all this?” Tom looks nervous again.
“You’re my...friend. And I care about you,” he says, and Henry feels his heart sink a little.
“Oh. Ok.” He must sound disappointed, because Tom smiles.
“Hoping for a different answer?” Henry shrugs, and Tom rubs his jaw.
“I mean, it’s a little embarrassing but I used to...have a crush on you. But I think you made it kind of clear you weren’t interested.” Henry can’t hide his confusion.
“I made it clear?” He’s genuinely not sure what Tom is talking about. Sure, he’s never out right flirted with him, but he always thought he was straight anyway.
“Just...one word answers to everything, always seeming like you had somewhere else to be - it’s fine. I don’t know why I even brought it up. You want some soup?” Henry just nods, and Tom smiles. “Ok, sounds good.”
He heads into the kitchen, and Henry’s mind runs a mile a minute. There’s no way he’s telling the truth right? But why would he lie? He comes back through the doorway and leans against the frame.
“It’s on the stove, just have to wait a few minutes. You feeling ok?”
“Yeah, uh...I wanna tell you something.” Henry doesn’t know how he can make leaning against a doorframe look so good.
“Shoot.”
“I kinda had a crush on you too. Or...have.” He can feel himself blushing. Tom laughs.
“You have a really funny way of showing it.” He’s beaming, and it makes Henry smile too.
“Well it’s not my fault you’re so annoying,” he says, and Tom walks back over to the coffee table and sits down. Tom’s hand rests on his forehead, then makes its way down to his cheek. It feels so steady. Stable.
“I’m not the one that got themself sick with pneumonia because I wouldn’t miss a class, am I?” Without thinking, Henry wraps his arms around him as tight as he can - which isn’t very tight, but still. He buries his face in the crook of his neck and takes a deep breath. Tom rubs his back gently.
“Thank you, for doing all this,” he whispers, and Tom squeezes him a little bit tighter.
“Anytime.”
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lavenderbexlatte · 3 years
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office hours
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nct 1.8k words gender-neutral reader insert Reader x Qian Kun SUGGESTIVE/NSFW
🖤 warnings: vaguely inappropriate work relationships, kissing n’ touching, a boner 🖤
connect with me! / masterlist
“Any final questions before I let you go?”
You glance out over your small class of undergraduate seniors, anticipating the usual last-minute queries about due dates for next week or term definitions from your lecture today. These students are pretty bright, all things considered, and extremely attentive even though your senior seminar class meets in the morning.
That’s why the question that one of your back-row girls asks bowls you over as much as it does.
“Doc, do you think Professor Qian is cute?”
“Professor Qian? In the music department?” you ask, trying to hide how flustered you are.
“Yeah. D’you think he’s hot?” the girl repeats, grinning as she shoves her notebook into her bag without breaking eye contact with you.
“I guess…I’ve never really thought about it,” you say honestly.
The girl hums. “Well, I think he’s pretty hot.”
You get the feeling that she’s got an agenda, a feeling that’s only solidified when you see a few of your other students struggling to hold back laughter and smiling into their books. This is not gonna fly. They can’t make things weird for you, these little punks.
“Any other final questions?” you ask, “About the material?”
Heads shake around the room.
“Okay. Go home, and you better have your summaries to me by Sunday night!”
The students pick up their bags and their books and their Hydroflasks, and they leave the room in their ones and twos. As the last one bids you goodbye, and you’re left alone with your notes again, you sincerely hope to yourself that this isn’t going to become…a thing. These kids (young adults, actual grown adults, though you always think of them as kids) are far too old to be pulling shit like this on you.
Truly, deeply, sincerely, you hope that your 22-year-old student is not planning on trying to bag the music professor. That would be way too much trouble to have on your radar.
You sling the last of your class materials into your bag, and head for your usual stop after your ten o’clock class: the nearest dining hall. The school gives you free lunches on the days that you teach, so you might as well take advantage.
One trip through the buffet-style lines later, you’re balancing your full plate as you scan the room for an open table. The only one you can spot, however, is right next to a group of students, and holding court is none other than your senior girl with the apparent penchant for older men.
“-like a fucking idiot!” you hear one of the other students laughing, “He’s faculty. He’ll get fired.”
“Only if I snitch,” your student is saying.
“Or if literally anyone finds out,” says another one.
“No one would find out. No one would care,” your student dismisses. “Unless they’re in the music department, no one even knows who Qian is.”
So she’s really trying to fuck Qian Kun, huh?
It’s none of your business, really. But if this actually happens, and it even gets out that you knew and said nothing, it’ll be your ass on the line, too. And you’re really not one to fight important shit like Title IX. But the girls at the next table aren’t letting up, the conversation turning more and more raunchy and giving you a growing desire to plug yours ears with the shitty cafeteria napkins for some sense of deniability.
You stab at your meal, annoyed at the position that you’re in now, the liability you hold. Fuck.
You’re gonna have to go see this other professor, and head off this mess before it begins.
---------------
It’s rare that you’re on campus in any place but your own department, but you find yourself in the music building later that evening. You’d done a quick snoop on the faculty page and found Professor Qian’s office hours, and decided that sooner is better. If you can get to him before your (admittedly pretty and fit and 22) student does, then maybe you can spare everyone the headache.
His office is tucked at the end of the hall, farthest from the doors into the building. Lucky him, you think. Your own tiny office is smack in the middle, with essentially no privacy as other faculty and students come and go all day long. The door is shut when you reach it, but the light inside is on, so you knock.
“Just a sec!”
You oblige, waiting and praying to anyone who’ll listen that you’re not about to see a very familiar coed behind this door.
But no. When finally, the door opens, all you see is Professor Qian.
He’s not someone you know well, or someone you see often, and maybe that’s why you spend such an awkward amount of time just looking at him. Your first extremely stupid thought is that your student is kind of right: he’s cute. Thick brown hair, neat eyebrows, a jawline that makes him look like a goddamn marble sculpture…
“Can I help you?” he asks.
You nod, mentally kicking yourself for being weird. “Yeah, hi. Can I come in?”
Qian Kun gives you a brilliant gentle smile that reveals deep dimples, and gestures you into his (blessedly empty) office. You introduce yourself, give him your name and your department, and after a cordial handshake and pleasantries, stood in the middle of the tiny space, you decide to just come right out and say it.
“I have a student who I think you know,” you say, “She’s a senior and a double-major.”
He asks for her name, and you give it.
“Yeah, she’s in my senior seminar,” Professor Qian tells you.
“Mine, too,” you say, “And she’s gotten a little…TOO comfortable in class, lately.”
His grin turns lopsided. “Are we talking eating without permission, or something less tasteful?”
“She has made it clear that she’s interested in some things involving you. And her. And sex,” you tell him, fighting to keep your voice level and not actually die of embarrassment.  
Now the grin disappears entirely. “Seriously?”
You nod, “The exact words I heard were ‘he’s super stacked and I want to-‘”
“Whoa, okay!” Professor Qian cuts you off, “Okay, yeah. No.”
“Professor, I’m sure you know this, but I can’t let anything like that happen. We’ll both get canned,” you say.
“Kun.”
“Pardon me?”
“Call me Kun,” he says, “We’re colleagues, don’t need to dance around titles.”
“Kun,” you repeat, “Alright. But you – you’re not going to-”
“Christ, no,” Kun says emphatically, looking scandalized.
“Good. This has been the most thoroughly uncomfortable conversation of my whole career, but good,” you say.
“I would rather you bring it up to me than let things get worse,” he assures you.
“I’m sure it’s flattering to know that students are interested,” you joke. “Sort of wish I was that kind of attractive.”
Kun laughs. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’ve always thought you were attractive.”
Your brain comes screeching to a halt so quickly, you’re sure Kun can hear as it slams on the breaks and leaves you confounded and blinking at him. He has the presence to look a bit sheepish, having just turned this around on you.
“I’m sorry, was that too much?” he says, running a hand through his hair nervously.
“Unexpected but appreciated,” you reply. “And what do you mean, ‘always?’”
Kun shrugs, leaning back against his desk. “We share a lot of students. They talk about you, that makes you stand out, I see you around. Frequency bias.”
You crack a smile. “So, I come here to save you from one of my horny students, only to find you’re my secret admirer, is that it?”
“You could say that.”
He looks amused but not smug, satisfied but not cocky. The way he’s leaning his weight back on the sturdy wooden desk makes it really difficult not to notice his strong thighs in their fitted slacks, or his chest against the thin fabric of his shirt.
Maybe you were a little harsh, before, judging your student’s attraction to him. You can see the appeal. Completely.
You take a step closer to him, which isn’t difficult given the extremely limited space in the office. “You spend a lot of time thinking about me?”
“A completely normal amount of time,” he replies.
“What kinds of things do you think about?”
Kun reaches toward you suddenly, and then hesitates, leaving his hand hovering in the general direction of your hip. Fascinated, you cover his hand with yours and bring it down to meet your side, as he intended.
“How you always look so put-together but act so cavalier,” he says, finally. “How the kids say you curse in lecture and sit cross-legged on your desk and watch TikToks on your phone, but also grade harder than anyone in your department.”
You hadn’t known that anyone noticed those things. Not your students, and least of all some random colleague.
“So what do you wanna do about it?” you ask, genuinely curious.
“Well,” says Kun, taking hold of your hip more firmly, “Since you’re right here, and the door is shut, and you’re not one of my students…”
You laugh, and his smile makes those dimples pop out again.
“Then,” he says, “Then I think I wanna do this.”
You can say with absolute certainty that you didn’t come here to kiss Qian Kun, but that’s exactly what’s happening. He kisses calm and steady, and you’re ready to about melt into his arms. It’s just a few gentle presses of your lips against his, until he suddenly grabs you around the waist and spins the both of you, so that you’re the one up against the desk.
He lifts you the little bit so that you can sit on the cold surface of it. You move your legs to either side of his hips, and he groans a bit as he draws even closer. As he settles his body against yours, you can feel the barest beginning of an erection pressing against your inner thigh.
“Excited already?” you ask, amused, as Kun traces a path of kisses across your jaw.
“Maybe,” he replies, “Are you complaining?”
“Not at all.”
He laughs at that, which makes you laugh, and you hook your arm around his neck to bring his mouth back to yours. You could get used to this, you think, as one of Kun’s hands sneaks down to jerk your button-up out from where it’s tucked into your nice jeans. As soon as he has access, that hand goes right up your shirt to find purchase-
KNOCK KNOCK.
You jump, and Kun glances over his shoulder at the door, panic evident on his face. Before he can call out to tell whomever it is to wait a second, the door swings open.
“Hey, Qian, I had a question about the performance review for-”
Of course, it’s her. Your student, the very same one with the hots for Kun, walking headlong into the office. When she finally looks up and sees you there, on the desk, legs spread and Kun between them, she freezes.
“I…” she sputters, “I – I guess I’ll come back later.”
“Close the door behind you,” Kun agrees.
She nods, looking mortified. “Yeah, yeah, of course. S-see you on Monday, Doc!”
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mortedeveles · 4 years
Note
AHHH that last mha headcanon was amazing tysm! You did great!!♡♡ Could I ask for another one with the same boys? (baku,tenya & izu!) With a crush who draws a lot? Like maybe they doodle while in class and while on break, 'cause they're bored? And the bois get curious because they're ALWAYS drawing while in the middle of class and they space out! Bonus points if the bois check their notebook and there's dumb doodles of them doing/saying something funny and some with little hearts around them. ^^"
thank you!! of course, anon! here you go, I hope you like it! a friendly reminder that my REQUESTS ARE OPEN! feel free to request lovelies! i’m ready to write for whatever you guys have in mind. i have a project coming up in 1-2 weeks and i think you guys will like it 👁️👁️! i’ll be posting the bonuses of model for me soon enough and a new series (not bakuhoe) will be posted as well! so stay tuned for more <3 as always, please leave a like, reblog, follow and/or comment if you enjoyed! support and feedback are ALWAYS welcomed! <3 
PAIRING: IIDA T. X GN!READER, BAKUGOU K. X GN!READER, TODOROKI S. X GN!READER
THEMES: humor, fluff. [HEADCANNONS]
TW: cursing
IIDA, MIDORIYA, KATSUKI, TODOROKI WITH A DOODLER!CRUSH READER
Frankly, school can be quite boring. Even though you're in the hero course and you learn extraordinary things, it doesn't exclude regular civilian subjects such as history, math and so.
When you lose focus in class, you like to redirect your attention to doodling. It's fun, relaxing and effortless- it's also quite time-consuming and you've spaced out of class many times.
When you space out, you lose the function to pay attention to your reality- and ever since the first day you started doodling in class, you never noticed a pair of curious eyes watching you.
IIDA TENYA
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Iida Tenya is quite the gentleman. He's also known for being strict and keeping the chaotic class 1A in order- (well, try and fail many times, but he does his best.) During classes with Aizawa, the majority of the classroom is quiet- but he always hears intense scribbling from your seat.
Usually, he does his best to ignore it and focuses on the class but you're his crush- and the fact that he always hears intense scribbling every day is quite concerning. But one day, he can't take it anymore.
It's a hot and sweltering day, it doesn't help that class 1A just finished hero training and even though everyone hit the showers afterward- the classroom is boiling.
Iida's neck is drenched in sweat, Aizawa's flat and tired voice drones on and he hears furious scribbling behind him- it's all giving him a headache.
Slowly, he turns around and stares blankly at you. Your head is lowered, hand sketching in your notebook. Your movements are fluid and bold and your arm is propped lazily on the desk, leaning your head against it.
He feels his nerves calm at the sight. But then he remembers that he's class president- you're not paying attention in class and that is not okay. Iida opens his mouth and delivers a long speech. Tenya is strict- but he's not stupid- he lowers his voice so he won't embarrass you in front of the class.
After his long speech, he expects you to look sullen or simply understand where he's coming from- but instead, you're snickering with a smile.
''I'm sorry, Iida. I just space out of class all the time and I like to doodle,'' there's a playful pout on your lips, a pleading look gleaming in your eyes.
Oh god, how is he supposed to reprimand you when you look so cute and adorable?
His voice is stuck in his throat- there's a flushed expression on his face and it only gets worse when Aizawa's voice booms.
''Iida, if you're done with your important chat with L/N, turn around and pay attention. You're class president, I expect better from you.''
Iida nearly squeaks as he turns around and nods, apologizing several times. Aizawa simply sighs tiredly and resumes the lesson.
After that time, Iida spots you doodling all the time in class. It makes him concerned- do you even pay attention in class? Are your grades failing?
Eventually, he confronts you about and explains his concerns. His face is beet red when he's done, but you simply brush him off with a smile.
Assuring him that your grades and knowledge are in perfect order, you simply doodle a lot in class. After that confrontation, Iida is much more relaxed about the situation, and every time he sees you doodle, there's a soft smile on his lips.
MIDORIYA IZUKU
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Midoriya is a very observant person. He has dozens of notebooks dedicated to quirks, Pro Heroes, and so on and while he doesn't write about his friends- he tends to notice several things.
For example, you. Since you began to attend U. A with Izuku, he's noticed that you spend most of your time sketching, doodling god knows what. You've never shown him your artwork.
Another thing he's realized is that when you start doodling- only Aizawa's loud voice or the school bell will snap you out of it. Izuku's tried everything- waving his hands in your face, throwing you paper balls- nothing. It's like you've been sucked out of reality..
Your manners leave him interested, curious to know more. He's sure you're not slacking off in class- he's been in several study sessions with Tsuyu, Iida, Ochaco, Todoroki, and you- you're always on track and usually have a good grasp of the subject.
You rarely share your notes- only with Tsuyu and Iida and occasionally Todoroki.
Midoriya doesn't mind, but it makes him burn with curiosity. So on the next studying session, he decides to come up with a plan.
''Y/N, what did you get on question 43?'' Ochaco asked. She leaned towards said girl and giggled.
Izuku frowned. What was so funny? The brunette's grin grew as she stared down at Y/N's notes, who was stammering and trying to hide their notes from the public view. 
When Ochaco and Y/N rose and said they needed to visit the restroom- Izuku struck. Tsuyu was chatting with Todoroki and Iida had his nose buried in his book- so they didn't notice when he grabbed your notebook.
He flicked through pages, greedily drinking in the sight of your doodles. They were all varied- some flowers, vines, others were small and cute animals- and others were more complex but in the end, doodles. Midoriya froze when he flipped through a page and saw a... peculiar sight. 
In the middle of the page, was a heart. You had doodled several headshots of Izuku, in which some of them he was saying corny or bad jokes, and in others, he was simply smiling. His cheeks burned when he saw the small hearts that you had doodled around him.
When he heard your voice and footsteps approaching the dorm- he quickly dropped your notebook in your spot and tried to act casual. Tsuyu raised an eyebrow at this, but said nothing, while Todoroki asked him why his face was burning.
He had refused to answer and remained somewhat silent during the rest of the session, his cheeks red. His heart was soaring with happiness- those doodles only meant one thing- you had feelings for him.
Once the studying session was over, Izuku would pull you aside and confess his feelings. His veins were pumping with confidence- you liked him back!
BAKUGOU KATSUKI 
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Ever since you befriended Katsuki, he's noticed that you're a very attentive friend.
That is when you're not in class. You submerge yourself into your notebook with a pencil and nothing else- and pour all your attention into it.
Bakugou thinks it's rather annoying, he's tried to get your attention several times, only to fail miserably.
Today is no exception. Bakugou's ready to pop- dunceface and shitty head have been bothering him all day, stupid Deku gave a speech that made him roll his eyes and he was tired and just wanted to go to bed.
Unfortunately, he found himself stuck in class, listening to Aizawa talk like a damn zombie- trying to grab your attention, but you were too immersed in your doodles.
Irritated, he pressed his sweat hand on your neck and ignited a small spark- not enough to hurt you, but enough to startle you. The effect was immediate. You yelped and snapped your neck upwards, clutching the back of your neck. Everyone stared at you, bewildered. Katsuki grinned, satisfied that he finally got your attention but when you realized it was him- you narrowed your eyes and scowled.
''Bakugou? L/N? What's going on?'' Aizawa asked sharply.
Your scowl deepened. ''Everything is okay, Aizawa-sensei. I apologize.'' Your eyes stayed on Bakugou as you spoke.
Aizawa hummed in response and continued with the lesson. Bakugou bit down on his lip, swallowing a snicker.
After class, you smacked Bakugou on the head, to which he responded with a growl and the two of you engaged in a match of playful fighting, and between snickers and lunges your notebook fell out of your open backpack, loose sheets slipping out. 
Immediately, you jumped back and began to gather them, but Bakugou kneeled down and helped you as well. He froze as he held a loose sheet- there were several sketches of him with different expressions- in some, he was smirking, frowning or screaming- but that wasn't what made him freeze. It was the several little hearts that you had doodled around him.
You nearly shrieked when you saw which paper he was holding and snatched it out of his hands. In a blink of an eye, you had picked everything up and ran away.
Katsuki was puzzled. He stood there for a minute or two, gears shifting in his brain as he processed the situation. Once it finally kicked in, he raced after you and found you sitting in a corner, head buried between your knees.
''Um,'' he cleared his throat awkwardly. ''Hey.'' his voice was gruff and tense.
You groaned and shook your head. ''Go away, Bakugou. I know you don't like me, so just spare me from the harsh rejection.''
''What?'' he furrowed his eyebrows and kneeled to your height. ''What the fuck are you talking about? That's not true.''
Slowly, you raised your head and peered at him, narrowing your eyes with suspicion. ''It's not?''
Bakugou scoffed. ''Of course not. I like you too, dumbass,'' he grumbled the last sentence, feeling his ears and cheeks warm up.
''Oh.'' was all you said. The blonde snickered and pulled you upwards onto your feet.
''C'mon dumbass, I'll walk you home. Gotta keep you safe.''
(bonus extra!)
TODOROKI SHOUTO 
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Shoto is clever and can improvise quickly- but he can be quite dense or oblivious at times. He probably wouldn't notice your doodling habits and if he did, he would brush it off. You're just doodling in class, nothing too fancy.
He doesn't understand how far your doodling goes until he asks you to lend him your math notes after class, and you happily oblige.
Shoto spends the rest of the afternoon studying and writing down whatever he missed- all thanks to your notes that were thankfully complete.
Once he was sure he'd done enough studying, Todororki began to flip through your notes idly, appreciating your writing. The more he read, the more he realized that there were doodles...everywhere.
He thought it was quite impressive that you managed to doodle so much in class and your artistic skills were quite impressive. There was a variety of sketches- plants, animals, silly faces but the ones he saw the most, were the ones of him.
Shoto felt a strange flutter whenever he saw one of your doodles that were him. You captured him perfectly and he cracked a grin whenever he saw one in which he was saying a corny or silly joke. It was refreshing.
It made his heart warm, seeing that his crush seemed to be as fond of him as he was of them. I don’t think he’d truly understand why you would draw him several times and instead, would ask you for an explanation. 
The next day, he made sure to thank you for lending him your notes- and for making such beautiful and impressive doodles. 
206 notes · View notes
harley-sunday · 3 years
Text
The Draw [16]
Summary: The whirlwind starts at the 2018 ACE Comic Con in Phoenix but you’re not sure where it will end…
Pairing: Sebastian Stan x reader (unnamed OFC)
Warnings: Language. 
Word count: 5k
AN: I just can’t seem to quit this story - I keep adding parts... But. BUT. We are closer to end. There’s not much more I can say without giving anything away, except that this chapter seems to consist of mostly phone calls... 🤷🏻‍♀️ I hope you like it, please let me know what you think - I’d love to read your thoughts :) ♥
Masterlist
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“I don’t know, Brad,” you try your hardest not to sound as frustrated as you feel, “last week you told me that you understood the process, so I don’t really get why we are missing all this inventory right now.” You rub your temples, trying to get rid of the headache that started when you got to the office this morning, quietly cursing the jetlag that has been bothering you ever since you got back from Greece on Saturday, although you know Brad’s fuck-up also has something to do with it. Inventory is not that difficult. 
Brad, who’s been interning at the San Francisco office for a grand total of three weeks and yet somehow thinks he’s God’s gift to this company, just shrugs, “I’m sorry?”
You just stare at him and shake your head, “No. Go over it one more time, ok? I’m keeping these here,” you tap the stack of papers on your desk, “so really start at zero again and report back to me tomorrow morning.” You watch him roll his eyes before he nods and turns around to leave. “Brad?” You no longer try to hide the annoyance in your voice, “Close the door on your way out, will you?”
When he does you let out a frustrated groan and lean back in your chair, quietly shaking your head and wondering if you were ever this cocky when you first started working here. Probably not, Deb would have never allowed it. As if on cue your phone rings and when you see who’s calling you answer with a smile, “Hi, Deb.”
“How you holding up, kid?”
“Just told an intern to start over on inventory,” you offer, “so I’m sure he’s telling the other interns what a bitch I am right about now.”
You hear Deb chuckle, “Good for you.” There are some muffled sounds on the other end of the line then and you can just imagine her getting up and walking to the kitchen to get another cup of coffee because the woman seems to run on double espressos and cigarettes. “Listen, I want to run something by you.”  
Weird. This is weird. Usually she just informs you after whatever it is she has decided, but her wanting to 'run something by you' tells you she actually wants your opinion. You sit up in your chair, curious to hear what she has to say, “Sure.”
“Technically I’ve found someone to take over the San Francisco office from you,” she says, “and on short notice too, because I know you’ve already been out there longer than you’d like.”
“Ok,” you draw out, not sure where she’s going with this.
You hear her sigh and then she mutters something about biting the bullet before she says, “It’s Mark.”
“Oh.” Your heart drops and your throat goes dry, the lump that suddenly has appeared hard to swallow. There’s a million things running through your head all at the same time, some good, most of them bad, and an involuntary shiver runs down your spine. You don’t really know what else to say and so you stay quiet, waiting for Deb to give you something more to go on.
“I know,” her voice is unusually kind, reserved only for the really shitty situations and it tells you she hates this as much as you do. She clears her throat then, “I’ll be honest with you, kid, I contacted him. I know he wasn’t happy when I shipped him off to the London office after you-” she hesitates and clears her throat again, “After what happened. Thing is, he has done some great work there, out of all our overseas offices, this one’s giving us the best turnover.”
You only half-listen to her listing off why this is a good idea, your mind drifting to when you first met Mark. There was talk of a new guy coming in to maybe take over from Deb in a few years, supposedly the best in the business although some called him an asshole who would stop at nothing to get to the top and so by default you had decided you probably wouldn't like him, but then all of a sudden there he was, all six foot two of him, full of ambition and good looks  and sweeping you off your feet almost instantly. You told yourself, and him, you didn’t do office romance, that you would never date a colleague, but all it took was one night of overtime and some celebratory drinks after to make you forget your so-called rule. 
And the first six months were good, really good. Or at least that’s what you thought. In the end there were warning signs all along, but you just choose to ignore them. And even now you’re not sure what triggered him but something changed after those six months and Mark became manipulative, obsessive, and abusive, and at first you told yourself it was just stress from work, even though deep down you knew better. Still, you always believed you’d be the one to make him change his ways, if only you did what he wanted. Problem was, you were never sure what that was. 
He’d want you to wear a tight dress and high heels one day, and the next he would tell you you looked like a whore and what were you thinking leaving the house looking like that? It took you too long to understand you could never make him happy, no matter what you did, and that he would always find things to obsess over. When you finally realized your relationship had turned toxic it still took you another two years to quit him, and that was only after you learned he’d cheated on you with a girl from accounting. When Deb found out what Mark did she immediately took your side and made it look like his sudden move to the London office had been planned all along even though you know she had to pull quite a few strings. 
She still doesn’t know about the verbal abuse and the threats and the mind games, you realize then. Maybe if she did she wouldn’t have offered him to come back. 
“You still there?” Her voice interrupts your thoughts. 
“Yeah.” 
She sighs and you can just imagine her pinching the bridge of her nose, “Thing is, with the experience he has, you’d only need a day, two at most, to bring him up to speed.” She hesitates, “If we bring in someone new-”
“It’ll take at least four weeks,” you offer with a nod even though she can’t see you. 
“Yes.” 
“Yes,” you echo. You roll your lip between your teeth, trying to decide whether or not you should tell her the full story. Would it matter? And if it did, would it mean you’d be stuck out here longer?
“Listen, take the day to think about it,” she offers then, “get back to me tomorrow and let me know, ok?” 
“Ok.”
“Alright.” 
Before you get a chance to say goodbye she has disconnected the call and so you’re left with your own thoughts. Tapping your phone against your chin you’re trying to decide what to do, but it seems like too big of a decision to make on your own. You pull up your texting app and send Lauren a quick message:
You free tonight? 
Her reply comes not much later and surprises you:
Sorry, can’t tonight. Going on a date :)
You type a reply almost immediately:
?? Why didn’t you tell me? But also, YASSS! Go get it, girl! Call me tomorrow?
You lean back in your chair while you wait for her reply, a little upset that she didn’t tell you, and you can’t help but wonder why. 
Her reply doesn’t really make you feel any better:
You were busy, babe. Talk to you tomorrow.
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You kick off your shoes the moment you step into the apartment you refuse to call home, and head straight to the kitchen to pour yourself a glass of wine, before you open the takeout container and put some of the fried rice and egg rolls you got from your favourite restaurant on a plate. It’s still nice outside and so you end up on the tiny balcony, now bare feet propped up on the railing as you eat your dinner. 
The thought of having to work with Mark again, if only for a short while, takes up most of your headspace and you hate how indecisive you are about it. Part of you wants nothing to do with him ever again, but part of you knows he really is the best man for the job. Say what you will about the asshole, but he knows how to run a company. Having Mark at the San Francisco office would probably mean neither you nor Deb would have to step in ever again and, you reason, he could probably manage Seattle and Phoenix from here too. 
You really just want to talk to somebody about this, because putting your thoughts into words has always helped you, and so you call your brother.
The call goes straight to voicemail although a message follows soon after:
At Jake's science fair, or did you forget that was today?
You let out a frustrated groan, because yes, you totally forgot. 
It does nothing to help your mood and you're starting to feel so bad about missing out on so much that's happening in Charlotte right now, what with Jake’s science fair and Lauren apparently dating someone, that it's actually making you homesick. You decide to pour yourself another glass of wine, because fuck it. 
When you close the fridge your eyes fall on a picture of you and Sebastian you've put up there and you figure maybe you should just call him. A quick glance at the clock, however, tells you it's early morning in Greece and so you forego that idea because you don't really want to wake him up with the news your ex is about to make a comeback into your life.
You are having a very ‘Woo is me’ moment and hate how alone you feel right now. You know the wine is not helping and so you dump what’s left in the glass in the kitchen sink and put the kettle on for a cup of tea instead. While the water boiling you set out to find a notebook, hoping that putting your thoughts on paper will help you figure out what it is you can do about this situation and maybe make some decisions.
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You call Deb the moment you’re at your desk and she answers on the first ring.
“Tell me,” 
Never one to beat around the bush, you think, although in this case you appreciate it. “Have Mark take over San Francisco,” you tell her, “but I need him to do his homework in advance because two days is my absolute max.”
“Noted,” Deb agrees easily, “but?”
You take a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves, “I want to be able to divide my time between Charlotte and New York as I see fit, with Charlotte as my home base, at least for now. If I ever decide to move to New York I want it to be an option to turn that arrangement around-” 
“Give me two weeks once Mark has settled in-”
“-and I’d like to take four weeks of unpaid leave in August,” you add quickly, before you lose momentum. 
She sucks in her breath, “I don’t know if I can do that, kid.” 
“It’s only four weeks, Deb,” you counter, “and it’s unpaid. I still have enough days left to make it a paid vacation if that’s what you prefer.” You close your eyes and scrunch up your nose, anxious about her reply, because you’ve never really talked back to her like this before. 
Turns out there was nothing to worry about when she tells you, “Look who finally put on her big-girl panties, standing up to her boss.” She lets out a laugh, “I’m proud of ya, kid.” 
“Will you let me know when to expect Mark? I’ll make sure everything’s ready by then.”
“Yes, ma’am.” 
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“It’s just,” Lauren hesitates, and you want to tell her it’s ok, that you know you haven’t been there for her as much as you should have, but she continues then, “it’s weird not having you around, not knowing what you’re up to. Not knowing if, when I call you, I’m bothering you.”
“Hey,” you counter quickly, “you are one of the few people who never have to worry about that and I’m a little shocked you would even think that. You can call me day or night, Laur, always.” 
“I know.” She sighs then, “It’s just- I feel like- I don’t know, ok? It’s just different with you being so far away for so long. I miss you.” 
“I know,” you try to smile even though she can’t see you, “I’m sorry for not being the best bestest friend these past few weeks. I miss you too, babe.” You get up from the couch and make your way onto the balcony where you lean against the railing, “Let’s just hope Mark can make it out of London soon so I can get back to Charlotte and get back to annoying you twenty-four seven.” 
She laughs, “You’re going to have to share me now, though.”
You’re relieved she seems to have accepted your apology and so you decide to tease her a little more, “You do realize the first thing I’m doing when I get back is give Matt the same stern talking-to as you did Sebastian?” 
“Oh shit,” she whispers. A little louder then, “Please don’t, I really like him.” 
“Well you better tell him then that your best friend is not above kicking his ass if he ever hurts you.”
“Will do.” She clears her throat then, “So, are you going to tell Sebastian about Mark?” 
“That was the most abrupt change of subject ever,” you scoff with a grin, “what the hell, Laur?”
“I just think you should tell him.”
“I know,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, “I will. I just want to wait until I know when Mark gets here, you know?”
“Yeah.” She lets out a yawn and laughs, “Sorry.”
“Alright, alright,” you smile, “I get the hint.” 
She laughs, “I’m sorry, babe, it’s been a long day. Listen,” another yawn, although you’re sure this one was on purpose, “let me know once you know more about Mark and when you’re getting back, ok?”
“Yup, will do.” You have to stifle your own yawn then, “Talk to you soon, babe.” 
“Love you.”
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It isn’t until Friday afternoon that there’s an email from Deb, informing you Mark will take a flight from London next Wednesday so that you have all of Thursday and Friday to get him settled in. She’s included a list of subjects he wants to discuss but you decide that’s for later, before you close all active connections and shut your laptop off. You grab your phone off your desk and send a quick message to Lauren:
Coming home next weekend :)
Her reply comes when you’re at the elevator bay:
Yay! Let me know how when you land and I’ll pick you up! Xx
Your next message is to Sebastian:
Missing you something fierce, Stan! Call me when you can? X
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The sound of your phone wakes you from a deep sleep early on Sunday morning, but you can’t help but smile when you see ‘Mr Smooth’ flashing on your screen and so you answer with a quiet, “Hey you.”
“God, it’s good to hear your voice again,” he whispers. “Hi, sweetheart.” 
“Hi,” 
“You ok?”
“Yeah,” you smile, “I have some news though.” There’s a knot starting to form in your stomach and so you figured it’s better to bite the bullet right away. 
“Tell me,”
“Promise you’ll let me finish before you say anything?”
“That bad?”
“Not really- I don’t know,” you push the covers off and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. You take a deep breath before you continue, “Remember when I told you about my ex, Mark?” 
“Hmm,” he replies, and you take that as your cue to continue.
“What I didn’t tell you then- And maybe I should have- We used to work together in Charlotte.” You clear your throat, “And when we broke up Deb moved him to the London office, but now she wants him to take over San Francisco from me.” You wait for a reply from him, but then remember you told him to wait and so you continue, “He starts on Thursday and we’ve scheduled two days for me to bring him up to speed, so I’m going to have to spend some time together with him and I don’t know, I just thought you should know.” You push yourself off the bed and make your way to the kitchen, “The good news though, is that I got Deb to agree to let me divide my time between Charlotte and New York from now on, and that I have four weeks off in August.”
He stays quiet for a little too long and so you’re preparing for the worst when he finally replies. But then he just says, “How do you feel about seeing him again?” and you feel a wave of relief washing over you.
“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “I mean, I know he’s right for the job and it’s always easier to bring in someone who has experience and knows the company, but I- There’s a lot of history there and I just hope he realizes I’m not the same person anymore.” You lean against the counter and let out a sigh, “I guess I just want to get this over with and go back to Charlotte.”
“So nothing for me to worry about?” His voice is soft.
“No,” you’re quick to reassure him. 
“Good.”
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Mark is, well, he’s still an asshole, you realize when he walks into your office and tries to greet you with a hug. You offer him a hand and a curt, “Hello,” and have to hide your smile when you see the disappointment in his eyes. You’ve been feeling nervous all morning, hell, all week, because somehow you knew he would try to act like nothing ever happened. 
“So this is how it’s  going to be, huh?” He says while he puts his briefcase down on one of the visitors’ chairs on the other side of your desk. 
“Yes, Mark,” you nod and sit down in your own chair, “this is exactly how it’s going to be.” You watch as he unbuttons the jacket of his three piece suit before he sits down and leans back in his chair and you hand him a folder, “Read this first, it’s an overview of the last five years and should give you a fairly good impression of how things are run here.”
He thumbs through the papers, seemingly resigned to the fact that it’s solely a business relationship between you two from now on, and you see his eyebrows go up when he comes to the financial statements, “How on earth-”
“I know,” you hand him another folder, “this is Paul Kroeger’s file. Or at least everything that I’ve managed to uncover in the few weeks I’ve been here. I really urge you to keep digging, because I’m sure more shit will come up.” 
“Why didn’t Deb step in sooner?”
“You’ll have to ask Deb that,” you offer with a shrug. Another folder then, “This is everything you need to know about the rest of the staff here. I don’t think anyone else was in on it, but again, you might want to keep digging.”
He nods, “Ok.” Taking all three folders, he puts them in his briefcase before he looks back at you, squinting a little as if he’s trying to read you. There’s a hint of a smile playing on his lips when he says, “You’ve changed.” 
And you haven’t, you want to bite back, but don’t because you want to at least try to keep things civil. Instead you simply agree, “I have.” You try to steer the conversation back to work, “We have a meeting with Finance in ten minutes, then lunch with the board, and a meeting with Sales in the afternoon. After that I figured we could take a quick tour of the building, so you can meet everyone, and then I’ll send out the official message to all of our partners.”
He just nods.
“I’ll make sure to have this office empty by the end of the day so you can get settled in,” you continue, “and then I’ll be available all day tomorrow should you have any further questions.” 
“You forgot one thing,”
You don’t say anything and just look at him with a raised eyebrow. 
A cocky smile flashes across his face when he says, “You forgot to mention we’ll be having dinner tonight so we-”
“We’re not having dinner tonight, Mark,” you say, effectively cutting him off. It makes you feel good to tell him no and so you have to try your hardest to hide your smile when you see his face drop. 
“You really have changed,” he says again, but this time there’s a hint of dismay in his voice.
You smile widely now, because fuck him, “Yes. I really have.”
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Blame it on the red-eye flight and thus having to get up extremely early this morning, or simply on the fact that it’s been five weeks since you last saw her, but you find yourself actually tearing up when you walk out of exit E and see Lauren waiting there for you. 
She holds out her arms as you walk up to her and then envelopes you in a tight hug, “Don’t cry, silly.” 
“I just really missed you,” you sniffle while you wrap your arms around her. “And it’s that time of the month, so you know,” you chuckle through your tears, “double the fun.” When you pull back you see her eyes are glossed over as well and so you just stick out your tongue at her, “Let’s go home.” 
“Alright,” she says once you’re in her car, “start talking, babe. I want to know everything that’s happened since I last saw you.”
You’ve just finished telling her about your parents’ visit to San Francisco and your trip to Greece when she pulls up on your driveway and so all of a sudden you’re home again after almost two months. The garden looks absolutely immaculate and you know you have your parents to thank for that, reminding yourself to call them later today. Grabbing your suitcases out the trunk you let Lauren take one from your as you follow her to your house.
She turns around rather dramatically when you get to the front door, “Ok. So. Please don’t be mad, but-” she pulls a face, “-that plant in your dining room?” 
“Felicity?”
“Sure, yeah,” she scoffs, “name your plants. What’s next? Naming your electrical appliances?”
“You’re just stalling because Felicity the Fiddle Leaf Fig is obviously no longer with us and you’re just too afraid to admit you killed her,” you counter, trying to keep a straight face.
“I didn’t-” Lauren hesitates then and seems to realize you’re just messing with her, “but yes. Felicity has gone to plant heaven. It was all very sad. I buried her in the backyard if you want to pay your respects.” 
You let out a laugh, “I’d rather you just open the front door for me so we can have a drink and gossip about Mark.”
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“You really said that?” 
“I really did,” you admit with a smile, thinking back to when you told Mark to have a nice life when you left the office Friday afternoon. You grab the bottle of wine from off the floor next to you and top of her glass before you fill yours, “I don’t know. In a way those two days gave me some sort of closure, I guess.”
“Hmm,” she agrees, taking a sip of her wine. “So what’s next?”
“Well first you’re going to introduce me to Matt sometime this week-”
“Babe.”
“Babe,” you echo. “You’ve been dating for almost a month, do I need to remind you that you met Sebastian before we even were officially dating?”
“Yeah, ok,” she agrees, “I guess you could both come over for dinner next weekend.” She sits up a little, “So you’re going to be here for a while, right?”
You nod, “Sort of. I go back to work on Monday and then Sebastian’s scheduled to fly back on the third and that’s the same weekend I start my four-week leave-”
“That’s only two more weeks.”
“It is,” you smile. “I don’t know if he wants to celebrate his birthday here or if he wants to go to New York, and I think he said something about maybe taking a short holiday somewhere, but his next project starts in September so I’ll come back to Charlotte then and probably stay here while he’s away.” 
“Ugh,” Lauren rolls her eyes and shakes her head but smiles, “to be the girlfriend of an international superstar.” 
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“Tante!” Jake exclaims when he opens the front door. He all but jumps in your arms to give you a hug.
“Uh, excuse me, sir,” you tease, resisting the hug, “who are you and what did you do with my nephew?” You laugh when he pulls a face, “You are getting too big, kiddo, slow it down a little, will you?” 
Jake giggles and hugs you even tighter. 
“Ah, there she is,” Nathan says from the doorway, arms crossed in front of his chest, “my long-lost sister. So glad you're finally gracing us with your presence after coming back home a week ago.” 
“So dramatic,” you counter with a grin, although he has a point. You should have gone to see them sooner, but as always work got in the way, what with Deb doubling your workload before you take your leave in another two weeks. Jake jumps out of your arms then and so you get to hug your brother for the first time in what feels like forever, ‘“ Hi, Nate.”
“Hi, loser,” he says from somewhere over your shoulder, but the way he holds you tight tells you he’s missed you too. 
“How you holding up?”
“Good,” he pulls back and smiles, “still some headaches every now and then, but not as much as two months ago-”
“That’s good,” you agree. You follow them through the house and out into the backyard, where Jake excitedly shows you the inflatable swimming pool he and Nathan put up yesterday. Sitting down on one of the chairs you watch him as he takes off his shirt and jumps in without hesitation. 
Nathan re-emerges from the kitchen with some iced tea and hands you a glass before he sits down somewhere next to you. He flicks your upper arm, “You good?”
You nod, “Yeah.” 
“Truth?”
“Truth,” you reply with a nod. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “a lot has happened in a short time, I guess.” 
This is new, you think, this out-in-the-open caring side of your brother. You decide you like it and so you try not to make a smart remark but instead reassure him, “I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“Nate, what are you getting at?” You’re confused now, because why is he pressing this? 
He hangs his head and lets out a sigh, “I guess you haven’t seen it yet, have you?”
“I’m not-” you watch him as he gets his phone and pulls up something that has his jaw set in a way that tells you whatever it is, it’s not good. He hands you his phone then and you let out a quiet, “Oh,” when you see the pictures.
“I figured that’s why you were here,” he says with a nod towards his phone.
"When?"
"Saw them this morning," he offers.
You scroll further down and feel your throat go dry when you see picture after picture of Sebastian and some girl, her hand on his arm as she seems to whisper something in his ear. He’s laughing in some of the pictures and if you didn’t know any better you’d think they were on a date. 
“Is that his co-star?” Nate asks quietly, knowing that if it is the pictures could have been taken on set and it wouldn’t be as bad. 
Not trusting your voice right now you just shake your head because no. No, it isn’t. 
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“I’m sure it’s nothing, babe,” Lauren tries again, but she sounds a little less confident now that she’s seen the pictures and read the accompanying article about Sebastian’s new mystery woman where they claim she’s a Greek local he fell for while filming ‘Monday’.
You drove straight to her house when you left Nathan’s in a hurry, but only after you promised him you wouldn’t do anything reckless, and now you’re on her balcony, trying to make sense of all of this over some hard liquor because you both deemed wine wasn’t going to cut it. 
She says something else then, but you’re not really listening and so you just continue to stare into the distance. She nudges you with her foot, “Call him.” 
You shake your head, “I don’t want to.” 
“Why not?”
You look at her with tears in your eyes, your voice barely above a whisper, “What if it’s true?”
39 notes · View notes
moonandstars · 4 years
Text
Tainted Sorrow
Plot : You work in the mafia and Taeyong is the boss.You both suck at feelings.
words : 5.8k
warning : violence, mentions of death and blood, nothing graphic just mafia related stuff
details : inspired by Bungou Stray Dogs but this is stand alone and independent. knowing BSD is not required to read this.
A/N : just boss era Taeyong. Thats all.
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I
"I swear boss, it wasn't me. I would never betray you." The man said lying on floor, covered and drowned in his own blood, bruises covering his face and his body barely able to move.
You watch as Taeyong leans down and lands a punch of the man's face, sending him flying few steps back. Taeyong looks invincible as he walks ahead and stops, there's a red light glowing around his form, a thin red border covering his whole body as he stares at the man on the ground.
 Taeyong leans down again and places his leg on the man's head.
"If you want an end to your misery, I suggest you speak while you still can." Taeyong spoke calmly.
"I am sorry boss-" You are not even startled by listening to the sounds that come, having witness it countless time. The red glow of Taeyong swallow the man and his body forced downwards towards the ground, almost buried inside. Taeyong takes out his gun and shoots him three time in the chest. The man lies lifeless on the floor and Taeyong is walking back towards you.
 There's no words exchanged as you both walk outside the building and get into the car while everyone bows . This is the life in the mafia and this is the life of the city, where a few powerful organisations with people with gifted ability runs the city. The people who are gifted with an ability are few, but still their existence is known. There's no telling who out there might posses what kind of ability. One of those organisation happened to be the Mafia, run and controlled by the Mafia Boss, Lee Taeyong, a manipulator of gravity; an ability that allows him to manipulate the gravity of him and his surrounding; one of the most powerful ability to exist.
 "These shitty pawns are nothing but headache when lured." Taeyong mutters. And it's all good. The traitor is gone and an example is set for the others and they had the enemy's information.
 "You should wait out your violence until I am able to choke out all the information from them, I thought we were clear on that." You said as the car started.
"And I did."
 "By a few seconds-"
"You can't seriously expect me to wait killing him after he betrayed me."
"You just use violence and your power every time-"
"And you are just too damn smart for your own good. I appreciate your intelligence but sometimes tearing apart their limbs is more important." Taeyong said with a tone that implied that end of conversation.
 "Sure, whatever the boss says after all." You said with a sneer. It was a very common banter between you both, too common. It has been like that since you fought each other as mere kids, kids who were not normal, kids who have had far more blood on their hands than they could give account for. Ever since the day you both met, it has been countless bickering, competitions and the hunt for more successful missions, for you both combined were the mafia's most powerful weapon after all. But beneath those countless fights, lies a trust that neither of you will admit ; a trust that you place in each other that even in the most gruesome of situations, even at the cost of your own lives, you will save each other. 
You harbored more feelings for him than just that. It took a long while to admit those to yourselves. After all what even could you call those? Love? Love is for kids who exchange shy notes between classes, for normal people who look for company, for the youth that walks under the cherry blossoms with a smile on their lips and glitter in their eyes not for monster like you or Taeyong. You were kids who learned to use a knife before learning to write; who don't look for company but for blood; mafia leaders that have sin on their lips and death in their eyes.
  II
It was around midnight when you were done making a few important calls for the next mission. You were waiting for Taeyong in his office, which was just adjacent to yours on the highest floor of the mafia's long glass building that stood in the center of the city; also the tallest building in the city. Midnight was when the mafia works, everyone in the city was aware that the nights were run by the mafia and even the government could not interfere.There was a limited truce.
 You sighed and looked at glass window which covered the entire floor, the moon was bright and big, staring strongly back at you; asking you; pitying you. You were not strong enough to stare back so you looked at your reflection in the glass; a black jeans with black boots hugging your legs, a white shirt with a black bolo tie, sleeves rolled to your elbow, a black belt choker sitting on your neck; a gift from Taeyong; "It looks so beautiful on your neck." He had whispered in the night, words that only bloom under the moon, forgotten and left in the morning while both walk forward.
  Love is not for sinners.
A series of strong footsteps draws your attention towards the big wooden doors, behind those Taeyong appears, walking powerfully as he always does. He can fly as high as he can, defying the very nature of physics but when he walks; he makes his presence as loud as he can; strong.
  "It's so the world knows my existence, my power; so that I know I exist."
The black tiles crumble beneath him as he gracefully walks towards his grand table. His usual black attire, black pants and white shirt; a black blazer with a long black overcoat hanging on his shoulders, flowing behind him. His hands in black gloves. A black onyx bolo tie sitting proudly underneath his collar; a gift from you. "This compliments your aura."  His hair bright crimson, matching the blood on his face, that's definitely not his.
 "Admiring the beautiful moon tonight,__?" Taeyong spoke wiping the blood off his face.
"At least there's something worth admiring here." Taunts flowing from you like a second nature, something that only Taeyong brings out.
 "Admire away then, amusing to see your laziness doesn't stops you from that." 
You smile, hidden from him, what actually amusing is how riled Taeyong gets from small taunts, all the more reason to annoy him.
"Well shitty Boss, my lazy strategy plans saves your ass multiple times."
"Well fucker my ass can be saved just fine without your shitty plans." It's a lie, he knows it but nobody points it out. 
There's a knock at the door before before you can say something. Taeyong presses a button and the door opens, giving a sight of Yuta. He bows and makes his way inside, standing in front of Taeyong's desk. He gives a small bow again and looks up. He looks up ragged up, as if just came here from a fight, which he probably did. But still no signs of any injury, his purple hair a little disheveled but his black jeans and shirt still in place.
"Thirty six total deaths. Five of our own."  Yuta says and Taeyong lets out a soft sigh and a pained expression crosses his eyes, gone as soon as it came, at the mention of the death of our own. Deaths of mafia's men has always pained Taeyong more than he shows, as if even after sacrificing his humanity he is still the most human inside. 
"What is the result of their lives, Yuta san?" Taeyong asked.
"__'s predictions were right. The special ops department are planning to disrupt the deal tomorrow and most possibly launch an attack. The lead you told me to follow lead into their group today, they also have few gifted ones with them. They possibly have few spies in the company that's arriving tomorrow for the deal." Yuta  breathed. 
"Then the answer is clear. If they dare to interfere, the mafia will retaliate." Taeyong said lazily, but his eyes spoke sheer danger and revenge.
"The Black Lizard won't let you down." Yuta said, voice dancing with excitement, as if he wanted someone to dare just so he could get the chance to kill. Nakamoto Yuta, the commander of Black Lizard, a special unit under the Mafia which exist only for one reason, to annihilate the enemy. His gifted ability was what made his ways of killing even special, an ability to create illusions on his target, playing with their minds, allowing himself to dissociate them from their reality and kill them within their madness. For such a skilled assassin Yuta is, he can do the job just fine even without using his ability, but you wonder that he just likes to see his victim in pain and confusion while he toys with them.
 "I won't expect anything less." Taeyong spoke with a dismissive tone.
 Yuta sighed and looked up you and then at Taeyong. "Boss I am deeply sorry for the lives of our subordinates that were lost under my command." Yuta spoke, his eyes deep in grieve. 
A small smile ghosted over Taeyong lips as if he was expecting, waiting for Yuta's apology.
 "Yuta san, as long their deaths gives us a meaning, all is forgiven." 
 Yuta nodded and turned around walking towards the door from where he came, his shoulders a little less tense than they were before.
 "Yuta san." You voiced out. "Patch yourself up before the fight. It will be more uglier then." 
"I wish I could but my boss is very ruthless and demanding employee." Yuta said amusingly.
 "That I cannot deny." You spoke looking over to Taeyong, a small smile in your eyes.
"Give yourself a rest after the black caskets are out. We need all the power for tomorrow." Taeyong said annoyingly with affection. 
"Sometimes I forget you're such a nice person Taeyong!!" Yuta said teasingly and walked out.
 It is all good because it is Yuta, a member of mafia, a men of your own, a friend from the forgotten but longing years of childhood, a small kid who bumped into you and Taeyong and has always been here since then. If it was anyone else, any other mafia member, they would have knelt in front of Taeyong before even daring to look up; If it was anyone else, they would have shaken with fear, kept their eyes down; If it was not Yuta, even an informal breath would have resulted in something cruel and tragic.
III
You were still standing there, admiring the moon. Taeyong standing besides you, his presence bringing a familiar warmth towards you. An intimate silence broken by Taeyong.
 "The moon is beautiful tonight, isn't it?" He breathed, looking at you. An honest expression, at least as honest as he could muster, spread over his face. You smiled, treasuring this moment with all your heart.
 Moments like this which only existed in the darkness, in the quiet of night where the moonlight gave your vulnerable being a protection, a  shelter which covered your soul and made it more honest. A few more moments passed like this until you spoke again. 
"Do you wanna hear a plan?" 
"I was waiting for that." He smiled.
 "All the reports that you showed me, I am definite there will be a full attack on us." You started. " And they will bring out the ability users, although I am quite doubtful there will be more than two. The best moment of attack for them would be-"
 "In the middle of the deal." He completed. 
"They have the intel that the mafia boss would be there, probably from the traitor you killed before."
 "They are still no match for the mafia. We will proceed according your the plan." He said and sat on the table looking over the city while stood to his right, like always. 
You observed his face, eyes shimmering from the reflection, lashes casting a shadow on his cheeks; the moonlight shining on his face. You were busy in staring, forgetting he was looking back.
 "Now who's worth admiring?" He asked.
 "Well still not you fucker." A weak jab.
"Stop thinking about tomorrow." He said, rubbing a thumb over your forehead.
 "Can't help it."
"None of their armed men compares to ours and as far as the ability users are concerned, we have you." He spoke.
 He was right. Ability users had no effect on you due to your own ability. Your gift was a disabling ability, an ability that allows you to nullify any other ability with just a simple touch on their skin. Some say it's a useless ability, Taeyong says it's the mafia's ace. You already knew who to believe.
 "You're an ability user too. I could disable your power and get rid of you too."
 "You could and you should. But you won't." Taeyong mused.
 Your ability takes away the ability of others, makes them vulnerable, takes away a part of themselves that makes them special. It's easy to defeat them because they are so dependent on their abilities, they don't know what else to do. Taeyong is not a slave to his ability. His ability does not define him. Even if it is taken away from him, he's still Lee Taeyong. The man who rules the mafia, the man who kills his enemies mercilessly; the man who makes you feel human in the most inhuman ways. 
As you watch him leaning against your shoulder, you can't help but think about what is he to you. You don't often, because it is so tiring to think about the same thing again and again and yet not being able to reach a conclusion. A friend, you both have never used that word, too busy bickering and silly fighting with each other to use the word friends. A lover, that word always stung too deep within you. A word too pure, too beautiful, too normal for someone like you. Lovers cannot define the complex relationship you had with Taeyong. Countless nights of sex, tangled with each other, whispering softly all the things in the night that vanish in the daylight, small gifts hidden somewhere, birthdays celebrated in the company of each other, a silent respect, a strong trust and a hard and sharp instinct of protecting each other at any cost. It was clear that you both were exclusive to each other but nobody ever said that it was a relationship. And love was never on either of yours tongue ever.
  Love is for humans. What are you?
You discarded the idea of love a long time ago. You don't know when you fell in love with Taeyong, at fifteen perhaps when you both met or at sixteen when you both became mafia's strongest weapon or maybe at seventeen when you both secretly bought a safe house together, or might be at eighteen when you both were mafia's youngest executives. You don't know. You didn't need to know. A partner, that has always been more intimate to you than anything else. You both were partners as soon as you joined the mafia, a string of successful missions beside your names. You could jump in front of bullets knowing Taeyong would stop them. Maybe a partner was the best word to describe what he was to you.
"You know it's like I can still hear his voices in this office." Taeyong whispered. You tensed, you knew exactly who he meant. A ghost of the past that still haunts you.
"It's like he's angry that I am in his office, in his place." Taeyong continues.
 "Taeyong." You tried.
"He just looks at me like he always did with those fucked up eyes and his ugly smile-"
"Taeyong, there's no one here."
"And he keeps asking why I stabbed him that night but he knows, right, he knows why."
"Taeyong" You said lifting his head. "He's not here. He's dead. You're the boss now." 
"He keeps whispering in my ear that how am I monster, like he told me-"
"Taeyong! You're not a monster. The old boss is dead, for good. He's gone forever." You said sternly, holding his face.
 No matter how many people Taeyong has killed, the only soul that has bothered him was of the mafia's previous boss. A crafty man of great power, who brought you all into the mafia world, who taught you how to perfectly slit a throat, how to manipulate someone to the core; he taught, made you into a perfect weapon, a tool. The hatred for that man runs deep in your skin, even deeper for Taeyong since he was always the target of boss's puzzles. This will make you even more stronger, He used to say, while watching you get tortured by enemies in return for obtaining information. Until one day he went too far, that day he died by the hands of Taeyong, while you stood and watched serving as a witness as his position for the next mafia boss. 
"He told me he saw himself in me. What does that says about me? "
"Taeyong. We are not going to believe his words." You spoke taking his hand. "You want to go home?"
"Always."
A place to live for you both was the pent house in the mafia's building, just a floor below the office, provided with every luxury that a man could imagine. Home was an apartment in the city, a place that used to serve a secret safe house for you both, but now it's where the peace resided and where the words come out and bloom and where you feel a little human with Taeyong.
  IV
You stepped out of the car with Taeyong at the extraction point, a few steps far away from where the dealing was supposed to take place at a warehouse. You were waiting for the latest information before proceeding any further. You watched as Taeyong in his usual mafia attire, dragged a puff from his cigarette looking up the sky, a cloudy night with no moon or stars in sight. He throws the half smoked cigarette down and crushes it, turning towards you.
 "The moon looks beautiful tonight."
"It's a foggy night Taeyong, we can't even see the moon."
"I can."
 "Taeyong-"
"BOSS!" Yuta comes walking from the shadows of trees, looking around quickly and bowing to Taeyong.
 "What's the news?" Taeyong spoke calmly. 
"They will launch an attack. It's given." Taeyong looked at you while he listened to Yuta. "They have men around the warehouse at a distance. Of course, our men have them covered. There are two gifted, we have eyes on one, his ability is related to controlling the wind around him. I will be able to take him down."
"And the other?" You asked, looking at Yuta's expression darkened. 
"We don't know. He controls his size. That's all I could gather. How much threat he holds is still questionable." 
"He must be an ace considering how secretly his power has been kept." You thought.
 "For the special ops to be so brave with launching an open attack like this on us. I just pity for their lives." Taeyong said.
 "Boss I don't think we should underestimate them." 
"Are you doubting your skills Yuta san?" Taeyong said darkly.
"You know that's not what I meant Taeyong." Yuta spoke quietly. The driver of the car looked at Yuta in horror, wondering how the death will come to Yuta. It was probably his first time watching someone talk to Taeyong like that besides you. 
"This is why you were told to patch yourself up. Don't let these morons get to you. This is nothing for the mafia." Taeyong spoke with a commanding voice, but you could hear the underlying softness, a little consolation, a little advise.
Yuta nodded and gave out the position details before disappearing  in the shadows again. 
"He was not wrong. It's never safe to walk into an unknown enemy, an ability user for that." You spoke as you and Taeyong walked towards the warehouse.
"I know." Taeyong said simply.
 It was in the middle of deal, just after exchanging the goods, you heard a loud noise outside. Just as you expected. A message from yuta ten minutes said that he had the first gifted under his control and the second one was heading your way.
 "What was that?" The other businessman said.
 "Absolutely nothing of your concern. Our deal has been done and the official papers will be send to you." Taeyong said getting up.
 "But what-"
"Also If I were you, I would pay more attention to what my subordinates are up to." Taeyong spoke with a glint in his eyes, a warm and powerful desire, an excitement of some action awaiting him. 
Outside you saw at least fifty men, all of them armed, in front of the warehouse. A tall man stood in the middle leading the rest. It was just you and Taeyong against them. 
"Well partner, let's just get on with it." Taeyong said, activating his ability, a bright red hue glowing around him. You take out your gun. Even though your ability was not an attack one, you were the best fighter in the mafia. It was lasted probably twenty minutes when all of them were in the ground. A few grunts were heard from the ground, a few ones who were just minutes away from their dead. You thought about shooting them again, and again until you could end their painful suffering soon and for once. It would be better to just accept death rather than lying in the cold mud, drowning in their blood. You were about to about pick up your gun again when you saw an unusual movement from the middle of the ground.
"Taeyong!" You shouted, while pointing the gun and shooting at the person of movement but it was useless. The movement continued and as you squinted, you saw the form getting bigger and bigger, like a giant. 
"__, what the hell is that?" Taeyong said beside you.
 "The ability user." You spoke as you saw the enemy grow as tall as trees surrounding you, various roots covering him, as if he was using them to grow his form. You had to get close to him and touch him, to nullify his ability and return to his normal form, otherwise he could keep causing destruction for you. 
"Step back,__." 
"Huh, Taeyong?" 
"It's not safe to go close." He said looking at the enemy, fist clenched
."We have to try it." You said going towards the growing structure, but every time you got too close he could try to kick or stomp really hard, and that flow would throw you backwards with a force. His defense was not allowing you to go close to him, let alone touch him. You tried one more time and this time too, you were thrown back.
"__." Taeyong called running towards you. "You okay?"
 "He knows our abilities." You said standing up again. "That's why he laid back when you were attacking, that's why he won't let me come close." 
"That traitor snitched everything, but we have to stop him anyhow." 
"There's only one way left, but it's your choice Taeyong." You sighed.
"Every time you say that, it's not like I have a choice anyways." Taeyong said, walking ahead a little, and started pulling his gloves out; a finger at a time until both the gloves were thrown aside.
 "If I am late to touch you, you know what will happen right?"
 "But you won't be." He said, looking back at you, eyes intense. "Or I'll kick your ass."
 Taeyong walked ahead towards the enemy, a red glow, brighter than ever before started surrounding him. Red marks started decorating his skin, his hands, his face; his coat flew aside. You could feel the gravity shifting around the whole area, the center being Taeyong. He was activating his corruption. Simply controlling objects through their gravity was only the front of Taeyong's ability, that he could use in his full control. Corruption was something else though, something more uncontrollable and devastating to the city, to Taeyong himself. Activating corruption allowed Taeyong to control gravity of a larger area and create black holes with his power that swallows everything that comes it's way and destroys it. He could control gravity to a particle level. After all, he is called the manipulator of gravity. This part of his abilitywas only known to a handful of mafia members and you're the only one who has ever witnessed it. The downside of it was that, Taeyong could activate his corruption at his own will but once it was activated, his mind goes blank and he is not in control anymore. He becomes a destructing machine and keeps destroying every thing that comes his way, until he runs out of his energy and dies.
 The only was to stop this was your ability, to touch Taeyong and nullify corruption as soon as he defeats the enemy. You watched as corruption took over Taeyong and he annihilated the the giant enemy in the span of few minutes. You ran over to him before he could any more damage to the surrounding, to himself. You grabbed his hand and watched as his ability became null, the red glow leaving his posture, the red marks disappearing from his skin, as if they never existed in the first place. He fell down on his knees and coughed blood, a normal occurrence after using corruption. You held him. A wave of relief passes over you seeing that Taeyong is safe. It has always been your fear, that you'll be late, that you will break the trust; that you will lose Taeyong.
 "Take rest Taeyong, the enemy is defeated." 
"You stopped me right after?" He asked, coughing.
"I was about to, but you looked such a red dork like that."
 "Fuck, you better take me home right--" He said while coughing and falling onto you. 
Thankfully grabbed him at the right time."Rest now."
 "__."
"Taeyong-"
"__, the moon--"
 "I know. I know. The moons looks beautiful tonight right?" You spoke as you looked up to the sky, the clouds were cleared away; countless stars scattered, dancing across the black canvas but the moon still was shying away somewhere. You could never understood what Taeyong talked about sometimes, you did not needed to anyways.
  VI
You lay on the bed next to Taeyong, bodies tired from the fight before. All the fresh wounds covered in bandages. You were a little better than Taeyong, using corruption leaves him tired for a lot of hours. But a fight was won and the boss could use a little rest. You heard some noise as you watched Taeyong turn around in the sheets and settled on his back. 
"You should rest properly shitty boss." You spoke.
"Aww is that concern __?" 
"No that's a headache because I am the one that has to take your tantrums." 
"Well that's--" Taeyong hissed clutching his side. You rose up quickly and helped him sit. 
"See, that's why I told you to rest. How's the pain?" You asked, checking the ribs.
"Nothing much. It's the usual one."
 "Are you lying to me?"
 "Come on partner, don't you trust me?" He asked, a smirk plastered over his face. You just huff and sit beside him on the bed, in front of the large window that looks over the sky and  city underneath it. A calm and comfortable silence follows over both of you. You look over at Taeyong. He looks pretty healthy, apart from corruption side effects, there's not any major physical injury. Even the violence in your life has become a second nature, it still does not sit well with you that every fight you go into, could potentially be yours or Taeyong's last fight. You hoped it was yours because you did not knew what to do without the man next you. It  could be your years long partnership that makes you so co dependent, nothing else and not certainly love. Love is for people with a heart, not for you who just killed hundreds of men without blinking not just few hours ago.
 "What thoughts are interesting enough to keep you invested?" Taeyong asked, still looking ahead.
 "I just forgot how beautiful and calm the moonlight feels." You whispered.
"I think we spend too much time looking at the darkness instead."
"We are the mafia Taeyong, even the blood is black. Darkness is where the mafia exist." You spoke looking at your hands, little cuts and scraps littered across.
 "No."
"You don't agree?"
"More like, we exist in the stars, in the air, among the wind, under the moonlight. I believe that's where you and I exist together." 
"Since when did you started thinking like that? But I understand, you always had more human thoughts than me. "
 "I don't know. It just swiped by, I- don't mind, corruption really tires me a lot." He spoke smiling softly. 
"Come on now, you never talk to me about this."
"It's not like I need to speak for you to understand." And it's true. He does not need to tell you about his fears. But still when it came to corruption, you had your own fears; or just single fear, that is losing Taeyong. You bear the burden of saving him and not being able to do so, was the single most terrifying thing for you. You always wondered how Taeyong felt during that time. But he refused to talk about all of this, specially since he killed the boss. Its ironic, before the death of boss you were the one who was closed off and reserved but now that you want to get close, it's Taeyong who seems lost. It's like the burden is too much, even for someone as invisible as me.
  "Easy there, might sound like we actually like each other." You tried to joke around, tried to change the heaviness in the only way you knew but it did not had any affect on Taeyong. He was still looking at you with a soft smile; a smile that made you believe in your humanity, a smile that made you dead heart shake, a smile that made you fall in love.
"I think you do, otherwise you won't run to save me every time."
 "I don't want to burden myself with being a boss, that's why."
"You would be a better option than me." Taeyong spoke, so many  emotions swinging in his eyes. You could pick each and every one of them apart, but then again, that's what you always did. Sometimes you wished Taeyong would tell you, explain to you rather than just leaving you with these unspoken feelings.
"I-it's- I would not be. You know that. Besides that's not the point."
 "Then what is the point?"
 "It's just that you don't have to be so closed off you know. We're partners after all." You said, still trying to maintain the conversation because this is your safe space, a place you and Taeyong call home, if there's any solace in existence, it's right here at this very place.
"I just said you will make a better boss. Someone who can lead an organisation."
 "I am not someone who can sacrifice myself for the mafia like you. I don't need an end like that."
"It's not sacrificing myself if I know you will save me in time. I know I am not going to die."
 "You can't be sure of that." You said letting the words hang in the air between you two. 
"Is that your fear?" Taeyong spoke after a while, voice little shaky. Not used to honest conversations. 
"I-Taeyong it's pointless to fear death in the mafia. Either yours or mine. I came to peace with that a long time ago. I believe that death is not opposite of living, it's merely a component in our process of lives."
"Then?"
 "If you die some other way, there's always an explanation for that. But if you die using corruption, it's me, that I was too late. I will be the one with your blood on my hands. Your death will be my fault, it'll be on my conscience. I know I won't be able to live with that, I can't survive knowing that I was the reason for you death, that I-" You took a deep breath "that I broke our trust."
 "Even if that happens, I am sure there will a reason for you being unable to save me."
 "Is it not your fear? You're the one who'll be dying."
"Like you said, a mafia blood should not fear death. Besides I don't think there's any such time when one should chicken out, specially a boss." Taeyong said in a low tone, he was looking ahead in the sky but his eyes seems so blurry and lost. You sighed, the conversation looked like it was over, until Taeyong spoke again.
"The fear, if that word can dare to come close to what I feel, is not simply dying. It's a possibility that every time I use corruption, it might be the last time I see you. Even when I have lost control, mind black and body in red, I know in my heart that you will come. But if something happens to you while I am out, I won't be able to do anything." Taeyong smiled, a sorrowful one, the same smile that laced his face when he came back after killing the boss. But the mourning was not for the one who died. "That is my fear."
The fear of losing you, the fear of not protecting you.
You knew he has always been protective of you, an instinct that came as soon as you met. Something blossomed inside your heart, like a flower that was showing it's petals, so soft and sweet. The fear that was unspoken till now, was something you both shared. The fear of losing each other, the fear of not being able to protect each other; a feeling of not being able to survive without each other. Maybe you both were not human, and maybe love was not for you but that is not what you needed anymore. Love was not beautiful enough to define what you both felt for each other, and there was no need to define those unspoken feelings. As long as I have you here, right with me, I could survive anything. He was not your lover, but he was your partner. Love was not for you, but Taeyong was.  And somehow, that was enough.
He turned his eyes away from window and looked at you. Sorrowfulness replaced with softness, Eyes crinkled and small smile dancing on his face, red hair falling unevenly, the stars in the sky, the smell of rain, the sound of his breath when he spoke.
"The moon is beautiful tonight, isn't it?" 
----
The moon is beautiful tonight, isn’t is? = I love you. By Natsume Soeseki
At the time, Japanese people were more reserved than they are at present day. They hesitated to express feelings of love directly. I, for one, like this expression 月が綺麗ですね | tsuki ga kirei desune (the moon is beautiful, isn’t is?) -- it sounds literary and intelligent.
This phrase was used by Natsume Soseki as a form of saying “I love you”. For the writer, two people with deep feelings for each other do not need to use those three words to effectively convey their feelings. Sometimes, even the simplest phrases contain more emotion than direct ones.
----
if  you guys don’t know about bungou stray dogs idk what is up with you. it’s one of best anime’s out there, like i still don’t have feels for anything else like i did for this. Please watch it & you’ll love it even more if you like literature because every character is based on real life author. Just watch it pls :))
anyways y’all if you watched/read Bungou stray dogs you probably realized that taeyong= chuuya & you = dazai ( bc daichuu <3). 
ALSO PLS SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS IF U HATE IT, DISLIKE IT, LIKE IT, LOVE IT, JUST PLS SEND IN ASK OR TEXTS OR COMMENTS. IT’S A SIDE BLOG SO I CAN;T REPLY PERSONALLY BUT PLS GIVE ME FEEDBACK.
EDIT : ALSO WHAT DO YOU GUYS SAY ABOUT A PREQUEL WHERE I TELL YOU HOW THEY MEET AND THE BOSS’S DEATH AND TY BECOMES THE BOSS?
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yandere-daydreams · 4 years
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Kinktober: Day Twenty-Six
Prompt: Gun-Play
Pairing: Dazai/Reader
TW: Semi-Public Sex, Non-Consensual Touching, Implied Kidnapping, and Mentions of Violence.
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Briefly, you wondered how long it’d been since he’d washed his gun.
It was hard to think of anything else beyond the Desert-Eagle shoved halfway down your throat, its barrel threatening to choke you, a task that would’ve been easier had Dazai been a little more determined to work the trigger-guard past your teeth. His hold on the grip was loose, the thought that he’d forgotten to turn on the safety only crossing your mind as blunt nails tapped impatiently against the trigger, your captor suddenly seemingly bored with keeping his hostage tied up and quiet.
It made sense, you supposed. Someone must’ve heard your earlier screaming, as police were already swarming the warehouse district by the time he’d come to retrieve the person he’d left bound in an abandoned shipping facility. You’d been too sedated to struggle, and you weren’t much better off now, if you were being honest with yourself, your head still spinning and hazy, sprinting and standing still at the same time. Concentration came in short, fleeting moments, even your base survival instincts dulled to the point of nonexistence, and your sense given the same treatment.
At least you couldn’t taste the metal. It couldn’t have been very pleasant.
“(Y/n), are you listening to me?” He asked, whispering just loudly for you to hear. You gave a small sound of acknowledgment, and he pulled you a little closer, his chest pushing into your back. He’d pulled you into the tiniest supply closet when he noticed there might be trouble, something you hadn’t cared about until you realized how close the two of you would have to be. “I’m going to take this out, now.” He let the muzzle scrap against the roof of your mouth for emphasis. “Make a sound and I’ll do something much worse than shutting you up.”
He pulled away, and obediently, you kept your mouth closed, leaning against him and trying to sort through your muddled environment. Dazai took the opportunity to nuzzle against your shoulder, his arm still wrapped around your waist as his free hand toyed with his weapon, cold metal soon tracing your collar bone. It must’ve been fired recently. You could feel the heat radiating off of it, like this. “You’ve caused a lot of problems for me, y’know? First you put up such a fight when I take you away from that shitty apartment, then you attract so much attention when I come to get you.” He paused, long fingers fiddling with the first button of your shirt, loosening it and allowing his gun to continue its path down your chest. “You’re energetic today, aren’t you?”
“You’re fucking crazy.” You say it without thinking, confusion turning into a pounding, painful headache. “I wish someone would just take a knife to your throat and end whatever creepy, perverted life led you to this.”
“Don’t we all?” He sighed, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He took a moment, kissing your shoulder, the muzzle grazing over your skin until it found its place at your chin, pushing into your jaw harshly, without a hint of respite in sight. “We’re going to have quite a bit of time in here, because of you. If everything’d gone the way I planned, we’d be home, and you’d be wearing the collar I know you’ll look so pretty in.”
You opened your mouth, ready to say something illogical and disconnected, but before you could speak, the magazine was pressed against your tongue, Dazai’s hilt keeping your mouth open as the lips against your neck grew a little more toothy.
“I think this would be a good time to teach you your first lesson,” He mumbled, biting at your ear, roughly enough to draw blood. “Just try not to be too loud, alright? I’m sure you wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to everyone outside, if we got caught.”
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Text
I Want You Here With Me (Is It Too Much to Ask for Something Great) ch. 10
Title:  I Want You Here With Me (Is It Too Much to Ask for Something Great) ch. 10 of 14 (ch. 1) Pairing: Isak Valtersen/Even Bech Næsheim Word count: 23.713  Warnings: Language, internalized homophobia, mental illness, panic attacks & anxiety, the press, very vaguely referenced past suicide attempt
AO3
Summary:  The one where it’s been two years since Isak last saw or spoke with Even, and no one knows that Isak ever knew Even at all
Present
Isak spends the entire morning on the phone.
He makes the mistake of picking up the phone when Sonja had called – he doesn’t even know how she would’ve gotten his number, but it had been her, Isak recognized her voice. Ever since then, she’s been calling, or numbers Isak’s checked belong to the rest of Even’s team have called.
Maybe it’s shitty of him not to pick up, but once he’d assured Sonja that Even wasn’t injured – no comment if he was with him or well or anything – she’d started talking business, which, Isak can’t.
He tries to take care of his own business afterwards. He can skip lectures no problem, Sana will lend him her notes, he knows, but there’s lab work and group work that he can’t just stay away from. Study-buddy sessions with Sana can be rescheduled, but some of the other things are time sensitive, and working it out leaves him more exhausted than he’s felt since Even showed up at his front door, dreary and exhausted himself, and about to crash so hard he’s barely moved 16 hours later.
Isak had managed to doze off for a few hours in that time span, propped up in his desk chair because getting into bed with Even when everything was so messed up hadn’t seemed like a good idea. Hadn’t seemed like a fair thing to do – not to Even, but also not to Isak – lying next to him like that, as if their lives aren’t a fucking mess, like they’re still kids who don’t know any better, who life hasn’t fucked over.
He’s probably reading too much into it, knows he is. The first thing Even had done once Isak had said he could stay was, after all, to stumble against Isak and curl himself around him, a solid weight and like he’d never left.
Isak can’t remember the last time he’d hugged Even. That’s a… a something. A thought that actually scares him a bit, makes him feel like he’s taken a punch to the stomach.
It had been everything it had always been, though, even after all those years. Even was bigger, had somehow managed to grow even taller than he’d been back… back then, but so has Isak, so it evens out. Isak had still been able to comfortably fit his head underneath Even’s chin, had had to stand on his tippy toes to wrap his arms all the way around Even’s shoulders, to hold him so tightly they’d end up fusing together if they didn’t let go.
He’d gotten Even into his bed, Even falling asleep almost instantly, far more drained than he’d looked, which was a feat in itself. Isak had spent the next hours ignoring the boys’ increasingly worried looks and attempts of concerned comfort and had just stared at Even in his bed instead.
Whenever Isak has seen him on screen – the only access to Even he’s had for two years, barring the two accidental meet-ups – Even had been the same way as Isak had remembered him to be; larger than life, so charming and so magnetic and positively mesmerizing with his words and visions.
Even looks small now, covered up to his nose with Isak’s bed sheets, curled up and with dark purple bags underneath his eyes.
He’d left the room at the first buzz of his phone, then it hadn’t stopped buzzing since and Isak had stayed in the kitchen, finally slumping down on one of the chairs and given up looking at his phone.
“Hey,” Jonas says quietly, knocking against the doorframe to warn Isak of his presence. Isak still startles. “How are you?”
Isak snorts, goes back to staring at his phone placed on the kitchen table, wrong side up just so he wouldn’t have to see the numbers of people he can’t talk to right now.
Jonas doesn’t try to dig an answer out of him. Probably winces at his choice of words if Isak knows him well enough.
Isak doesn’t know how he is. He wants to cry, but not really. He mainly just feels numb.
“How long have you been up for?” Jonas moves towards the coffee machine, careful to keep his eyes on Isak.
Isak doesn’t know. He won’t be surprised if more time has managed to pass than he thinks has. He doesn’t want to check the time on his phone because he doesn’t want to check his phone, and he can’t work it out with the lack of exhaustion from the wired tension that refuses to leave him.
So he shrugs, keeps his gaze on the table. They should be more careful to clean it – there are several stains from spilled beer and sodas and condensation from bottles.
The stains are making him antsier than he already is, so Isak goes back to staring at the backside of his phone.
He doesn’t know how long he can get away with not going to school. He definitely needs to call some of his professors to ask for an extension, if he at this rate even gets close to getting started on his schoolwork.
It’s funny, Isak notes without any humor whatsoever. For so long, Even had been the most important thing to him, had been what he was most proud of, and then when Even had left and Isak had gotten his head out of his ass with Jonas’ help, he’d fixated on his studies, on getting his degree. Almost as a pseudo-replacement – he couldn’t get Even, but he could definitely get a degree.
Now Even’s back and Isak’s practically letting his degree fly out the window. Well, that’s probably an exaggeration, but if he continues at this rate, or if this temporary break has to turn into a longer term dropout, then he’s lucky if he’ll even get to re-sit his exams next summer.
“How is…” Jonas stirs a spoon in his cup of coffee despite not having poured the water in yet. “How is Even?”
The sound of Even’s name in Jonas’ mouth is… weird.
It’s not like Jonas hasn’t said Even’s name before, but it’s usually been Even Bech Næsheim and he’d been referring to him as this distant figure, famous for his movies and Magnus’ obsession, not as an actual person, definitely not as a physical being currently in his home, sleeping in his roommate’s bed.
Isak supposes that’s another thing he’ll have to get used to. He’ll have to get used to people talking about Even around him, and he’ll have to get used to people knowing he knows Even, and he’ll have to get used to people knowing.
“Asleep.”
Even hadn’t stirred in the couple hours Isak had managed to pass out. He should probably get him to drink something soon; maybe get some food in him if he can take it.
Jonas nods. “That’s good. He looked tired.”
“Yeah.”
Tired after the mania. Tired after running around naked at an internationally famous, televised award show. Tired in general.
Isak sure as hell is tired.
Jonas keeps stirring the spoon. The water finishes boiling, but he doesn’t add it. Isak doesn’t move either. Just sits there and stares like an actual idiot.
“Listen, man,” Jonas draws it out, enough that Isak tenses in his seat. “I’m sorry about last night, about just shouting like that. It wasn’t cool, and it wasn’t alright for me to do that to you.”
Last night feels like years have passed since, everything that happened before Even showing up at the door seems like eons ago, Isak can barely remember all the things Jonas had said through the haze and deliria of finding out Even was having an episode, and then Even being there, and then Even being there, and then having to help Even.
He doesn’t know how to tell Jonas that, though, so he just shrugs. “It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.”
Jonas scoffs, but he mostly just sounds tired, not angry. “It does, it really does. I just wanted you to know I shouldn’t have done it, and that I would change it if I could.”
I would change it if I could. How many times hasn’t Isak thought that exact sentence when he’d thought back on past choices and a life that seemed like it happened to someone else, another Isak in a different universe that this Isak got a glimpse into the life of.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says instead. Considers telling Jonas he can make up for it by buying him a beer next night out, but he really isn’t in the mood for a drink and he can’t imagine going out for the next very, very, very long while.
“Do you need to call the university?”
Another shrug. Isak thinks of his professors, of Sana, of the administration, the list of people growing longer and longer until he’s dizzy and a bit nauseous. “Probably.”
Jonas finally adds the water then goes back to stirring. The scent of coffee fills the room, Isak can’t tell if it’s helping to alleviate his growing headache, or if it’s just making it worse.
“You can tell us, you know, if you need help. Or just – anything.”
Isak stares harder at his phone. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. If he starts crying now, he doesn’t know when or if he’ll stop.
“Yeah!” Magnus says, too loudly, startling Isak, from the doorway as he strides across the kitchen, getting a glass of water. “You need to personally hand in that essay today, don’t you? We can hang around until you get back. He’ll probably be asleep for a while longer, but we could make some breakfast for him.”
Isak blinks at Magnus. Then blinks again.
Jonas frowns as well. “He’s already been asleep for, like, more than 12 hours – how much –“
“Dude,” Magnus interrupts, scrunching up his nose at Jonas. “If you had spent the last, probably, week on a high like that, your body would be begging for some sleep, too.”
Isak blinks. How did he –
Jonas frowns even harder, his eyebrows fully curled in now. “High – what, are you telling me that was a drug-induced stunt?” Jonas switches between looking incredulously at Magnus and then over to Isak, like Isak’s in a position to confirm whether or not Hollywood’s worst reputation is true. Isak just blinks.
“The fuck, how did you know?”
Now Magnus is the one who blinks owlishly at Isak. “It’s… obvious?”
Isak nods towards Jonas. “It clearly isn’t.”
Magnus just keeps looking confused. “My mom is bipolar. Did you not know that?”
Isak did not know that, thank you very much, Magnus. He’s met the woman, sure, but not during an episode, and Magnus has never said a goddamn word about it, that’s for certain.
“Bipolar?” Jonas asks, not specifying to whom, but he’s ignored nonetheless.
“No,” Isak bites, huddling himself further down in his chair, “I didn’t.”
Magnus just blinks again. “Huh. I really thought I told you guys.”
Isak doesn’t bother shaking his head. It’s not like it matters now, anyway.
“Oh, then I’ve got to tell you about this one time she got pissed with the NSB, and so she found out who the regional director was and sent in a resignation letter in his name. It was fucking hilarious. All it said was, like: ‘I give up, I can’t work here anymore. Goodbye.’”
The dissonance between Magnus laughing and Isak just so out of it with how little control he has in his life is too great for Isak to wrap his head around.
Jonas is nodding along with Magnus’ story, but his eyes are wide and Isak can tell it’s all a little too much for him as well.
“Did Even ever do anything wild?” Magnus asks before he can help himself.
Isak flinches, doesn’t think of long, confused nights with Even switching between twenty scripts or hyper-focusing on one, where he’d have Isak lie in a pose for several hours because of the inspiration it gave Even, doesn’t think of Even painting an entire mural, doesn’t think of a lot of things.
He does think about Even running around naked at an award show, and what that could possibly do to his career. Like, end it, for one.
“No, nothing like that,” he says instead. During the admittedly short period of time where Even’s medication hadn’t been worked out, leaving him with only smaller episodes, he’d only ever really fixated on his work or on Isak. He hadn’t done something like Magnus’ mom with NSB, hadn’t really done anything that could be considered ‘funny’ in someone else’s eyes.
Magnus looks at him for a beat too long, Isak doesn’t like the way it feels like it goes through him, then opens his mouth to say something when Mahdi interrupts.
“Are the curtains still up?” Mahdi asks, stumbling over his joggers and looking sleep-rumbled. “The circus is back in town.”
“Shit, seriously?” Jonas moves towards the window to pull Mahdi’s sheet more securely over the corner. “What the fuck, man.”
There’s a small scratch near the bottom of his phone where he’d scratched it with the phone charger. Don’t fucking cry.
“Are the curtains drawn in your room?” Mahdi asks. Isak doesn’t even realize he’s talking to him before he asks, “Isak? Are the curtains drawn in your room?”
They are, Isak remembers they are, because he’d barely been able to see Even when he’d left to answer the phone, but also because he knows he hasn’t opened them since the certificate was exposed in the article.
He doesn’t know how to answer, though. Don’t cry.
“Hey.”
He feels a hand squeezing his shoulder. Magnus, Isak sees, when he looks up and sees Magnus’ blue eyes and a smile plastered on his face even as it looks like it takes a lot of effort.
Magnus squeezes his shoulder again. “Let’s make some breakfast, yeah?”
Isak doubts Even will actually eat it, but if he stares at his phone for one more second he’ll go insane, so he gets up and lets Magnus guide him through the kitchen, mindlessly going through the motions of making a cup of tea, some toast, and a glass of water.
Isak remembers the way Even used to take his tea – just like his coffee, with lots of sugar, enough to cause a heart attack as Isak would constantly remind him whilst Even laughed and made him taste some as well – which is something that leaves him frozen mid-motion before Magnus gets him going again. It’s such a small, insignificant detail to remember, and Isak can’t tell if he only remembers because seeing Even is triggering a lot of repressed memories or if he would’ve been able to recall that piece of information anyway.
Even is still asleep when he walks into his bedroom, still looking as small and exhausted from what Isak can see, which isn’t a lot in the darkness.
He still hasn’t moved since when Isak left, but he does when Isak takes a deep breath to brace himself and carefully makes sure to step on the floorboard that creaks piercingly.
“Morning,” Isak says cheerfully. He hopes it doesn’t come across as fake as it feels, as it sounds to his own ears.
Then again, he doubts Even particularly cares right now. He isn’t up to answering, either way, and the quiet feels stifling.
“I made toast,” Isak continues instead. He wants to walk over to his window and draw the curtains, let some light and air into the room, but he doesn’t know what it’s like out there right now, so he doesn’t. “Magnus made you a cup of tea. There’s also cereal if you’d rather. I would’ve made you eggs, but –“
He lets it hang in the air how Even was always the one who cooked the eggs because his turn out perfect and Isak’s turn out either overcooked or runny, no in-between. He doesn’t feel ready to bring up something so mundane about their past, not yet, anyway. It’s too early, still feels too much like ripping off a band-aid too quickly, so you know you rip off the scar tissue as well.
“I want to sleep,” Even mumbles, mostly muffled by the pillow and duvet.
Isak stills, has to take in a controlled breath in order to not let his emotions get the best of him.
It was never like it was only the good moments, the fond memories he had of Even that hurt to think about, it was all of them. Seeing Even like this again, it’s – It’s a little too much a lot too soon, if Isak’s honest with himself.
“Alright.” He’s proud of himself the way he sounds – not calm, necessarily, but not angry or put off with Even’s lack of want to participate in conversation. “Have a sip of water, then, before you do that.”
It would be best if he could get him to eat, just a few bites of the toast or something. There’s still time, though, before he has to leave, and if Even doesn’t wake up before then Mahdi doesn’t have class until this afternoon and no other obligations before that.
If he even ends up going, that is. It’ll probably be just as bad as when the article first got published – Isak doesn’t think he’ll be able to handle that, all those journalists yelling at him and photographers snapping pictures at his tired face.
Even’s hair flops down over his forehead, a few strands still clinging on to the meticulous style Even’s notorious for at this point. He looks soft and tired and so fucking exhausted in general. Isak doubts he looks better himself.
He really wants another hug from Even right now.
“Get some more sleep,” he whispers, daring to brush his fingers through Even’s hair, just once. It’s a little tacky from stale product, but it’s still soft and it’s still Even.
Even doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t do anything about it either. Just burrows down under the duvet again and closes his eyes.
Isak can’t tell if he’s already fallen asleep or not, so he gets off the bed carefully and tries to gather his laptop, his charger, and a few books to finish the essay he needs to hand in today.
Considering the circumstances, he probably wouldn’t have bothered. Would’ve spent the day watching Netflix and attempting to fall asleep before trying to get some more food in Even, but this assignment is worth twenty percent of his final grade, and his professor is infamous for not handing out extensions, and getting the administration involved would take too long and be too difficult a process when Isak isn’t the one who’s ill. Doing the damn assignment is easier than not handing it in and trying to rectify it afterwards.
He still is actively trying not to flunk out of university, Isak reminds himself when he sits down on the couch, as doing homework is actually one of the last things he wants to be doing right now. The words dance around on the page for a few minutes, which is a sign Isak probably needs sleeps more badly than he’d thought he did, but he can feel he won’t be able to fall asleep were he to try now.
So he opens his document instead – only about 60% of the required amount of words done – and hopes determination will overpower sheer exhaustion.
Sleep is the cousin of death, he remembers Even saying sometimes when his mind wouldn’t let him sleep.
Isak definitely feels more dead than alive right now, that’s for damn certain.
OOOOO
“Hey,” Isak whispers, shaking Even gently by his shoulder until he opens his eyes.
He looks even more exhausted than he had when Isak woke him up for breakfast.
“I need to hand in an essay, and then I’ve got a tutorial.” Even just blinks. Isak tries not to feel too discouraged by it. “Mahdi and Magnus are both staying, if you remember them. They’ll make you some food when you wake up if I’m not back by then.”
Another blink. Isak feels it settling deeply in his bones, hates it but unable to help it.
“I’ll come hom- I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay?” he tries to hide his wince at the slip-up by squeezing Even’s shoulder. He sort of hopes for a nod, or a verbal confirmation, or another blink, but Even just closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.
Isak tries to take a deep breath in, but his lungs hurt too much, it’s still too hard to breathe.
Isak really needs for it to stop being so difficult to breathe soon.
“Thanks again,” he tells Magnus who has taken up Isak’s vacated spot on the couch.
Magnus waves him off like it’s nothing. Isak doesn’t know how to tell him any differently, so he meets up with Jonas by the front door, throws on his shoes and his jacket and goes to face the vultures.
OOOOO
Sana texts him when he’s on the tram, about three minutes away from UiO.
One time offer, Isabel, do you need me to swing by to pick up your essay?
Isak nearly facepalms, doesn’t because he has enough decorum not to and because enough people stared at him when he got on the tram with photographers flashing pictures of him. He can see a few younger people trying to discreetly take a few pictures of him as well.
If he had known he wouldn’t need to subject himself to all of this, just by asking Sana to come by he would’ve.
‘s cool, Sanasol he writes back, feeling like kicking himself. Jonas gives him a worried look, but thankfully keeps quiet, like he has ever since the press stopped hounding them. Omw already.
How Jonas can read him so well to know Isak will snap if someone talks to him, Isak doesn’t know – especially considering how rotten he’s been at it for so long by now, absolutely nothing coming naturally, but Jonas has always been like that. His cool, chill nature the complete antithesis to Isak’s high-strung grumpy self.
The quiet a few weeks ago would’ve scared Isak to death. He would’ve thought Jonas had managed to work it out, that he knew, and now everything was ending, but now Jonas does know, all of the boys know – or they know something, they don’t know enough, and they’ve been left with as much guesswork as the rest of the world, really – but they haven’t stopped being his friends and they haven’t kicked him out.
And now Jonas is being an absolute god-tier best friend, trying to block Isak from everyone’s sight, which is a comical feat considering Isak is taller, and he’s keeping quiet because Isak doesn’t have room for anyone else in his already overflowing head.
Isak fucking loves his friends, and he’s been too scared of losing them to tell them that. He should fix that – put it on the list of the million other things he also needs to fix in his life.
The only thing Jonas had said was when they’d gotten on the tram and he’d asked Isak if he was okay. Isak hadn’t known how to tell him that his ears were still ringing, that he felt like he was going to be sick, that he simultaneously felt a thousand tons heavy yet floating outside of his body. That all he really hears over the ringing is hungry journalists shouting at him, asking if Even is still staying with him, if he’s fucking psychotic, if he needs to stay in the closed ward. How long he’s been insane for, or if it’s a new development, if it’s a drug addiction, if it’s something else entirely.
Saved you a seat is all Sana texts back.
Jonas follows him to his classroom, despite Political Science being all the way across campus from the science department. Isak wants to hug him, really fucking wants a hug himself, but he isn’t willing to chance loitering around the halls or getting anyone’s attention. He has enough attention on him already to last a lifetime, so he goes inside the classroom instead, spotting Sana all the way in the back in the corner of the room.
“Everyone take a seat,” the professor orders. He sounds tired as well. “When I call out your name, come hand in your assignment. If you don’t hand anything in, I can’t check you off on my list, and it’s an automatic F – remember, it affects your final ECTS points. It is not possible to ask for an extension. Please have your essays ready, we all have things we need to do today. Everyone ready? Anna Norland.”
Sana sits perfectly poised next to him. Isak feels like an even bigger mess than he had before; he keeps fiddling, shifting in his seat, and taking his phone out of his pocket, back into his pocket, out of his pocket, back into his pocket –
“Alright, stop,” Sana snaps, grabbing his phone and placing it on the table. Isak flips it around so its front side is up, but otherwise he lets go of it at Sana’s pointed glare.
Isak manages two taps on the table before he reaches out for his phone. Maybe he didn’t hear it, maybe Magnus or Mahdi texted to let him know something about Even, maybe Even texted him, he just needs to check –
Sana snatches his wrist out of the air, grabbing a hold of him. Isak stares up at her, wide-eyed.
“I will break it,” she tells him in a tone that very clearly adds on the left out just try me.
Isak isn’t sure whether she’s talking about his wrist or his phone. He’s not all that curious to find out.
He also isn’t in a mood to let someone else step all over him, either, so before he can stop himself he snaps, “It could’ve been an emergency.”
Sana raises one perfect eyebrow and doesn’t even deign him worthy of a reply. “Essay ready. You’re up next,” she says instead.
“Isak Valtersen.”
“Shit,” he curses, scrambling to get the folded up papers hastily printed out of his bag. He trips over said bag when he tries to get to the front of the classroom.
“Today, Mr. Valtersen.”
“Sorry, I – sorry,” he hands over the papers, his spine crumbling a bit at the look fixed upon him, and then he hurries back to his seat.
He feels like he can’t breathe before he sits down, then it all comes whooshing out of him in one big breath. The relief of it only lasts a few seconds, right until he sees the look on Sana’s face.
That just got caught look, that I’m so pissed off right now look, that I can’t believe this or the variation I can believe this, I just really hoped it wouldn’t happen look.
Because then Isak sees where her attention is at. His phone. Which is lit up, the number 12:12 stark white against his dark background, and showing a message-notification from Vilde.
Are you and Even married?!?? And shortly after another one So are you gay?
It feels… it feels like a stab to the heart and like someone has tied an elastic around his lungs and like he has weights attached to his feet and someone has thrown him into a pool, and he’s just sinking, sinking, sinking.
Sana looks at him out of the corner of her eye. She’s biting her lip and clearly debating whether or not it would be more helpful if she said something or remained quiet.
There’s no way she didn’t see the messages. Isak doesn’t even know if there had been more than just the two that had lit up his phone for her to see while he was up at the desk. There could’ve been a million for all he knows, and he only saw the two from Vilde.
He’s out of his chair, out of the room, before Sana has a chance to say a word.
Isak speedwalks down the hallway to get to the exit. He bumps into a group of people, barely remembering to apologize in his haste to worm around them, to get out, get out, get out.
“Shit, isn’t that him –“ he hears before he rounds the corner, throws himself against the automatic door opener and stumbles outside.
He takes in a big gulp of fresh air, feels how it gets stuck somewhere in his throat, none of it reaching his lungs.
Fuck.
He’s got his module coming up now, and going outside means taking the long way around, unless he wants to go back inside and face that group of people, risk facing Sana.
His legs are moving before Isak is aware of it, taking him the long way around the building.
It’s probably a bigger risk, walking around outside like this, but Isak doubts people can’t whisper and sneak photos of him inside as well. Not that that is a particularly comforting thought, either.
His phone feels like it’s burning a hole through his pocket. It hasn’t vibrated once since Vilde’s messages, but Isak’s still wavering on the edge of wanting to check just in case and letting it remain in his pocket.
He can’t even explain the way he feels about it – if he’s just pissed because Sana saw, Sana whom he has to work together with for the rest of the semester, or because Vilde, whom he knows, was the one to ask him like that. Isak doesn’t doubt that he probably has a few similar messages in his inbox, but he doesn’t have any close friends besides the boys, Eva’s girls, and Eskild and Linn, and none of them – besides Vilde – have been forward enough to ask him to his face, even as he had to practically scare the boys into not asking questions, and Eskild was told before everyone else were really made aware.
Isak pushes a door open to one of the side-buildings, hoping he can cut through it to get to the classroom from the back. There shouldn’t be a lot of people loitering around here, which is mainly why Isak does it, risking three locked doors if he’s really unlucky, just to get some peace and quiet for two minutes, please.
“Isak!” someone yells from behind, and Isak can’t deal with anyone else wanting to talk to him, he can’t.
He quickens his pace, turns a corner and half walks, half jogs down the hall, hoping to lose whoever was calling for him.
“Isak!”
He hasn’t. Whoever it is sounds closer and a lot more winded than at the first shout, and Isak realizes he’s going to have to give up unless he wants to start actually running for it.
“Hey!” a hand curls around his shoulder.
It’s not harsh, there’s not even a squeeze, but all the alarm bells in Isak’s head start ringing at the contact and he jerks himself out of the grip. His back ends up pressed against the wall, his shoulder blades pressing harshly into it and he nearly knocks the back of his head out as well as he stares wide-eyed and angrily up at the person.
He’s reached the end of his fuse and all his pent-up anger is about to be unleashed over –
Mikael is standing in front of him, holding both hands up with his palms flat as he stumbles a few steps backwards to put more space in-between the two of them.
“Woah!” he tries to grin, but he’s too worried for it to come out properly. “Sorry. Probably shouldn’t have grabbed you like that.”
Isak’s heart is pounding. He is standing in front of Mikael. Best bud Mikael. He is talking to Mikael.
Or, Mikael is talking to him, because Isak’s mouth has stopped working sometime between leaving the flat and being stopped in the hall by Mikael.
“I, uh –“ Mikael gestures to Isak vaguely, looking a bit uncomfortable, and all Isak can focus on is why, because, is it Isak? Is it that Even had a secret relationship? Is it that it was with a guy? “I thought it was you. I’ve kind of been looking for you. I – I recognized you from the back.”
Isak arches an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
Mikael flushes and looks a cross between mildly horrified and scolded. “Shit, no, I didn’t –“ his hands flail wildly at the back of his own head. “The hair! Like, you from the back, it’s the only side of you I’ve ever seen. Not that I –“
He cuts himself off before he can make it any worse with whatever was about to be thrown out of his mouth.
“I meant,” Mikael closes his eyes and purses his lips as he tries to figure out what he’d wanted to say, “that, when I recently thought back over the years, I’ve seen you sometimes, but only from the back. Whenever we ran into Even in public, he’d always be staring in one direction for a little too long, and when I turned to look there was always some curly-haired blond kid walking away.”
Isak can feel the heat rising up in his cheeks. He remembers all those times, remembers the first time he’d run into Even accidentally in public and his friends had been with him. Thank god they live in such a heteronormative society that Mikael hadn’t even questioned why Even apparently was staring at a guy.
“I saw the picture – I mean,” Mikael winces, tries again, “I saw – there was – Even’s staying with you, right?” finally settling on something. “I’ve tried his phone, but he hasn’t picked up.”
“It’s probably run out of battery,” Isak’s face feels numb, it feels a bit like someone else is talking. Seeing Mikael up close, talking to him when a few years ago seeing Mikael would’ve meant run, hide, deflect is such an odd experience, it’s really throwing Isak for a loop. “Or maybe he’s turned it off.”
Definitely the former, if Even hasn’t changed since Isak knew him. He’s always been particularly destructive with his phone-usage during an episode, even the minor ones Isak had been there to experience, so Isak’s at least glad to know Even hasn’t managed to do something he’ll regret when he doesn’t feel as horrible as he does right now.
Mikael nods, scuffs his shoes a bit. Isak can see the tension in his shoulders. What a weird experience this must be for him as well – talking to his best friend’s secret former beau, when he’d only been told about it at the same time as the rest of the world.
“I just, I wanted to check, see how he’s doing.”
“He was sleeping when I left,” Isak tells him, tries not to feel weird about actually talking to someone about Even when he’s like this for the first time ever. He hadn’t been able to before, because asking someone for help would mean having to tell them about Even, or Even having to tell them about Isak, but seeing as that had never happened, Isak had relied on intuition and Google. “He’ll probably have some lunch by the time I get back. It’s still early on, so he’ll sleep for a while.”
Mikael scuffs his shoes again. “Yeah, yeah, I know, I just – I got spooked,” he shrugs, doesn’t meet Isak’s eyes, “what, with what happened last time it was a big one.”
Isak frowns, his heartbeat picking up a notch. He thinks this time is plenty bad enough, he can’t really imagine something worse – at least sit would’ve made the news, and if Isak hadn’t discovered it in his weakest moments Magnus would’ve talked their ears off about it.
Whatever face he’s pulling, Mikael looks like he’s said too much.
“Anyway, I –“
“What – what hap-“ Isak fumbles with the words, his throat tight. Mikael flinches.
“Have you talked to Sonja?” he asks instead. “She’ll want to know where he is –“
“I – yes, I’ve talked to her.”
Sonja. A thousand needles prickles inside of Isak’s body at the mention of her name. It’s not like he was the one who’d been married to Even or anything. Isak doesn’t mention she barely spared a second to ask how Even was doing before she was moving on with business, doesn’t know what it means concerning Sonja and Even.
Mikael takes a step back, but Isak reacts quicker than his brain can follow and grabs a hold of his jacket.
“What – Mikael, what happened?”
Mikael winces, doesn’t look Isak in the eye. Isak doesn’t let go of his jacket.
“It –“ Mikael shrugs helplessly, accidentally getting out of Isak’s grip. Isak’s hand falls uselessly against his side. “He just – he got too low, if you…” he trails off, shakes his head. “Anyway, I know things must’ve gotten really messed up, back then,” Mikael frowns, “but I’m glad he’s got you to take care of him. That’s all.”
Isak can’t swallow, his throat has closed up. “Okay.”
Mikael attempts a smile, but it doesn’t quite fit right. “Tell him to call when he’s feeling better, alright?”
“Okay,” Isak repeats, stumbling over his own feet when he tries to take a step backwards. He’s supposed to head the other way, past Mikael, but Isak can’t get his feet to work, can’t do anything but round the corner, holding up a hand towards Mikael in an awkward wave.
He can’t breathe properly. He hears Mikael walk away, and he still can’t breathe properly.
He has his tutorial next, but he can’t go there, not right now, he can’t. He switches route and heads for the labs instead.
It’s all too much. It’s all too much, all of it, and Isak feels like he’s suffocating under the stares and the whispers. He can’t breathe.
He can’t breathe.
He rushes down the hall until he gets to the more secluded student laboratories. They’re old and haven’t been updated for ages, and no one really uses them in favor of the cooler, bigger ones closer to the lecture hall, even as they’re designed for multiple people to use at the same time.
He runs his student ID through the slot, his hands nearly shaking too badly that he misses several times, types in the code and pushes the door open when it buzzes.
Isak stumbles over the entrance and bangs his shoulder into one of the high tables. It hurts and he tries to clutch his hand around it to alleviate the pain as he crumbles onto the floor.
It’s like with the added physical pain it all just falls down around him. All the walls he’s spent his entire life building up fall, his will to get up and finish the day disappears and his resolve to not cry is gone and the tears are streaming out of his eyes.
An ugly sob is torn out of his throat. Isak has to let go of his shoulder so he can stuff the cuff of his hoodie into his mouth to muffle any other noises that might escape.
A lot of noises end up escaping anyway.
He wants to call Magnus, wants to know for sure that Even’s still there, that he’s lying in his bed, that he’s sleeping, that he’s had something to eat, that he’s –
Isak’s hands are shaking. It makes it more difficult to muffle the noises with each slip of his hand. He thumps his head back against the cupboard behind him to mask it, but it just makes him sore.
It’s not – it’s not like this is only about what Mikael had implied, a breakdown like this is never about just one thing. Even having apparently – that he – that – that is only the last drop falling on top of an already completely full glass, causing everything to spill over.
Isak’s exhausted. He’s so, so tired, his body feels heavy with it. His head is pounding, his nose is stuffed, and he can’t stop crying.
He can’t stop crying and he can’t breathe – not like the panic attack, not can’t breathe as in he’s about to die any second now, but can’t breathe as in everything inside of him is clogged up and everything hurts and he keeps crying, keeps sobbing.
His breath comes out in small hitches, little gasps trying to suck in more air than he’s letting out. It makes the sobbing sound awful, completely ratchet, and for some reason the thought pops into Isak’s head that he has his tutorial he needs to get to, but everyone will know he’s been crying, will talk about why he’s crying because everyone wants to talk about Even Bech Næsheim like he isn’t an actual person.
Like the world can tell Isak’s thinking about it, wishing to never be a part of it again, the electronic lock buzzes, the door opening. Isak bites down on his lip hard to keep quiet, despite knowing it won’t work.
His vision is blurry, too blurry to see who it is. All he sees is some misshapen, black blob – a blob Isak knows, he realizes.
Sana doesn’t say anything when she shuts the door behind her. Her steps echo slightly in the otherwise empty room, small taps of the soles of her shoes against the linoleum floor. Tap, tap, tap until she reaches him.
She lowers herself down next to him, first just crouching down with her back against the cupboard next to Isak’s, then she plops down fully on the ground.
She still doesn’t say anything. Isak can’t fight the sob that breaks out. Sana just stays there, right next to him, her bag left by the door in a sad attempt of a blockade.
It’s not until Isak feels like he’s momentarily run out of tears, cheeks sticky and neck clammy, sweatshirt ruined with dark blotches all over that Sana says something. His lungs still aren’t great, but he doesn’t feel like he’s about to suffocate – it’s not like breathing has been easy for so long by now, anyway, Isak reasons with himself.
“Noora’s told me that ‘people need people’, but… I don’t know what to do with crying people,” Sana confesses. She’s staring into the air, doesn’t dare look over at Isak.
It startles a laugh out of Isak, and not a pretty one at that. There’s snot and tears all over and he’s pretty sure he looks hideous, but it feels like his lungs work a little better than before.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to do anything with them.”
Sana rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah,” because he does, but that doesn’t mean he knows what to do with crying people either.
They’re quiet for a couple of minutes. The silence doesn’t feel as suffocating as it had before – maybe because Isak’s sharing the silence now. Everything’s supposed to be easier when you share. Share the load, share the burden.
“Maybe,” he has to stop and wet his lower lip before he can continue. “Maybe just don’t tell anyone. About this. You don’t have to do anything more for me.”
Sana doesn’t turn to look at Isak and Isak doesn’t turn to look at Sana. He does give in to the urge to see what she looks like, but only out of the corner of his eye.
She’s smiling, but it doesn’t look real. It looks sad and absolutely fake and a bit pained at that, and Isak almost wants to ask if there’s something wrong, except he can kind of gather what it is that made her look like that.
Maybe she thinks enough people are talking about Isak as is. She doesn’t have to add any more fuel to the fire.
Isak wipes his face on his sleeve. He’ll have to just wear a t-shirt and his jacket for the rest of the day if he wants to get away with keeping this mini-breakdown a secret. His hoodie is wet from tears and saliva from when he’d stuffed it in his mouth to keep quiet, and there really isn’t a doubt what he’s just been doing, even if people somehow don’t notice the red puffiness of his eyes.
Sana doesn’t comment on it even though it must be disgusting. Isak would be disgusted by it, but it’s his own body’s fluids, and it’s a bit of a special circumstance so he’s willing to forgive himself.
Sana helps him get his things in order. Isak pulls off his hoodie and stuffs it in the bottom of his backpack, and then Sana rearranges everything to lie on top so it’s covered.
“You’re a good friend, you know that?” he tells her when they’re nearly ready to leave. He just has to pull on his jacket and they’re good to go.
She snorts, rolls her eyes and huffs at him, but her cheeks are a bit flushed and she refuses to meet his eyes. “Piss off, would you?”
Isak grins widely. His cheeks still feel sticky and the stretch makes it scratch at his skin. “My best bud,” he teases in English.
“We are not best buds,” she tells him as she opens the door, not waiting to make sure Isak has a hold of it before she’s stepped through, ready to let it slam shut. Isak nearly drops his bag in his hurry to catch the door so he doesn’t get smacked in the face by an inanimate object.
“We are a little bit best buds.”
Isak’s taller than her so it’s easy to catch up, even as she’s practically power walking down the hall. She slows down when he’s next to her. She glares up at him, but Isak just grins wider, because it’s obvious she’s fighting a smile.
“Little bit best buds,” she concedes and leads him up the stairs so she can sit in with him in a module she doesn’t have.
That in itself qualifies as more than just ‘a little bit’ best buds. They both know it does.
OOOOO
The apartment is quiet when Isak finally gets home. He’s freezing, the wind too cold just for a t-shirt and his jacket as he hadn’t dared pulling out his hoodie once Sana led him away from campus and waited for the tram with him.
Magnus hasn’t been gone for more than six minutes, Isak knows, because he texted him when he left to hear if Isak was nearly back. Woke up, like, an hour ago. Had something to eat, but didn’t say a lot. Went back to sleep afterwards. Don’t worry too much, ‘s all good! Quote Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
Isak resisted the urge to text back that Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson had in no way ever said that, but he knew he was only going to get another fake quote back, so he’d just texted back his thanks and braced himself for the circus by the entrance of his building.
Even’s still in bed when Isak checks in on him. At least he’s moved, reassuring Isak that Magnus hadn’t been lying. His back is to the door, so Isak can’t see if he’s awake or not, and it suddenly feels too awkward and invasive to walk all the way around his bed just to see if Even’s eyes are open or not.
“Hei,” he whispers instead, peeking past the door frame. He doesn’t dare breathe, doesn’t dare move, just in case Even actually has fallen asleep again and Isak will end up waking him accidentally.
The sheets start shuffling before Isak can see Even actually moving. His heart is stuck in his throat for a moment, then Even’s turning onto his back.
He’s staring at the ceiling, not moving to look at Isak, but that’s okay. Isak can see that his eyes are open and that he’s awake.
Even blinks slowly, the drag of his eyelashes clearly feeling like a struggle, and now Isak’s heart is stuck in his throat for another reason. Mikael’s insinuation still a little too close to not meticulously pay attention to each small detail.
“Did you sleep okay?”
Even doesn’t reply. He can’t muster up the strength to say anything, and Isak feels like sobbing despite being sure he’s cried himself out of tears already, but he pulls himself back together.
Instead, he just starts talking, up and down about everything; he knows Even’s listening. He moves from the doorway to the foot of the bed, Even’s eyes following his movement, but stubbornly refusing to meet his eyes.
Isak��s still talking, slowly and quietly so Even can go back to sleep if he wants to. It’s nothing particularly interesting, the topics falling out of his mouth so seamlessly Isak almost wonders if he and Even had ever stopped talking, that the past few years haven’t just been a fever-nightmare.
He considers mentioning Mikael, but he isn’t sure Even wants to know about anyone outside of their little bubble right now, and he also isn’t sure if Even’s okay with Isak having talked to Mikael, so he lets it lie for now.
It’s nothing personal he talks about, either, because as much as he wishes the past couple of years had just been a nightmare, as dissociating is it to see Even in his bed, in his apartment that he shares with his best friends that Even wasn’t around long enough to ever hear about, in Isak’s life that hasn’t had Even in it for two years. Talking about something close to heart, the way they’d somehow always been able to back then, it’s – it doesn’t fit in with the Isak of the now. He’s not the same, and he doubts Even is either.
Even’s been asleep for a little over an hour when Isak gets up off the bed and slips out the door quietly. He crashes on the couch, no more energy left in his body after the day he’s had.
He wakes up the next morning when Even does – way too early, unable to sleep any longer – wandering out of Isak’s room with a slow gait, gaze slightly vacant. His hair is greasy, and the bags underneath his eyes are still too deep, too purple, looking too much like two sets of bruises.
It’s nearing four am. They’re sitting on Isak’s bedroom floor with a bowl of cereal each, facing the window with the side of the bed against their backs. They don’t watch the sun rise because the curtains are still drawn. Neither of them make a move to open them up, neither of them dare to.
Isak can feel the heat of Even against his right arm. It would probably feel so much like old times if they weren’t disturbingly quiet.
Well, Even was always quiet during the lows, even when they hadn’t been as extreme as this one seems to be, but any other morning where they’d do this – most mornings in general – he wouldn’t be able to stop talking about anything and everything.
Isak stirs the cocoa puffs around, watches as the milky brown turns darker and darker with each press of the spoon. It’s easier to look at the food than it is to look at Even. He doesn’t have to wonder when that happened, he already knows.
The spoon clatters against the ceramic rim of the bowl when Isak accidentally lets go. Even looks at him for a beat too long, Isak can feel it even as he doesn’t look up to check, but he doesn’t say anything. Before long he’s gone back to eating his own cereal.
Isak doesn’t go out the following days.
He stays off of the internet as much as possible, doesn’t want to know what people are saying about Even, about him, about him and Even, about anything at all, in fact. Sana keeps sending him her notes unprompted, and Isak constantly wonders why the hell she would ever decide to bless him with her friendship when he doubts he’s earned it.
Same goes for the boys.
None of them complain about the media circus they have to walk through, about having to field questions they’re asked about their gay roommate and his secret marriage, about having Even around. Instead they’re constantly around; working in shifts that Isak hasn’t figured out the system of yet, figures they probably have a secret group chat where they work it out impromptu, asking if Isak needs help, ready to step in and make sure Even’s alright.
It’s at times like that that Isak feels particularly overwhelmed with the feeling of how not alone he is.
He’s been alone for so long he doesn’t remember what to do to reach out to other people, to ask for help, and he can’t even remember what he did to make Jonas, Mahdi, and Magnus think, you know, he’s alright that one, because he’d been drunk or pissed their entire first semester, and stressed and pissed for the second term, but somehow they did, and they still do, and they don’t bother waiting for Isak to ask – probably because they know the wait would be futile, Isak would never think to ask – they just offer and do it.
Sometimes during the quietest moments of the nights, when Isak has the most trouble falling asleep, he feels a bit like crying at the thought of his three friends.
Days pass like this – with Isak switching between hovering over Even and trying to salvage whatever is left of his degree, sleeping on the couch, resulting in an increasing amount of back pain each night.
He does his assignments to force himself into thinking about something else. Half the time it doesn’t work, but he isn’t falling horribly behind anymore. Then he spends a lot of time not looking any of the boys in the eye.
That makes him feel like shit as well, because they’ve been nothing but nice and really great friends during this entire ordeal, but Isak –
Isak doesn’t know what he’ll see when he looks. He’s not sure he wants to know – or, he does, but he won’t be able to handle it if it’s bad. Not on top of everything else.
He checks in on Even again, sees he’s still sleeping, but it’s been less and less over the past couple of days, so Isak suspects he’ll wake up soon.
It feels odd standing around in his own room when Even’s there, almost creepy in a sense, but that’s probably because Even is asleep. It leaves Isak feeling a bit beside himself, because first of all he’s never felt like this when he’d been with Even before, not when they’d shared everything and been so desperate to have a space for themselves, but that was years ago and second of all because this is Isak’s room. It’s where he’s hidden himself away from the world when everything was just too much, when he’d been sure he was one step away from fucking up and everyone knowing.
Isak’s careful about shutting the door behind him, it clicking in place seemingly louder than normal because of his intention to be quiet.
He’d heard the boys get in a while ago. He can smell the lingering scent of food, doesn’t know if he hopes for leftovers or not, probably not with how simultaneously jittery and exhausted he feels.
They’re still in the kitchen; Isak can hear them as he tiptoes closer. Not that they’re loud, they’re clearly consciously trying to keep quiet so as to not wake Even up.
Mahdi’s sitting on the window sill, back against his own sheets that they still haven’t taken down. They color the room an odd, muted golden because of the sunlight trying to break through unsuccessfully. Magnus is finishing up the last of the dishes, snapping the dishtowel at Jonas when he tries to grab a clean glass to get some water.
“Yo,” Mahdi startles him, nodding in a greeting like he usually would, but there’s a look to him that makes it obvious there’s nothing normal about this.
Jonas gives up stealing a glass from Magnus’ clutches in favor of focusing on Isak.
“Hey,” Jonas’ voice is gentle, but there’s a worry in his eyes that makes Isak squirm. Jonas frowns. “Have you slept?”
“When?” Isak evades, but not well enough.
Jonas snorts. “At all.”
Isak looks down at the floor to avoid any of their gazes. He hates this – probably why he’s practically been avoiding the boys the past couple of days unless he desperately needs help. He doesn’t know what possessed him to not continue like that right now.
And then he remembers Even sleeping in his room and how not right it had felt to be there, how wrong it feels to be in any room of the house when he never expected to ever be in the same place as Even again. That’s why.
Doesn’t make it any easier to just stand here like this with them watching him. Isak’s sick of feeling like his skin is crawling from all the sets of eyes that are on him. When he strides forward to grab the same glass Jonas had been trying to get, Magnus doesn’t try to swat at him with the dishtowel.
“Even’s asleep, right?” Jonas asks.
Isak turns the tap on, lets the water run colder and colder. It numbs the tips of his fingers when he tests the temperature. “Yeah.”
“You were up pretty early, weren’t you?” Magnus asks, putting away the last of the plates. “I thought I heard you moving around.”
Isak nods, doesn’t really know what to say. He’s so tired, and he’s tired of feeling like – like this, like he’s constantly trying to stand on his feet, but he doesn’t have any balance to stay up. It’s disorientating and confusing and absolutely exhausting, and Isak’s tired of feeling like he’s an extra piece that just doesn’t fit in with the rest of the puzzle.
The water shuts off. Isak registers the lack of sound before he feels it on his fingers. Jonas’ hand is still on the tap. Isak’s hand is still wavering mid-air, his other holding the empty glass like an idiot.
It’s quiet in the kitchen. Isak feels it like a weight upon his shoulders, holding him down.
Mahdi’s the one who breaks it.
“You look like you’re going to fall over,” he says, not needing to specify who he’s speaking to. He nods towards the space next to him. “Just, come on.”
Isak doesn’t move. He still just stands there by the sink, holding an empty glass until Jonas gently grabs onto his elbow and makes him put it down.
“Is,” he mutters, “you can’t keep going like this.”
And the worst part is that it’s the truth, Isak can’t keep going like this. Not only because he’s hiding away in his apartment which is an option that won’t keep being viable, but because Isak isn’t okay, hasn’t been okay for so, so long and he doesn’t know how to get himself to a place where he can get better.
So he lets Jonas maneuver him over to the window, sits down next to Mahdi, Jonas pressed against his left side and Magnus takes a seat on Mahdi’s right side.
People need people, he thinks of Sana telling him. He can feel the sun warming up his back through the window.
He doesn’t know where to start – he’s never done this before, never said the words. Where is he supposed to start? Meeting Even? When Even left? An apology?
“You’re, like, properly fucked up over him, aren’t you?” Jonas states quietly, lightly puffing at him with his shoulder.
Isak snorts. He would’ve figured that was a given by now, but apparently Jonas still felt the need to ask him directly.
“What happened?” Jonas whispers, voice soft but desperate.
Isak thinks he should feel sad. He does, sort of, but almost in a detached kind of way. He doesn’t even register that his bum is starting to go numb from sitting in the same position on a hard surface for so long, barely notices the warmth of Jonas and Mahdi on either side of him. He’s so tired, so, so tired and he can barely pull himself together enough to open up his mouth and answer.
“I met him when I was fifteen.”
He remembers Even back then; all floppy hair and bomber jacket and so, so beautiful, full of ideas and dreams – so different from the meek, quiet boy who had showed up outside their door.
“There’s never been anyone but him,” Isak admits. He feels like he should be crying, but his eyes feel almost too dry instead. He can’t blink, doesn’t know how to stop looking out into the hallway, really. “For so long, I couldn’t imagine spending my life without him, and then one day I had to imagine it with everyone but.”
The confession hurts, like someone is forcing a knife into his heart because Isak fucking remembers those months, as hard as he’d tried not to by drowning himself in booze and whatever weed or pills he could come across.
“I still haven’t figured out how to do that,” he whispers, like if he doesn’t say it too loudly, it won’t be true, he could still pull off being suave, being so in control of his life that of course he knows how to live without Even, he’s figured it all out already.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Magnus asks. Isak thinks he sounds so incredibly sad, sad enough for the both of them because Isak feels the indifference coloring his voice like a self-defense mechanism so engrained he doesn’t know how to turn it off.
Isak shrugs. “Didn’t know how to.”
“Did we,” Jonas gulps, like he’s afraid of asking the question because he isn’t certain he wants to know the answer. “Did we make you think you… couldn’t tell us?”
To be honest, there had been many times; bad jokes and wrongly phrased comebacks that left a bigger impact than Isak was willing to admit, but he knows none of the boys are homophobic. Still, there’s always a difference in saying you’re not homophobic and then actually having a friend, a friend you live with, be gay and Isak just wasn’t ready or willing to take that chance.
“Didn’t tell anyone.”
A secret like that, so big and personal, had felt like a massive weight on Isak’s shoulders, constantly weighing him down. Sometimes, really late at night, he’d imagine what it would be like if everyone knew and no one left him because of it, how much lighter he would feel.
Well, they all know now, but Isak doesn’t feel any better about it. He feels worse.
“No one?” Jonas frowns. “Not even Eskild?”
Eskild would’ve been the obvious choice if Isak were to tell someone, probably would’ve been the first person he told if he’d been in a different universe. But in this universe Isak had kept his mouth shut until someone else opened it for him.
Isak shakes his head. “No. Just spent ages sneaking around behind everyone’s back and lying to their faces.”
Mahdi clears his throat. “So you meet him at fifteen – he was what, seventeen? And you fall in love –“ Isak’s insides tighten at how easily it’s said, as if keeping it a secret had never been as big of a deal as it had felt, “– and then what? Like, how did it get so bad? ‘Cause, like, you got the certificate, you would’ve had to have been together for three years for you to be eighteen, so what –“ he trails off, shaking his head.
The thing is, things hadn’t gone bad, not like they do in a normal situation. It hadn’t been like that, and to this day Isak still can’t wrap his head around it properly for how sudden it had come.
Even to the tee, he thinks, folding one leg up to he can rest his head on his knee, hiding away a bit. There one second, gone the next.
Isak doesn’t know how to tell them about that, though, so he gives the briefest overview he possibly could; talks about moving in together – doesn’t tell them about proposing or about getting married because he doesn’t think he can actually say the words out loud. He definitely doesn’t talk about the cabin, because that memory is too good, reminds him too much of a time he’d never been happier, and it’s just too sore of a moment to think about, let alone share out loud. He tells them about Even’s job instead, about how he’d worked longer and longer hours, about him getting into film school and meeting more of the right people, about the one in a million lifetimes opportunity.
Talking about Even isn’t cathartic, not in the way Isak had always hoped it would feel. Instead it leaves him feeling hollow inside and like a vice is squeezing tighter and tighter around his heart, because talking about Even like this just serves to remind Isak that Even had been the center of his world, and Isak just hadn’t realized it wasn’t mutual.
He got the message loud and clear, though, when Even fucked off to the other side of the world and never came back. When he left Isak behind to go over it over and over again, about how stupid he’d ever been for thinking he could’ve been the center of Even’s world as well.
Isak forcefully blinks to clear his eyes of tears. He isn’t going to cry, he won’t.
So he forces his thoughts away from that topic, tells them about starting at university only because he’d applied before everything went horribly, horribly bad, and how he’d been desperate to get out of their shared apartment so he’d jumped at the chance of student housing. About how it had been his opportunity to get away from everything Even, even if it just meant that he got drunk in a different setting.
“You must’ve hated me,” Magnus mutters. He’s trying to make it sound like it’s funny, like a ‘ha, ha, I was constantly bringing up the person who hurt you, what a laugh’, but he sounds too guilty about it.
“At first,” Isak admits. He can sense Magnus is coiled, tensed up. “But I liked everything else about you, so I figured I could let Jonas and Mahdi deal with the fangirling.”
Magnus breathes out from his nose a bit harsher than usual, but other than that doesn’t outwardly react.
“Besides,” Isak adds when he can’t handle the silence anymore, “technically, we had something in common from the get-go, which is more than I can say for Mr. capitalism-is-the-root-of-all-evil over there.”
“Hey,” Jonas protests, but it’s halfhearted at best.
Isak’s distraction had been as well, though. He draws in a shaky breath, too loud for how still all of them are.
“I still haven’t said it, you know?” Isak stares blankly ahead of him even as he can feel Jonas’, Mahdi’s and Magnus’ eyes on him. “Out loud. I never said it.”
“Jesus,” Jonas whispers. “Jesus.”
“Do you want to?” Mahdi asks, hesitantly, like he isn’t sure it’s the proper time to ask.
Isak snorts. “Doesn’t really matter now, does it? Everyone already knows.”
Mahdi rolls his eyes. “Not like that. You, actually saying the words out loud. Doesn’t matter who hears them or that we all know already. Maybe it’ll be good for you.”
Isak can’t imagine anything being good for him – nothing has been good for so long that he doesn’t really know how to get to the opposite end.
“I should,” he concedes. The glass is slowly warming up against his back, but it’s from their combined body warmth and not from the sun outside. “I should say it. When all of this,” meaning Even being down and getting the press off of their, his, backs, of getting back to his daily rhythm going to uni and coming home to his boys, “is over, I need to be able to say it.”
Isak gulps. He can’t believe he’s actually about to say the words. It’s been so, so long, and he still doesn’t feel like he’s at a point where he wants the words to be out there, no matter how much they already are.
“Maybe it’ll be good,” Jonas suggest. “Getting to, like, ‘come out’ yourself.”
Isak can’t help but flinch. “I’m not – I mean, I –“ it’s so engrained in him to deny, deny, deny, that he almost doesn’t stop to think that that isn’t even the part he’s denying. “I wasn’t talking about saying I’m, about – about the guys part, I was talking about –“ Isak gulps and curls his hands into fists to get them to stop shaking, “I was talking about how I have to be able to say ‘I’m married’ to be able to say ‘I’m divorced’.”
“Fuck,” Magnus swears. Isak feels it in his bones.
“Is that what you are?” Jonas asks.
Isak shrugs. “No fucking clue.” It probably is. He’d never been contacted by a lawyer after signing the papers, but he doesn’t know anything about the entire process of being divorced – does it involve the court and lawyers, or is that just American movies being dramatic?
It makes him feel unsettled – more so than he already is, which is impressive by itself. The boys certainly get the message to stay off of that topic for a little while yet, at least, despite how much Isak can tell they’re itching to know, to help.
“I just –“ something gets stuck in his throat. There are lights dancing in front of his eyes from how teary they are. “I just really thought –“ he squeezes his eyes shut, swallows, and shakes his head and lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m such an idiot.”
“Hey,” Jonas protests immediately, grabbing a hold of Isak’s arm. “Come on, don’t say that, that’s not fair.”
Isn’t it? Isak wants to ask but doesn’t. He’s pretty certain that it is a fair question to ask, because he’s never felt so stupid in his entire goddamn life as he does when he thinks about Even and lawyers and so many papers and signatures.
“I love him,” he whispers, digs his nails into his knee. “He broke my heart, and I’m in fucking love with him. And I know he loved me back, that it wasn’t fake, but I just – I don’t know when he stopped, what I did to make him stop loving me.”
“Isak…” Jonas sounds horribly sad, and Isak’s so tired of making his friends sad. He’s tired of being sad, because he is. He’s not fine. He hasn’t been fine for so long – for a while he’d thought he’d figured it out, that moving into this flatshare with his boys had been the answer, had been the push he needed to finally be a better version of himself, but he hadn’t even had the chance to test it out before everything went a hundred times worse than they’d been at the beginning.
“Fy faen, this is so fucking depressing,” Magnus sniffles, wiping at his eyes before he slaps both of his knees and jumps up. “Alright, that’s it, come on, group hug, we’re doing it.”
“Huh?”
“What?”
But no amount of protesting stops Magnus from grabbing on to Jonas and Mahdi, and then Isak gets pulled along unwillingly as well.
“I’m way too tall for this,” Isak complains immediately, trying to bow out, but the boys won’t let him, Magnus already folding them all around Isak to keep him in place.
“Bend down, then, bitch,” Mahdi orders, which is how Isak ends up with a mouthful of Jonas’ curls and his forehead pressed against Mahdi’s ear.
“The girls do it all the time!” Magnus attempts to convince them even as they’re already in the middle of it. “Vilde told me so.”
“Oh? How long have you been speaking to Vilde?” Jonas shoves his hip against Magnus’, nearly unsettling all of them in the process.
Magnus flushes a bright red. “I – there was the party, you know, and, I just –“ then makes a lot of indistinguishable noises much to Jonas’ amusement.
“Christ, please tell me it wasn’t your dried up come I found in my bed the day after,” Mahdi begs over Magnus’ continued blundering.
“No, that was Eskild’s,” Isak tells him, smothering his laugh in Mahdi’s shoulder at the following swearing at Isak for not having warned him.
He presses his face harder against Mahdi, wills himself to take deep breaths and not fucking cry. Mahdi smells like he always does – of cologne and himself and a hint of weed despite not having smoked any today. A hand grabs the back of Isak’s head, tugging his hair gently. Isak can’t tell who it is, knows he’ll probably cry if he looks up, so he just keeps his head down.
He squeezes his boys harder. They squeeze back.
OOOOO
“Takk,” Even says when Isak comes back from bringing his plate out.
It’s late, the room dark apart from the bright white light of the lamp on Isak’s desk, casting weird shadows on the wall and making both their faces look more gaunt and tired than Isak hopes they look normally.
It’s probably too much to hope for, though, Isak knows, considering the past couple of weeks. Isak definitely knows the purplish bags underneath his eyes are probably permanent by now. Even looks a little better after having spent the first couple of days mainly asleep, but there’s wariness and a tired look to him that doesn’t come from the need to sleep.
Even’s hair flops down awkwardly, half sticking up and the other half falling down in his eyes. He’s got more color in his cheeks than he did yesterday, and apart from the afternoon nap he’s been up for pretty much the entire day – and then some, seeing as Isak’s fairly certain it’s nearing 2 am and they should’ve both gone to sleep hours ago, but eating hadn’t been the easiest today and the clock had run away from them by the time Isak had gotten Even to have a bite of toast and a cup of tea to settle down for the night.
“It’s nothing,” Isak tells him, means it too. He still thinks he should be angry, maybe – not at Even for having shown up like he had, just in general angry about everything that had gone so wrong, but he doesn’t feel angry. He’s honestly relieved that Even came here when he needed help, when he needed someone. Isak doesn’t really want to think about how awful it would’ve been had he just seen the award show and then had the complete radio silence the rest of the world has had to deal with.
He’s not in a hurry to spend another night on the couch, even if talking to the boys left him physically and mentally exhausted, and despite how much it sometimes hurts to look at Even, so deeply like someone is twisting around a knife that had been left inside of him, Isak doesn’t want to leave.
Even’s huddled up against the headboard, legs curled up on top of the duvet and in the softest hoodie Isak owns.
Isak turns around to fiddle with the stuff littered around on his desk so he doesn’t have to see how soft Even looks.
“Are you tired?” he asks instead without turning around. He stacks a couple of books on top of each other, then restacks them according to color, then restacks them again according to size, the smallest on top.
When Even still hasn’t said anything, he rearranges them after the due dates of his assignment. That just makes him slightly depressed, so he puts them together randomly and covers them with a wad of notebooks.
There’s nothing left for him to fiddle with, but he can’t turn around to look at Even, he can’t. He wants to, but he doesn’t know what it will do to him if he does.
“Yeah,” Even sounds resigned when he realizes Isak won’t face him. Isak can hear rustling, the bed creaking when Even’s weight leaves it, the sound of steps as Even walks towards the door. “I’ll go brush my teeth.”
Isak lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding once the bathroom door has shut.
He chances a look over at the bed, feeling like an intruder in his own bedroom and like someone is going to fault him for not leaving as well now that Even has, which is stupid because this is Isak’s room.
The sheets are rumpled, a dip in the mattress left behind from where Even had been sitting. When Isak sits down at the foot of the bed, the duvet is still warm.
He doesn’t know what possesses him to do it, knows he’ll regret it, but his body moves without his permission, and the next thing Isak knows is he’s lying down on his bed, shoulder bent uncomfortably underneath his own weight, but his nose is pressed against the sheets and Isak doesn’t want to move.
He can smell Even on them, the same scent as he’s always had, and a feeling of what Isak can only describe as homesickness surges through him, leaving him so off kilter he nearly doesn’t hear when Even gets out of the bathroom.
He throws himself off of the bed just in time for Even to enter the room.
Even pauses at the door, looks Isak in the eyes. Isak’s breathing too heavily to appear as casual as he tries to, a too wild look in his eyes and a flush to his cheeks.
“I’ll just –“ Isak starts, clears his throat when barely any sound comes out. “I’ll let you go to bed.”
He shuffles around, heading towards the door before realizing he’ll have to walk past Even, brush up against him to get out, so he stalls by the desk so Even has a safe distance to crawl onto the bed and let Isak leave without any close proximity to each other.
This is stupid. Isak feels stupid. Even if it’s been literal years since he last kissed Even, since he slept with him, it’s not as if they’ve only been five feet apart since Even showed up on his doorstep. Isak’s brushed his fingers through his hair, has folded his fingers around Even’s wrist, has squeezed his shoulder encouragingly to prompt Even into eating, moving, whatever.
Even doesn’t move. Or, he does, but he takes a step towards Isak, not towards the bed. Isak stands as if he’s rooted in place, not daring to blink in case he misses something.
“You could,” Even hesitates, looking like he’s so carefully thinking about his next words. “You could stay, if you want.”
It’s a bad idea. It’s a very bad idea. It’s such a bad idea, because Isak and Even have simultaneously got unfinished history and very much definitely finished history.
It’s not as if anything is going to happen if Isak were to stay – they’re both exhausted. Isak can see it on Even and he can feel it in his own bones, but just the idea of being near Even, of sleeping next to him for the entire duration of the night, or what’s left of it, it – it’s so much. Too much and not enough all at once and such a bad idea, and none of it changes the fact that Isak wants.
He nods carefully, slowly, barely enough movement for Even to recognize the assent for what it is.
Even breathes out deeply when he does realize Isak is agreeing, that he’s staying, fuck. Fucking fuck.
Isak panics about it when he brushes his teeth – locking the door and spending a worryingly long amount of time staring into the mirror at his reflection. Then he panics some more about it as he walks back into his room.
Even’s sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to pretend he hadn’t kept his eyes on the door to be sure Isak was coming back. Something tugs inside of Isak.
As Isak pulls off his sweatshirt, Even shoves himself backwards towards the side of the bed he’d always slept on when they’d shared a bed before. Something keeps tugging inside of Isak, something he desperately tries to ignore as he panics about what to wear for bed.
He keeps his t-shirt on, just like Even, but doesn’t strip to his boxers like Even has, sticks with his joggers instead. He’ll be uncomfortably hot and probably wake up in the middle of the night because of it, but he can barely handle the thought that in a few seconds he’ll lie next to Even, will spend hours just lying next to Even and have to worry about their bare legs brushing during the night when they’re both under the covers.
He turns off the light, then trails back and shuts the door before he shuffles onto the bed himself, lifting the covers and settling stiffly onto his back.
The duvet is still warm from Even sitting on it earlier, but the pillows and sheets underneath him are cool and fresh. Isak can feel Even next to him, can hear his breathing in the darkness. He stares resolutely at the ceiling, not able to see anything before his eyes adjust to the lack of light.
“Thank you,” Even whispers. He’s lying on his back as well, just as stiffly as Isak is, careful not to touch despite how they’re sharing a bed and a duvet and space in each other’s lives.
Isak doesn’t know what he’s thanking him for, isn’t sure he wants to know either. Doesn’t know if it’s for agreeing to sleep here for tonight, or if it’s for everything in general, or if it’s so much deeper. He doesn’t know what he’d respond even if he did know.
You’re welcome isn’t personal enough for the two of them, but any time and always is too much considering. Maybe Isak should just keep it impersonal, maybe it’ll help him in the long run.
He nearly snorts. As if he’s ever thought about long-term consequences of his actions. If he had they wouldn’t be here right now.
“Selvfølgelig,” he tells him instead, hopes Even doesn’t read too much into just how big a matter of course it is, that there wouldn’t be an Isak in any of the universes, including this one even back when he’d been completely fucked up and so furious with Even, where Isak wouldn’t have let Even in.
He keeps hearing Even breathing – tunes into it really as it’s the only audible sound in the room apart from Isak’s heart pounding in his chest – hears how Even consciously tries to keep his breaths deep and even.
“I’m sorry for showing up like this,” Even finally whispers. “I’m sorry for being a burden.”
“Don’t say things like that.” There’s more venom in Isak’s voice than he’d usually put there, but he’d been sick and tired of Even saying those things back when they were together, and that hate hasn’t lessened with the time.
“It’s true, though, isn’t it?” Even’s exhausted, but there’s still bite in his tone. It makes red hot fury curl up in Isak’s stomach.
“No, it isn’t, actually.” It isn’t true at all, he wants to add, softer, but he can feel that all that will come out of his mouth will be snide remarks and harshly spoken words, so he keeps it shut.
It’s like saying Isak had been a burden back when Even’s career had been ‘make it or break it’ –
Isak freezes even as he didn’t say the words out loud. Because that’s what had happened. Isak had been the burden and Even had cut off the deadweight.
God, he’s tired and he’s hurting and he’s tired of always hurting.
He doesn’t have a way to fix this, fix any of it. Doesn’t know how to feel okay, doesn’t know how to rid Even of any backlash because of his episode, doesn’t have a wand he can wave around and make everything okay. Doesn’t even have any words of comfort, words of encouragement, he’s too worn out, stripped to the bones and left exposed to have any more left to give.
But neither of them will get any sleep tonight if they end it like this.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Even snorts irritated at him.
“No, really, I mean it,” Isak insists. “Give it a week and all people will be talking about is the ‘integrity’ of your ‘art’, you proper artiste,” Isak puts on a snooty voice that makes Even try to muffle a laugh into the duvet.
“Do a lot of running around naked at award shows, then?”
Isak tries desperately hard to keep the smile on his face, even though it’s too dark and Even won’t be able to tell one way or another. “Nah. I wouldn’t get away with it either – I’m no artist, people can sense that shit.”
“Are you seriously telling me that there has never been a scientist showing up for work buck-ass naked?”
Isak wracks his brain, because, yeah, when Even puts it like that, it sounds unlikely that it hasn’t happened.
“Some of us are just eccentric.”
Even barks out a laugh too loud for the hour, and Isak is giggling too much to shush him properly. It feels like they’re sixteen and eighteen again and they’re lying under the covers in Isak’s bed in the Kollektiv, and they have to be quiet so Eskild doesn’t come to investigate what Isak could possibly be laughing about at this hour.
“Eccentric!” Even laughs too loudly, but Isak doesn’t want to quiet him. “That’s certainly a word for it! ‘Oh, just ignore the naked man in the room, that’s just my eccentric husba-“ both of them freeze.
Suddenly they aren’t sixteen and eighteen and they aren’t in the Kollektiv. They are twenty and twenty-two and they’re in Isak’s apartment that he shares with his three friends, because he and Even aren’t even together anymore.
A car passes by on the street outside, loud music spilling out of it as whoever’s driving around whoops excitedly. Isak can’t tell if it adds to the tension or helps dissolve some of it.
“You know,” Even whispers once it’s quiet again, “the only way to have something for infinite time is by losing it.”
Burning hot white fear rushes through Isak. He thinks of Mikael’s words, of how bad it had apparently gotten ‘last time’, thinks of Even’s movies where the lovers never get what Isak would call a happy ending, the ‘epic love stories’ as Even had always argued.
“Don’t say things like that.”
He doesn’t dare to breathe, too focused to pay attention to each inhale and exhale of Even’s, just to be sure he’s still there, he’s still breathing, he’s okay.
In the end he has to breathe in. It sounds too shaky and too obvious in the otherwise silent room, so Isak hurries to turn onto his side, facing away from Even.
It doesn’t help, doesn’t make his heart feel any less like it’s too big for his chest and falling apart because of it, but it means he can smother his face into the pillow, that he can curl up into a ball, that he can hide away from Even as the two of them hide away from the world.
It’s quiet for ages. Isak doesn’t feel any closer to sleep than he had when he’d first gotten in bed. Despite how much his body begs for the rest, his brain won’t comply.
“I didn’t know it meant having to choose,” Even whispers, sounding like he can’t bear it if the words aren’t out there, but also like he doesn’t want to wake Isak up on the off-chance he’s already fallen asleep.
Isak’s breath hitches and he squeezes his eyes shut harshly to stop the tears from welling up in them. It doesn’t work.
What is he even meant to say to that? ‘Well, it did’ or ‘Now you know’? Especially because the only thing Isak wants to say is, ‘I didn’t either.’
“Let’s not do this now,” he settles for instead.
Even’s presence on the other side of the bed feels tense and stifling, and Isak almost wants to make an excuse just so he can go sleep on the couch instead – Even hadn’t asked for him to stay this night after all.
“If you’re saying that because, because of – because I’m being mental, you can cut it out.”
Anger wells up in Isak so quickly his blood rushes through his body with too much heat. “I’m saying it,” he grits out through his teeth, “because it’s late and we’re both tired and these past couple of weeks haven’t been easy for either of us. Let’s not do this now.”
“Okay,” Even sounds more resigned than mollified, but neither of them is going to be getting things the way they’d like for them to be, not with how everything is right now.
Not ever, Isak doubts, folding his arms underneath his pillow so he can hide away easier, because anything they could want at this point would only be achievable in a fantasy world, not in this universe.
 Past
It’s… odd, coming back to an empty apartment.
Isak’s never really lived alone, so to speak. His dad had been in and out of the house for longer than Isak can remember, but his mom had always been a stable presence wherever she’d choose to loiter – the only part Isak had experienced that had been stable in that godforsaken house.
He’d been isolated, definitely, but he hadn’t been completely on his own.
Moving in to the Kollektiv had meant living with both Eskild and Linn, and whilst Linn wasn’t exactly the most social roommate in the world, Eskild had done more than his fair share of inserting himself into Isak’s life.
And finally, living with Even. Isak had never felt alone the entire time he’d shared a physical home with Even, hadn’t felt alone when his home had been Even.
He still is, Isak forcefully reminds himself in the particularly tough moments, as if he’d ever forget it. Forgetting wouldn’t be the hard part; it’s living with his home thousands upon thousands of kilometers away from where Isak is that’s the hard part.
It feels like the apartment feels the loss of Even as much as Isak does. The air is stuffy from Isak not throwing a window open for the entire day. He can’t bear it if the wind were to blow away the last remnant of Even’s scent on the sheets, on his clothes, in the apartment.
Even doesn’t text him when he gets to the airport, but he does text when he lands on his layover somewhere on the eastern coast of America. It’s in the very early hours of the morning, but Isak hasn’t fallen asleep yet.
He spends an embarrassingly long amount of time tracing over the shape of the letters of the I love you Even had finished the text with.
Once Even gets a bit more settled, they spend several hours on facetime, any time either of them – Even – has a free moment to spare. It not even an exaggeration to say that Isak lives for those times, even if they’re short and Even’s just on his way out the door to get to set, Isak loves seeing Even happy and excited and full of life as he tells him all about what’s going on over in America as Isak teases him with, over-pronouncing the syllables to make Even laugh.
Even explains everything so well it almost feels like Isak is there with him, all the way in America and not stuck in Oslo, Norway with the same daily routine day in and day out. It almost makes him miss Even a little less, but then they hang up and the pain inside him is tenfold.
It makes it nearly unbearable to spend his time in the empty apartment. When the first month and a half has passed and nothing smells of Even anymore apart from the pieces of clothes Isak had shoved all the way in the back of the dresser to ensure he wouldn’t lose Even’s scent completely, Isak caves and spends the night rooming with Eskild, then spends the next night on the couch because Eskild brought a guy home with him.
Eskild doesn’t ask questions, as much as Isak can tell that he wants to and it physically pains him to hold back. He just lets Isak in and talks up and down about how Noora has apparently for the past couple of days been staying with this guy she’s been seeing – complete with a nose wrinkle, which tells Isak’s he’s about to be updated on just about every reason why Eskild doesn’t like this guy.
He forces himself not to make it a habit to stay with Linn and Eskild because it feels too much like giving up, like he’s weak. He misses Even terribly and he hates being alone in their apartment and he misses Even, but he’s also so fucking proud of Even that it sort of makes it worth it. He just wants to shout to the world, “that’s my husband!” except he doesn’t, because he still hasn’t quite figured out how to do that.
They celebrate Halloween together on Skype, Even answering the call completely dressed up as God much to Isak’s amusement, and then he spends nearly an hour chewing Isak out for having done nothing to prepare and guiding him through their closet until Isak’s found a golden wreath and a red blanket he slings across his shoulders, proclaiming himself as Julius Caesar.
Even claims it suits him because Isak is fit to rule and will go down in history. Isak claims it’s because were he to go to a party, he too would get stabbed 23 times, which doesn’t deserve as much eye-rolling as Even gives him.
Isak doesn’t mention that it already feels like he’s gotten stabbed 23 times with the way Even’s taking care of him halfway across the globe. It wouldn’t help. It wouldn’t make things better, any easier.
They time when they start the movies so they’re technically watching them together. Isak falls asleep around three am Norwegian time, which would only be in the evening for Even. He wakes up to the call having been ended, but Even’s written him a message telling him he’s cute when he sleeps and that he loves him. Isak takes a screenshot and saves it for when the nights are particularly long and lonely.
The next couple of months Isak spends halfway delirious from lack of sleep. They’ve gotten in the habit of talking when Even’s cooking up some dinner for himself, which with the increasingly later and later hours Even’s working means Isak’s up to about four am before Even’s finished eating, and then he has to get up three hours later to get to class.
His grades don’t slip, but that’s also just about the only part of Isak’s life that doesn’t feel like it’s falling apart. It’s the one thing he’s stubbornly clung on to, almost seeing the row of 6’s as a validation, a confirmation that Even isn’t the only one who’s doing well, who’s working hard to live out his dream. Isak’s going to get into university, get into the bio-science program, and he’s going to make Even be proud of him that he managed to do it.
But getting top-grades with basically no sleep is wearing him down. He falls asleep on Even all the time. One time when he’d been going on two days with practically no sleep and Even had run late, he’d missed the call entirely, absolutely kicking himself for it the next day as frustrated tears had prickled in the corner of his eyes as he typed out an apology to Even.
Even replies with a blue heart and doesn’t mention it the next time the talk. He also doesn’t mention the dark circles underneath Isak’s eyes three days later when Isak feels himself slipping again, but this time he’s prepared and has set up alarms every fifteen minutes so if he does fall asleep, he won’t stay asleep.
He just needs to survive until Christmas, Isak constantly reminds himself when everything feels particularly horrible. Christmas, and then Even’s coming home for a short break. He’ll see Even for Christmas. He’ll come home for Christmas.
Isak spends Christmas alone in their apartment.
Maybe it’s because of the season, but everything in it looks particularly grey and dreary.
Even had booked the plane tickets, everything had been ready, and then for some reason the tickets had been cancelled. And then Even had booked again, and they’d not gone through. And again, despite third time’s the charm. No tickets. The price increases every time Even tries again and again until Isak’s cursing out about holiday extortion and considers buying a ticket himself to go see Even.
He’s just about to make the purchase when Even texts him that his parents showed up, apparently having bought tickets of their own and wanting to come surprise him, having apparently arranged all of it with Even’s assistant.
Isak does not cry. He doesn’t.
He spends a very sad evening eating way too much food and drinking way too many beers and steers far away from every soppy Christmas movie shown on TV, only watching the gory ones that he actually hates, but his options are rather lacking right now.
They talk for an hour in the middle of the night for Even, early morning for Isak; Even apologetic and Isak trying not to take his hurt out on him. Even loves his parents and it’s no one’s fault but Isak and Even’s own that they can’t say screw it and have Isak meet Even’s parents. They don’t even entertain the idea, that’s how bad it is.
Once the holidays are over and the stores open again, Isak heads into town and buys a calendar - a calendar – and a red sharpie, and then he starts to count down the days until Even is done and home for good. One red X at the start of each day. He can do this.
Except then school begins again, and suddenly it seems as if his teachers have remembered that they’re in their third year, that they’re graduating in a couple of months, and so the workload increases exponentially until Isak could cry from the mix of exhaustion and fucking missing his husband.
He misses another call. Even cancels a call because he’s going out to dinner with a group of people. Isak misses another call and doesn’t wake up to a sweet message from Even, reminding him that he loves him.
He phones Even four times on Even’s birthday before he picks up, the background so noisy Isak can barely pick out anything Even says. The crew is throwing me a party, I’ll call you back later!
No I love you, which makes sense if Even is surrounded by the people he now spends every day with. But there’s also no call later. Come morning, Isak shakily crosses out another day on the calendar and wills himself not to cry.
It’s a good thing, he tries to remind himself. It gets harder and harder to do every single day, but at the bottom of Isak’s heart nothing has changed. He’s proud of Even, he wants this for Even, he just doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to be left behind.
He doesn’t go to see Eskild.
He probably should – he’s isolating himself and it’s not healthy. He’s hours away from spiraling, from falling too deeply down the black hole. Going to see Eskild would definitely help, but Eskild would know something is wrong – he’d take one look at Isak, if that, and the cards would be spilt on the table. Isak can’t take that chance, so he stays at home, spirals and tries to fucking breathe.
At the end of March, Isak applies to university. He forgets to tell Even about it.
Or, he doesn’t forget, it’s just –
They’ve gone from talking every single day to every once in a while, and Isak’s working hard not to be resentful, to keep being so proud of Even at the front of his heart and his mind over everything else. So the next time they talk, Isak vows to tell Even all about how he finally settled on bio-science, all about the first term courses that he’s looking forward to, everything.
When Even picks up, there are worry lines etched into his face and a frown on his lips that seems foreign to Isak but perfectly fitting with the image of the worried man that Isak is faced with.
Shooting finished two days ago, Even should not be looking this stressed, Isak notes.
He keeps his eyes on the screen, doesn’t let them stray to the calendar and the five days left to cross out.
Or, twenty-five days left, as Isak finds out, because a problem has come up. Something about the editing and the framing that the studio isn’t happy with, which – who cares what they think? It’s Even’s movie, and Isak knows how meticulous Even is about every single detail which is what makes his movies so goddamn perfect.
Turns out a lot more people care about what the studio thinks than they care about what Even thinks.
Twenty-five days. Isak wants to tear the stupid calendar apart with his bare hands. Wants to shout. Wants to cry.
He does not cry. He doesn’t.
Fifteen days pass. The fifteenth of April passes without Isak noticing it until it’s the seventeenth and he realizes he still hasn’t told Even about his application.
It’s whatever, he figures. It’s not like he’s scared he won’t get in – he’s got the grades and he’s got the right course combination and he’s got the brains. He doesn’t need to put any more on Even’s plate than there already is. He’ll just tell him in eight days when Even comes home.
Eight days. Then fourteen days. Then another fourteen days. The problems going from the editing to framing choices to choices in general. More and more problems with each day that passes. Another week added on top of those extra fourteen days.
Promo starts despite there not being an actual movie that the stupid studio wants to show. It’s not a lot – not exactly the big conferences and rows upon rows of interviews – most of it is on various social media platforms, but it’s gaining a following, slowly but surely.
More weeks. Promo finishes.
Isak is russ by now, but he doesn’t get to show off the red pants with his name on them to Even, doesn’t go out partying because he isn’t on a bus, doesn’t really have any friends. He crashes house parties every once in a while, but they’re not particularly fun.
Still beats spending every night alone in his and Even’s empty apartment. It’s still better than going days upon days not speaking to Even.
There’s a due date, a premier date. Isak steadily makes little red x’s and thinks after that day Even will come home.
The premier date is pushed back.
Even is panicking, and Isak understands why, but he doesn’t understand the actual technicalities of the problem, and Even is, as said, panicking too much to explain it to him properly.
Isak had always thought that movies just got made and then shown in the cinema, but apparently that isn’t the case, or at least it isn’t with non-full length feature films, which is what Even has made.
He doesn’t understand the severity of the problem until he hears five rapid knocks on his front door.
The thing is, Even’s movie was supposed to be in theaters nearly a month ago by now, but it isn’t. There’s absolutely nothing, and Even doesn’t know what’s going on so Isak doesn’t know what’s going on.
And that’s when he gets the knock on his door.
They come in a series of raps. Later, Isak thinks they should’ve been heavier, more of a pounding – that would’ve fitted better.
Isak’s wearing an old hoodie of Even’s – the one he’d painted the drawstrings of a few years back by now. He’s worn it so much he can’t scent Even on it anymore, the colors starting to fade from repeated washes and general wear and tear.
He considers taking it off, shoving it under the bed, but then he forces himself not to. There’s no reason to think that anyone showing up on his doorstep would suspect him of wearing another guy’s, of wearing Even’s hoodie.
He quells down the anxiety, takes a deep breath, and opens the door.
Three well-dressed men in suits and ties and identically slicked-back hair are standing on Isak’s doorstep. They’re each holding their own briefcase. All three look very much like they do not want to be here right now, like they clearly have way more important things to do than apparently seek out Isak.
Isak blinks.
“Isak Valtersen?” the guy in the front asks in English. He says it wrong, though – pronounces it Isaac Walltersen, and then he just stands still until Isak replies to him.
“Yes?” He didn’t mean for it to come out as a question. He also didn’t mean to sound as hoarse and quiet as he does.
The man grins brightly at him, but it doesn’t reach his eyes and he doesn’t reach out his hand to shake Isak’s.
“My name’s Harley Walliams, these are my associates, David O’Leary and Pete Simonson. Do you know who we are?”
Isak knows who they are. Harley Walliams was the one who’d overlooked every single signature Even had had to give the studio’s management team. They’re lawyers. Even had raved about them when he’d found out the studio had assigned them to him, had told Isak all about how the clients they took care of were always the one to get the furthest in their careers.
Isak feels very cold all of a sudden, not entirely sure why.
“Yeah,” he repeats, voice still hoarse and small and really not like Isak at all. “I – what –“
“Do you mind if we come in?” Harley interrupts, the hand not holding the briefcase on the door before Isak’s had the time to even register the words. He’s not sure if it looks like Harley Walliams expects to be let in and figuratively put a foot inside the door, or if he expects to be asked to leave and is ensuring Isak can’t shut the door on him.
Isak lets go of the iron grip he has on the door handle, takes a couple steps backwards. His back hits the wall before long. He flushes a bit at the thought of having three hot-shot lawyers inside his very, very tiny shoebox of a home he shared with Even.
It’s his home and it’s his home with Even – he isn’t ashamed of it, he fucking loves it, even if it’s grown to be a hellhole constantly reminding Isak that Even isn’t here rather than the oasis they’d built for themselves. But he’s not embarrassed. He isn’t.
“Charming,” David comments once they’re inside the only actual room in the apartment. Isak’s cheeks burn hotter despite David’s perfectly passive expression and tone, Isak can tell he’s the furthest thing from sincere.
Isak lets his eyes skim over the room to check the state of it – he hadn’t expected any company, not ever, but it’s not too bad. No dirty underwear and no dirty dishes lying around. Just general disarray.
“Oh,” his eyes land on the improvised dining table and the two chairs from the flea market. The only chairs that he and Even own. “The chairs, I can – I –“
God, he can’t run down to the basement and get some fold-out chairs, can he? He doesn’t really want to leave them alone in his home, but he can’t exactly expect them to stand.
“Don’t worry about it!” Harley laughs, clapping Isak on the shoulder, making it feel as if Isak’s knees are about to buckle. “One for you and one for me, we don’t need anything else.”
“Oh.” Isak stumbles when Harley tries to get him closer to the table. The bed’s fairly close, there being so limited an amount of space, maybe he could…
Harley grabs a hold of the chair, pulling it out and maneuvers Isak to sit down, then takes his own seat opposite of Isak.
“There we go!” He grins again, doesn’t meet Isak’s eyes, too busy fiddling with the briefcase and then fiddling with a wad of papers that he turns so they’re wrong side up. “We’re all set up, then.”
Isak blinks. Set up for… what, exactly?
“Mr. Valtersen,” Walltersen, Harley begins, still smiling brightly, “ – may I call you Isak?” Isaac.
Isak doesn’t correct him. “Sure.”
“Isak,” Harley blinks at Isak like they’re in an amicable agreement with each other. “First of all, I’d like to apologize for intruding – this must seem very sudden for you, but we’re afraid it’s necessary.”
Isak’s heartbeat picks up. It’s necessary, what does that mean?
“What is this about?”
Harley doesn’t meet his eyes, instead he starts fiddling with the papers again, restacking them until all the edges are aligned perfectly. Isak can’t sit still, his foot taps against the floor.
“We have some…” he chews over his words for a few very long seconds, “concerns for our client.”
For Even, Isak wants to tell him. They’re talking about a human being, about Even. ‘Client’ is dehumanizing.
He doesn’t correct him. Doesn’t do much of anything as his tongue suddenly feels too big for his mouth and his heart is pounding, because concerns for Even does not sound good. It sounds very, very bad.
It had been a few days since Isak last talked to Even, but it’s been like that for a while and Even had seemed fine the last time Isak had talked to him. Surely – surely someone would’ve called him if something had happened. A few select people of Even’s team know about him, one of them would’ve called Even’s husband if something had happened, if something was wrong, right?
A million thoughts and scenarios fly through Isak’s head as he tries to figure out just what could’ve gone wrong, but none of it seems likely.
It had been part of the contract that Even had to keep up with his medication, had to present proof that he was doing so, Isak knows that, but that doesn’t stop him from nearly leaping up to find Even’s prescriptions, to call Even and tell him to tell them, to call Even’s psychiatrist and have her tell them – he knows Even’s doing alright, there haven’t been any signs whatsoever that he’s slipping! Isak hasn’t spoken to him for more than a couple of days by now, but there hadn’t been any reason to suspect Even of being on the cusp of an episode when he had last spoken to him.
Isak knows Even’s transferred everything when he moved to America – temporarily, Isak angrily reminds himself to add – to ensure he had access to any help he’d need and so he could get the medication he needed. Isak also knows Even’s team must have access to all of that information, so why –
“Has something happened?” flies out of Isak’s mouth, making Harley give him a rather unimpressed look that Isak can’t even feel embarrassed over, not over the thought of something having happened.
“Even’s fine, Isak,” Harley replies smoothly, mispronouncing Even’s name as well. Evan’s fine, Isaac.
Isak can’t even feel annoyed about it. His breath comes out long and shakily, so fucking relieved. Even’s fine. It’s not said in a right way, not in a humane way, but Isak doubts Harley personally interacts with Even, that he’s gotten a chance to get attached the way everyone around Even does. Plus, this is a professional meeting, even if Isak hadn’t been aware that it was happening. He doubts Harley would lie to him about this.
David shuffles his weight around, Isak sees the movement out of the corner of his eye. Back and forth, back and forth, Isak almost wants to offer his chair up just to get him to stop, but he wants answers and explanations more.
He shakes his head, tries to focus on Harley instead of everything else. “Then, what –“
Pete’s moved over to the dresser, looking at one of Even’s old cameras that cost a fortune and only good for taking vintage, pompous pictures. Isak wants him to stop looking at it, but the words don’t come out of his mouth, he doesn’t know how to make them. It’s obvious the camera isn’t Isak’s, but Isak’s never figured out how to talk about Even with anyone, it doesn’t matter that these three men already know about him and Even, Isak literally doesn’t have the words.
“We’re here to talk about your… affiliation with our client.”
Isak’s focus hones in on Harley. His hands are clammy, but his foot finally stills underneath the table. It’s nearly impossible to swallow past the lump that has formed in his throat in no time.
“I thought any issues about that was taken care of,” Isak bites, thinking about the thousands of signatures both of them had had to sign for the management team and then the PR team and then the team of lawyers and probably more teams that Isak’s just forgotten about. “That I am just a part of Even’s private life. He’s allowed to have a private life.”
The English words don’t feel foreign on his tongue, but compared to the three Americans in his home it sounds broken and like his tongue is too big for his mouth.
Harley frowns. He’s stopped fiddling with the papers by now, but the stillness to him just seems unnatural.
“Naturally,” he acquiesces albeit reluctantly. Isak’s foot starts tapping again. “Which is why we haven’t interfered until it became necessary.”
Isak stills.
Cold sweat runs down his back. He doesn’t know what facial expression he’s making, but Harley keeps his perfectly neutral in response.
“He hasn’t told you?” No, Even hasn’t spoken to him in days. “That’s – we’d honestly hoped he would’ve told you himself by now.”
By now. How long – what is going on? Why can’t Harley Walliams just tell him instead of stringing Isak along on a merry-go-round?
Harley does not reply. Instead, he picks up the papers, separates them into two stacks and lays out one in front of Isak, right side up this time so he can read what it says.
What it says makes Isak’s heart stop.
“We’ve had our legal-division here in Norway translate it, if it’s easier for you,” Harley hands over the second stack of papers. Isak doesn’t reach out to hold it so Harley just places it on the table in front of Isak instead.
It doesn’t matter if he sees divorce or skilsmisse, the language isn’t the fucking problem.
“What the fuck is this?” Isak’s hands are shaking, his breathing is too quick. “What the fuck is this?”
“Now, Isak,” Isaac, Harley says calmly. What right does he have to sound so calm when Isak is looking at divorce papers sent to him by Even. “Just take a moment to calm down –“
“I don’t need a moment to calm down,” Isak snaps harshly. Fuck, it hurts to breathe. “I need a goddamn explanation. This – this doesn’t make sense, this –“
He struggles to get air down to his lungs, to push it back out again. All he can see is either divorce or skilsmisse or Harley Walliams.
Harley clears his throat, slowly and pointedly. Isak wants to flip the table.
“It’s become clear that your… relation to our client has become a hindrance to any attempt to further Mr. Næsheim’s career.”
Our marriage, Isak wants to shout. His marriage to Even, Harley Walliams is a coward who can’t even say the words.
At the same time it feels like he’s just been slapped across the face, the sting of it bright and embarrassing and Isak’s cheeks feel unnaturally hot from misplaced shame, because now he knows why these men are here.
They’re here, not because Even is married, they don’t care about that. They’re here because Even is married to him, is married to a guy.
“That’s illegal,” is the first thing that flies out of his mouth. He doesn’t know where his head is at – he feels like a hypocrite, lecturing these men about pride and rights when Isak and Even have been a secret for literal years.
Pete quirks an eyebrow. “Getting divorced?”
Isak scowls at him. “Refusing Even work because of… that. That’s discrimination.”
Fuck, he can’t even say the word out loud. He’s being presented with divorce papers and he still can’t say the actual fucking words.
Harley looks exasperated. “I don’t know what it’s like over here in Norway,” he sighs, saying it like he’s out in the middle of nowhere, on a field where there’s no other company than cows instead of in central Oslo, “but over in America you don’t want to make any enemies over such an inconsequential detail as being gay is –“
Isak feels sick. “He isn’t gay,” he argues under his breath. “He’s pan.”
He doesn’t even know why he says it, lawyer-guy looks like that holds absolutely zero meaning to him, plus he looks more annoyed at having been interrupted.
“Point is,” he snaps, “no one’s going to show a gay director’s movie.”
He isn’t gay, Isak repeats in his head, but that isn’t the part that matters. It doesn’t matter if Even only likes guys or likes both guys and girls or likes anyone or no one. What matters is that he’s married to a guy, married to Isak, and that’s what’s going to stop him.
“The studio can’t sell him. They can’t get a licensing agreement with any of the distribution companies. No one wants his movie.”
It sounds miles away from Isak, like he’s only hearing an echo, like there isn’t a lawyer or a manager or whatever it is he’s supposed to be right in front of him, staring at him in disinterest as he tells him that Even has a choice, and he hasn’t picked Isak.
“I need –“ Isak chokes, slides his chair back despite how dizzy he feels. “I should – I’m gonna call him. I just –“
“Isak,” Harley reaches out and grabs onto Isak’s wrist before he can stand up fully. He keeps mispronouncing his name, pronounces it like he’s American. Isaac. It throws Isak off balance more than he already is. “He’s already made his choice.”
It sounds so final. It is final, but none of it is making sense in Isak’s head.
Why would Even just send three guys to tell him? Why couldn’t he just pick up the phone, explain what’s going on? Why couldn’t he just fucking tell him that he is filing for a divorce?
Oh god. Isak’s about to be divorced. Divorced. He isn’t going to be married, isn’t going to be married to Even, and Isak doesn’t know how to live a life like that, never thought he’d have to.
He really, really wants to pick up his phone and just call Even, just to talk to him, like he always wants to when something’s wrong, when something is right, even if that isn’t the case right now, but –
But now he’s being told he’s the only one who feels like that, who feels the comfort and the want and the need for his, for his –
Even isn’t going to be his husband anymore. Even is going to be his ex. Isak is being divorced. Separated, whatever.
Suddenly, it doesn’t seem as imperative that they hadn’t told anyone when they were friends, when they were something more, when they were actual boyfriends, when they were engaged, when they got married. All that seems to matter now is that Even wants to write all of those moments off, and Isak is being left behind in the dust.
“There’s something else,” Harley says.
Isak’s eyes snap up to look at him. More? What more could there possibly be?
Pete brings out a smaller wad of papers from his briefcase. These papers aren’t from Even. Even wouldn’t even have thought of giving Isak a fucking non-disclosure agreement.
Harley holds out an ink pen that had probably cost more than Isak’s monthly rent does. “We’re going to need you to keep quiet about everything.”
OOOOO
Isak can’t sit still once they’ve left.
He’d spent close to half an hour in despondent silence, completely unresponsive. Harley had kept talking, then Pete and David had tried, but all Isak had been able to do was stare at the papers.
Divorce, divorce, divorce.
He’s not married anymore. Isak isn’t married anymore. He isn’t married to Even, because Even had found out that you couldn’t be a successful director in America and have a husband waiting for you at home, so he had cut off the husband.
For how long had Even known? How many conversations have they had where Even had already made up his mind, where Isak had wasted time crossing out dates to count down for when Even was coming home, when Even was in fact never coming home again.
Isak paces back and forth again. He feels trapped, like he’s stuck in a cage that’s been decorated to appear as a home.
He picks up his phone. He should call Even, he should demand to hear Even explain himself, not three lawyers explain it for him.
Isak throws the phone onto the bed instead.
He cards his fingers through his hair, then does it again, and again, harder and harder until his scalp is hurting and his eyes are watering and, fuck, divorce. He crumbles onto the floor, pressing his eyes against his knees and holding onto his hair tighter and tighter.
Isak feels – he feels young. And he feels stupid. And he feels utterly heartbroken.
It hasn’t been more than a quarter of a day when Isak’s phone buzzes.
Isak blinks slowly, his eyelashes scratching weirdly against the floor. He’ll probably have a mark on his face from how long he’s been lying there.
It takes ages to pick himself up off the floor, to sit up, and then it takes just as long to just stare at his phone, lying innocently wrong side up on top of the duvet. Isak’s hand shakes when he reaches out and grabs it, his fingers twitching as he unlocks it.
They’re showing my movie! the text says and Isak feels sick.
Alright, he already got the hint; Even wants the divorce so he can be a big movie director, fine, but he doesn’t have to shove it in Isak’s face. God, Isak feels sick, he thinks he might actually throw up over a text message.
It takes another day for the phone calls to start ringing in.
Constantly, constantly, his ring tone sounds, the stupid jingle Even had set up – some theme song from some movie Isak doesn’t want to think about, because he doesn’t want to be thinking about Even. Isak doesn’t get out of bed to answer the calls or turn the phone off.
His phone runs out of battery at the end of the day.
When he finally can’t stand lying in his own filth anymore and he isn’t currently crying, he gets up and plugs it in.
86 missed calls. 236 new messages. All his storage has been filled up. One of those texts are from Eskild, just sending him a picture of himself pouting at the camera, text written on the picture saying miss you xxx, and it’s stupid that that’s what makes Isak tear up again. Not the 235 messages from Even, but one dumb picture from Eskild.
He hates crying and he’s been doing nothing but for the past couple of days. He reeks and he has no energy and he hates being here in his goddamn home – his home with Even.
Even’s things are everywhere. There’s his stupid hoodie still slung over the back of the chair, and there are his movies, various knickknacks, all his drawings pinned up on the wall, a couple of old notebooks, his clothes, his favorite mug, and Isak wants to scream and tear it all apart. He wants to hurt Even as much as he’s hurting.
He storms into the kitchen to smash that stupid cup to bits and pieces. Flings the cupboard door open to tear it out of its place and into millions of unfixable pieces.
He crumbles onto the floor before he can do any of that. He’s clutching on to the mug desperately, the sobs wrack through his body, the sounds coming out of his mouth ugly and so loud he doesn’t hear the phone start ringing again.
OOOOO
The mature thing would be to call Even up, demand an explanation, actually talk things through.
It’s the mature thing to do. It’s the rational thing to do.
But Isak both feels so incredibly young and small right now and he’s the furthest thing from rational.
He just – he doesn’t want to actually hear the words coming out of Even’s mouth. Doesn’t want to hear him admit directing and writing just being more important to him than Isak has ever been, could ever be.
And, like, it’s – it’s not okay, none of this is okay, but that’s the exact reason why Isak let him go to begin with. Why he was okay and why he encouraged Even to go to America, to just go for it, try it out. He’d wanted it for Even, still does, somewhere deep, deep, deep inside where the hurt and pain hasn’t fully torn him apart just yet.
It’s not far off, though. Isak feels how the bitterness threatens to swallow him up.
He didn’t know Even going off to follow his dream meant leaving Isak behind. That had never been what it was about – at least, it hadn’t been what it was about to Isak. Right now, Isak has no idea what Even ever thought the plan or the point was. He doesn’t know which version is better, easier to believe in for his rapidly crumbling mental health; that Even had been aware already before he left Norway that leaving Isak could very quickly turn from a temporary to a permanent situation, or if it’s nicer to think that Even had always planned to come back to him at one point, and only when directly faced with the choice he hadn’t chosen Isak.
It’s both stupidly easy and stupidly hard to pack up all of Even’s things.
He does it mindlessly, which is the easy part. The hard part is to actually bear the thought that he’s getting rid of Even’s things.
He should be angry. He is – he is so fucking angry he’s furious and he’s hurt, but if he stops to think about all of that again he’ll end up crying and Isak is so fucking sick of crying.
His body doesn’t allow him to go on, though, so that’s where he is now; sitting on their – his bed, looking helplessly around in their – his flat that looks like a tornado has swept through it.
Everything is in disarray and there are boxes on every available flat surface area, most only packed halfway. Isak’s sitting with Even’s hoodie in his hands, twisting the drawstrings around his fingers, around and around and around until he feels dizzy and hollow with it.
God, this wasn’t what he’d thought his life would be.
He’s already sent in his applications for university weeks before everything went to shit. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to go there when everything is so shit, doesn’t know how to focus enough to take his exams, to pass his exams, to show up at school, to show up to a university where he doesn’t know anyone and no one knows him and –
The hoodie is soft in his hands and he can’t bring himself to get rid of Even’s things, he can’t, but he can’t stand to look at them either and he can’t stand not being able to look at them.
Fuck.
Fuck, he doesn’t know what to do.
OOOOO
Confusion comes first.
It’s there when Isak’s being told Even has sent a team of lawyers and managers to tell him they’re getting a divorce. When he apparently couldn’t bring himself to tell Isak himself.
Isak knows it was there when he kept repeating to said lawyers that Even isn’t gay, because he isn’t, but he kept saying it like that was the important part – not the divorce part.
And it’s there when Isak wonders what the fuck went wrong, what did he do, why does Even want this? He can’t figure it out – absolutely none of it, because none of it makes sense, and Isak’s just so fucking confused.
He thought they were alright, he thought they were making it, he thought they were strong enough to wait for Isak to finish up school, graduate, and then he come travel around with Even wherever he wanted to go to film and it would be brilliant.
He thought they were in love. And he’s so confused, because he really thought he knew Even, and he’s so certain he would’ve picked up on it along the way the moment it turned from Isak and Even loving each other to only Isak being in love.
Confusion is awful, and it leaves Isak dizzy and with a headache and feeling vaguely ill. He wants to call someone, wants to call Eskild, because Eskild always helps, but Eskild doesn’t know about Even, about Isak, no one knows and now –
It takes a while for the confusion to turn into denial.
It’s easy to tell it’s denial, because all Isak does is stare at the papers with big, bold, black letters at the top spelling out d-i-v-o-r-c-e, and all he can think is that doesn’t make sense. Those papers aren’t for him, they’re for someone else, their neighbors, the one’s next door who are always fighting. They’re meant for people whose love turned so ugly and violent there was absolutely no way back – the antithesis to him and Even.
It’s all centered around we’re in love, like that’ll fix everything, like it’s both the problem and the solution, because they’re in fucking love.
Isak paces back and forth, going along the small stretch by the foot of their bed before he hits the chairs at the table and the dresser at the other end, back and forth, back and forth. Stops and stares at the papers for a few beats too long, and then starts pacing again until he gets so dizzy he has to lay down.
He should just call Even. It’s what makes sense – the only thing out of all of this that makes fucking sense. Isak doesn’t know why he doesn’t just pick up the goddamn phone and call Even. If he wants this divorce so fucking badly, he can damn well tell him himself.
It doesn’t take long for denial to turn to anger.
Confusion made Isak feel off-kilter and sick. Denial made him feel like he was going out of his mind, like he was living in a parallel universe where the curtains are non-existent because there are shutters put up instead, like this isn’t his life.
Anger is ugly. Probably one of the ugliest feelings Isak has ever felt.
It curls up in his stomach and chest like a beast, grumbling to be let out. Isak feels it looming, feels it growing until it finally bursts out.
Denial had made him want to call Even and demand an explanation, demand being told that this entire thing is just a prank, that it’s for a film, that he’s still in love with him, whatever, Isak will accept whatever reason Even gives him.
Anger is different. Anger makes him want to hurt Even, makes him want to never see him again, makes him want for Even to suffer.
It makes him wish that he never met Even to begin with, that he never moved out of the kollektiv, that they never got married, that they never fell in love in the first place, that Even never showed him all he could have, all he ever wanted and dreamt of, and then ripped it away again within the same breath.
It’s there when he stares at his phone, stares at the text message that so clearly shows Even’s enthusiasm at his film being shown just because Isak signed a couple papers and effectively ended their marriage. Isak stares at the exclamation marks, feels his heartbeat pick up and sees how his hands start to shake, how he squeezes around the phone too hard, how he can barely breathe, how he’s seeing red.
And all the anger, the hurt, everything, that had been bubbling away inside of him boils over.
They’ve still got some moving boxes left over from when they moved in; tucked nicely away in the closet, unfolded and flat and serving as a barrier between the floor and their shoes. The top box is a little muddy from Isak’s trainers, but it’s long since dried up so it just flakes off when Isak accidentally touches it.
It just makes him feel even more angry to see the dirt lying on the floor. Stupid, fuck, shit, fucking shit.
It shouldn’t be this easy to pack another person’s life into three boxes, shouldn’t be so easy to pick apart Even’s belongings from Isak’s, but it is. Isak tears through their flat like a tornado, a goddamn whirlwind that doesn’t care about the destruction it leaves behind.
He packs away some of the camera equipment Even left behind first, isn’t one bit careful with it because he doesn’t care if it cracks, to hell with that. Even’s off to be a big movie director, he can goddamn well afford to replace whatever shitty second-hand shit he’d gotten his hands on back when movies had shared a first place in his priorities. Isak can probably just blame it on however that ends up shipping it across the globe to him, say he forgot the fragile sticker and leave it at that.
Then he grabs whatever else of knick-knacks Even had left behind. Movies, drawing utensils, books. They all make satisfying thumps and crashes when Isak throws them together; metal scraping against metal and possibly one or two pencils and brushes snapping in half. Isak feels vindictive and vindicated all in one.
They don’t have any photographs of the two of them around, didn’t dare to, just in case, so Isak makes a mental note to delete them off of his phone instead, every single last one of them. Or maybe print some of them out first so he can burn them.
He ends with the clothes, because throwing clothes around is never satisfying, and Isak had hoped he would’ve burned through at least some of the anger by now, but he hasn’t, he really, really hasn’t.
Seeing Even’s clothes probably makes it worse.
It’s difficult to tell what’s Even’s and what’s Isak’s; all of it so intertwined and interchangeable Isak wants to tear it all apart instead of sorting through it. He keeps the Jesus-shirt, because it’s originally Eskild’s, and Eskild is Isak’s so Even sure as hell isn’t getting it.
But the clothes are also the worst thing to get rid of, because they’ve been sealed up in the closet or the dresser for months by now. They’ve mixed with Isak’s scent, with the scent of their laundry detergent, sure, but they still smell so much like Even it actually brings Isak to his knees and makes him struggle to breathe.
That feeling doesn’t go away. Even when he manages to get up onto his knees, then his feet, then onto the bed, Isak still feels it.
It’s like there’s something in his chest, weighing him down; his heart, his lungs, everything – nothing is left alone, and Isak feels heavy with it.
It’s – god, everything is so fucked up, and now that Isak’s paused in his frenzy it’s so fucking obvious Isak kind of wants to laugh.
He ends up crying instead. Crying and unable to breathe and looking utterly pathetic, buried between mountains of clothes strewn all over the place, like the closet actually exploded all over him, clutching what had always been his favorite of Even’s hoodies.
It’s soft and worn through and it smells so much like Even that Isak physically can’t let go of it. He can’t. His fingers won’t cooperate, and when he tries to throw it his arms refuse to work.
OOOOO
Isak picks up the phone when the unanswered calls list is closer to quadruple digits than triple.
“Just pick up – Isak!” Even breathes when he realizes Isak actually picked up. “Isak, thank god, don’t hang up, please – “
He hadn’t expected hearing Even’s voice to hurt as much as it does. It hurts.
He wants to demand an explanation, demand an apology, wants to be assertive and confident and not let Even know just how fucked up he is right now. He wants to shout and be mean and make Even feel bad, and at the same time he desperately wants for Even to say it’s been a bad prank, that he’s awful and he’s sorry and of course he’s not leaving Isak.
Suddenly, Isak does not want an explanation. He doesn’t want to hear a single word from Even.
“Have your team send out your stuff to you,” he says instead of all that. He’s proud that his voice doesn’t shake.
“Isak, I – what?”
Isak squeezes his eyes shut. “And figure out what you want to do with –“ our home “– the apartment. It’s your name on the lease, so you need to be the one to put it up for sale, if that’s what you want to do.”
“If that’s what I – Isak, for god’s sake, just stop!”
‘Just stop’? ‘Just stop’? Isak is the one who wants it to stop, what the hell is Even telling him to stop for?
He just wants everything to be over.
He doesn’t look over at the two boxes filled with Even’s things that Isak couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing again. The stupid, stupid hoodie is lying at the bottom of one of them.
“I’ll leave my key underneath the doormat for them. If some of your shit is missing it’s because I’ve gotten rid of it.”
“Isak –“
Isak hangs up, shuts off his phone and throws it onto the bed. Then he spends the next day, curled up, unmoving and unresponsive.
OOOOO
He doesn’t know what to do.
He can’t just show up at the kollektiv with all of his shit, there isn’t any room for him and he doesn’t know how to explain any of it. He can’t stay in their basement either, not with how close Eskild had been to getting in a lot of trouble with the landlord.
For the first time in so long, Isak doesn’t have a home to come back to. He’s on his own and he doesn’t know what to do, where to go.
He figures it out by accident.
It’s a complete coincidence that he gets the email when he goes to charge his phone, the notification popping up at the same time as the screen lights up to tell Isak it’s charging.
The answer to some – one – of Isak’s problems comes in the form of student housing, because Isak’s been accepted to UiO. He got in.
He doesn’t stick around long enough to find out who Even sends to take care of the apartment or how he even plans on doing it. He just leaves his key underneath the doormat like he’d told Even he would, walks down all four flights of stairs and doesn’t turn around or look back.
He’s got enough stuff to warrant two trips back and forth his and Even’s – the old apartment and the new flat he’ll share with eight other people, but Isak knows that if he has to go back, he’ll never actually leave, he’ll just be stuck there until Even’s people throw him out. He can’t let that happen, can’t let anyone see him like that, can’t have them reporting back to Even, you broke your husband.
Ex-husband, Isak reminds himself. Ex. He broke his ex-husband, because that part is true enough. Isak can’t remember ever feeling this torn apart ever before.
So he fits everything he owns into a suitcase, two backpacks and two boxes of Even’s stuff that he can’t bring himself to let go off, and he wrangles all of it onto the tram halfway across Oslo. The further the better, he thinks bitterly.
He stops on the way there to buy a bottle of something, anything – whiskey, he thinks it is he ends up with. He doesn’t check, just goes for the cheapest there is with the highest alcohol percentage, grabs it, hands over the money and leaves.
He just wants to forget. He wants to not feel broken.
Somewhere underneath all of the hurt and the anger, there’s a small part of Isak that’s happy for Even. Despite how much he tries to crush it down, suppress it, tear it apart, it doesn’t go away. He can’t stand thinking the thought already, not already it’s too close, but he knows it’s because he’s still so terribly, horribly in love with Even.
Next part
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mitterstorm · 4 years
Text
Dance For Me
Chapter 1
“Finally we are here today to seek and to receive comfort. We would be less than honest if we said that our hearts have not ached over this situation. We are not too proud to acknowledge-
You couldn’t take it anymore, just by standing here listening to that preach addressed his departure. Your knees feel weak and your eyes burn, but you refuse to make a scene, taking deep breaths while clenching your fists is helping you calm down.
Still, it’s not enough.
You want to scream again just as you did when you saw his body limp against yours, scratch your arms in attempts of making the pain and hurt go away. To drift your mind from these ugly feelings.
A sick way of coping indeed, teensy bit of self-harm ain't going to kill you. It helps you somehow, preventing yourself from breaking even further in a public place like the cemetery.
Finally, you regain control of yourself and shift back to the preacher. Unfortunately, he concluded, now you have to prepare for the worse.  
Henry, who is your most precious friend, is dead. His body was being carried away in the concealment of a coffin; he said his last farewell to you early in the morning when you ate breakfast with him, offering your company so he wouldn't feel alone, regain some strength by appreciation itself.
Something was up that morning; the old fart was more talkative than usual and flashed a smile here and there. You are at fault for not noticing from the start. You should have been more perceptive and observant; you are keen on people after all, especially when he gave you that look as if he was parting ways with you. He didn’t fight death, accepted it as embracing a hug from an old friend. That thought alone fills your head with doubt.
Was he even happy when he left?
 Did he feel satisfied with the life he lived?
 Were you enough?
 Fuck, you never would've imagined his passing will affect you this much.
<<You old geezer, why were you so kind to me? Why did we let ourselves get attached?>>
The time is near, you will eventually have to confront him with all of these people staring at you, but you need to be strong for sake. You are what’s left of his loved ones. Linda died long ago. They never had a chance to procreate and bring a new life, Joey went mad or something along those lines.
Just like the rest of the crew, and he didn’t make any friends while he was on service for the military. If he did, they were dead. He didn’t like to talk about it.
<<I tried to make you happy, make you feel at ease as you did for me>>
Yet he kept secrets from you, of course, you respected his wishes and didn’t pry any further.
However, it stung.
<<Now it’s not time to reminisce, there’s nothing to reminisce for me at the moment>>
They called your name to the front; you ran out of time. It’s your turn. Is your first time burying someone, yes, you have assisted other burials besides this one, but now you are who’s lost a loved one. Those past times were favors people close to you had asked a long time ago; they said it felt nice to have somebody there when someone else is missing in their lives. In other words, you were there as comfort. A shoulder they could use to cry and lean on.
Hesitant, you take away from the burier’s grasp his shovel and with a gulp. You start shoveling some dirt into the hole were Henry’s coffin lies.
<<Shit, I can’t stop trembling! Come on, stop being a pussy and get over with this!>>
Despite that, your body wouldn’t obey, it made you look clumsy. No matter how much you lied to yourself.
You are scared.
After burying Henry, your vision goes black.
Waking up tomorrow morning at home without a clue of how you got there made your mind fuzzy.
How fun.
You try to get up, but end up failing.
“Fuuuuuck! Why do I feel like absolute shit! Everything hurts!” These feel just like a hangover. Why does it feel like one? Did you go to a bar once Henry’s funeral ended? How much did you drink?
“Enough to blackout it appears,” You say under your breath. Of course, your dumb ass would go to a bar and get drunk to cope with the pain! An upcoming headache awaits you for being arbitrary, instead of showing apprehension towards the situation and mourn, as you should, your voice of reason zonked out. “I reek of booze. Agh, it stinks”.
No more addressing what happened yesterday; feeling like trash isn't doing you any good. Henry would have called you out on your bullshit.
"Stop whining like a whore and man up, chum! I'll buy you a drink. Later we can relax and cut you some slack, nothing a magsman like myself can't do".
“Ok boomer,” You said in a humdrum tone, at least it made you laugh internally. “lo and behold, this will be a shitty morning-err afternoon, it’s 1 PM, I thought it was too early to be awake”.
That means it’s time for brunch.
Must compel your stomach desires, eat a lot little of food. Therefore, you'll have to leave the bed, go downstairs where the kitchen is; you force yourself out of the comfiness that are your covers. So you walk out of the room barefoot towards the kitchen. You open the fridge faking interest with whatever is inside and close it, then repeat, only that this time you pay a little more of attention.
You grab the water pitcher and pour some in a glass, then look for oatmeal and toss three spoonfuls of it at the water, after that you chuck a spoonful of sugar and mix it. A simple drink full of roughage. It’ll suffice for now.
*Clink clink*
Metal hitting porcelain serves you as a white noise to rearrange your thoughts. Yesterday was hectic and had your mind high wire, you were thinking about the old man; how long have you two been friends? Five or six years more or less, you met each other by autumn at a hospital. On that occasion, you were merely an intern in the middle of their practice and had to change sheets, deliver meals, give them their meds and reassure they took them at the time the doctors had said. Like a nurse or carer (the difference it’s you possess more knowledge than one and can prescribe medication, it was also part of your duty as a trainee assisting the doctors with whatever you could). That’s how both of you came face to face with.
Mr. Stein was sick and injured. He needed to tend some wounds since they required special treatment. Battle scars, you didn’t know at the time, however, as days passed, you became close to him, he told you how he got them; the biggest can be found on his back.  
Unfortunately, a sharp pain arose, preventing you from wandering further in the past. You had forgotten about your headache, which it’s more noticeable now, you are sure there aren’t any pills left.
“I ain’t leaving being this crappy, besides I don’t feel like moving right now…” Your eyelids are heavy and keeping them open, it’s such a pain, so you shut ‘em in hopes of relaxing for a little bit. Leaning your back on the kitchen island while drinking your beverage, its coldness helping you somehow with the throb.
Once again, your mind wanders.
Thanks to it, you know where to find some ibuprofen.
“Are these the ones?” You asked while holding a box for him to see, squinting Henry finally recognized the packet.
“What’s it called again?” He questioned, rubbing his head to ease the ache a bit. His voice raspy because of a dry throat. His normal soft tone replaced by a croaky. He’s clearly suffering.  
“Ibuprofen.” You read aloud as you’ve been asked and turn back to look at him.
“Yup, that’s the one, lass. I know I’ve bothered you enough, but could you serve me a glass of water?”
“You old coot, not a bother at all. I’ll be back with your water in a jiffy”.
The pills are somewhere inside Henry’s studio. You can do that, going upstairs isn’t as demanding as buying them, cuz leaving home means changing clothes that look presentable and aren’t dirty. Henceforth, you don’t feel in the mood for seeing the outside.
“I should stop thinking of how lazy I am and look for those meds…” Talking to yourself it’s quite common, so you ain’t no stranger to these situations.
Therefore, you took a break from your bullshit and went upstairs where Henry Stein used to draw; he passed most of his time in there, secluded from the outside world, before military service, he worked at an animation studio owned by the man he once considered his best friend, Joey Drew was his name if your memory doesn’t fail you.
Your friend called him a bastard, never explained why only responded by saying: “He lost his mind.”
Nevertheless, Henry kept drawing cartoons, and sometimes, he would let you watch him sketch and answered your questions. He carried on with his old comics he left unfinished long ago. The same he had drawn back thirty years ago. The main characters are three little fellas: Bendy, Alice Angel, and Boris. Henry said they animated their adventures and later on, added side characters. The Butcher Gang, if you recall, also consists of a trio: Charley, Barley, and Edgar.
When Henry started storytelling, you felt like a kid back again, he could’ve marked your childhood just as the rest of animators who made those toons while you were a child. Oh, how you treasured these memories, you’ll never forget the time you spent together.
Evoking past times has helped to soothe your headache an itty-bitty, yet you still need to find the ibuprofen.
“Where could it be…” You asked to no one, hoping the walls may respond, even though it’ll never happen.
Seeking everywhere you soon turned the room upside down, papers on the floor resembling a carpet, art supplies rolling across the table (pencils, colors, pens, paintbrushes, blending stumps, etc.) and some books based on anatomy and animation were disorganized on their bookshelves. It all ended after you opened a drawer (this one didn’t need your touch, it was already a disorder) and found what you were looking for, and because of your rashness, more papers fell on the floor.
“Damn, what a mess…” You muttered under your breath a little irritated with yourself for being so careless while searching. You collected the papers and put them in order back again one by one, because of it you grew curious and read some of them, a letter grabbed your attention.
It was one of those fancy letters with a seal and all (what does it say? Seems of importance).
You don’t consider yourself nosy, just interested in its contents.
<<From Joey Drew? Huh, looks like your old buddy send you his salutations after all this time>>
Oh, you had no idea.
Henry knew about the letter, he already read it and did as they told him. The old studio where they used to make dreams come true transformed into a living hell.
‘DEAR HENRY
IT SEEMS LIKE A LIFETIME AGO SINCE WE WORKED ON CARTOONS TOGETHER.
30 YEARS REALLY SLIPS AWAY, DOESN’T IT?
IF YOU ARE BACK IN TOWN, COME VISIT THE OLD WORKSHOP.
THERE’S SOMETHING I NEED TO SHOW YOU.
YOUR BEST PAL, JOEY DREW’.
You finished reading the letter.
*Snrk*
Well shit.
Did you just read a confession or a love letter? Why not both? You don’t know why, but it feels like one.
“Okay, let’s stop right there. I can’t make jokes on circumstances as these ones”.
What could be so urgent for Joey to write a letter after thirty years of silence?
Should you investigate?
<<The letter could’ve been sent years ago! Henry surely read it; otherwise, it wouldn’t be inside a drawer of his studio, though there’s a possibility he didn’t, I doubt it. He must have seen his friend has written message>>
Okay, sure. Let’s suppose he didn’t pay any mind to the damn thing, you can pretend, now the real issue it’s the location. Joey Drew Studios must be closed (or broken down into pieces, you didn’t know if they decided to demolish the whole building).
“Wake up ___! Face reality, you shouldn’t be fantasizing, this ain’t some silly story with you as a heroine…instead of wasting my time, I shall swallow that damn pill and take some zzz’s”.
You left Henry’s solace and went to bed once again after you swallowed the pill with some water. A dreamless sleep greeted you.
  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bendy’s POV
“ん乇'丂 ムの刀乇”.
Even though he should be celebrating, the Inkarnate can’t seem to find any joy in his being, no emotion tried to overtake him. Why? He doesn’t feel anything. True, he may not possess all the emotions a human has, but anger, joy, sadness, and hysteria weren’t unbeknownst him. There’s no satisfaction nor sorrow towards his creator’s death, not even an ounce of regret. Ok no, he won’t sense any guilt for what happened to Henry, he deserved to die just as much as Joey, but he was grasping straws in here!
How’s it possible to not perceive the slightest of emotion within himself?
The Ink Demon was turning apathetic in regards to the subject; he didn’t have an answer as to why. One thing he’s sure of, his world turned dull no longer exciting as he thought.
It was as if the little dancing demon had opened his eyes for the first time, after all those years blinded by the dripping ink, before that, he only saw what his mind showed him. He finally realized how monochromatic his world truly is.
All is black and white for the demon’s eyes.
A wave of indifference invades his mind and his mind is fuzzy, he dissolves into his inky form and rests.
However, not for much.
“-aHahaHAhahaHahaHAhaha!”
Alice.
That bitch.
He despises her nearly as much as those liars, yet the little devil darling couldn’t give a damn about her right now. Let her laugh all she wants as the malady she’s. The Angel probably got the word, celebrating, unlike him.
Immersing himself even more inside the ink, he found…peace. He can work with that, serenity aids his jumbled thoughts; darkness envelopes him and swallows his body whole.
<<In the end…I feel empty. Is this how revenge it’s supposed to be like?>>
He can’t respond to that, how could he? He doesn’t even know what’s life supposed to feel like.
<<Their imagination cursed us all with life, they couldn’t take responsibility for their actions and show us how to drive through it>>
Back when he was the small little imp everybody loved, there were all kind of colors, unlike now. The studio felt warm in contrast to all the ink that surrounds it now.
The remains of those old days lurk inside the deep abyss as ink creatures, husks who replaced the humans that worked here.
Thinking about it got him tired, Bendy finds himself drifting from consciousness, he’s falling asleep.
“Was it worth it?”
<<Again that cunt>> Despite his thoughts, the Inkarnate didn’t feel irascible towards the narcissist woman. Actually, there isn’t much for him to perceive.
She’s not in here, she wouldn’t dare to step a foot on his domain. The wench had the nerve of placing her cutouts and posters; he destroyed a few just as she did the same. She is communicating with him using a damaged poster with her face.
“I know you can hear me, demon, don’t fake pretend.”
“Wんリ りの リのひ ᄃム尺乇?” He hopes to scare her, even though he knows it won’t work while using his beast form for some reason his speech turns nightmarish. Yet he doesn’t wield it often because of how difficult is controlling his instincts. Thoughts become more primal, talking it’s hard after a few hours transformed in it gets tiring, and he can’t measure his own force. He favors his inky form best: practical and gets the job done.
“I don’t”. So she’s just shitting with him, insufferable.
“Then why ask?”
“Spirit of inquiry. Your relationship intrigues me, up there in Heaven, we get curious as to why you didn’t kill him yourself. And don’t even try to justify your actions. You had many opportunities. The little errand boy nearly ends up killing you, he tried the same with me”.
After listening to what the Angel had to said, his permanent smile turned slowly into a frown. It’s never a good thing when the Lord ain’t wearing one.
“…”
“Well?”
The fallen angel is laughing at him.
“Not even you know the reason behind your acts of mercy!” He remains silent, it’s not like she’s wrong, the little devil does not why he was so resilient with Henry.
After that fiasco, she left him be.
Thanks to Alice’s short visit, Bendy finds questioning why she dropped by. They hate one another, true. She has eyes here and there, but it’s to keep him in line, so he won’t cross an inky limb on her domain. Unlike the female cartoon, he does not have any cutouts, posters, plushies, or ink servants near her place. He wants nothing to do with her. That’s why he finds it so unusual, it’s not like her.
Unless…
She fancies something he has.
<<If that bitch knows what’s good for her, she won’t be picking her nose in my business>>
Later he’ll do his rounds throughout the studio, maybe, the imp will find what she’s searching before she does, whatever it may be, he won’t let her have it.
He’ll make sure of it.
Who knows what her deranged mind has planned; he’s tired of the gruesome scenery this place is in, corpses all around, clones of his ol’ friend bring back unsavory images from the past. Oh, Lawrence, he’s a madman, made satanic circles as a way of showing his devotion towards the black devil. Thanks to Sammy, he has eyes in nearly the entire place.
Yes, he’s aware the musician it’s alive, but Sammy Lawrence continues being of use for him.
<<I’ll take care of him when I wake up…>>
He’s exhausted. However, he stays on his beast form sunken in ink.
The demon’s slumber it’s a peaceful one…
.
   .
   .
   .
   .
   Until you enter his kingdom.
 An animalistic rumble shakes the tinted walls.
 He’s coming for you.
  ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Three days.
You paced on the issue for three days, until you finally had an answer.
“I’m gonna pay a visit to your ol’ pal, maybe he’s still alive…or not…” You lowered your voice in the last part; Henry called Joey a bastard and accused him of being mentally unstable, you trust his word, but what if…what if he changed? There’s a possibility he redeemed himself and went through a rehabilitation process to help him with his instability.
<<I need to look for the address and from there I’ll see what can be done>>
You googled ‘Joey Drew Studios’ on your phone and within seconds Google Maps showed up, you were going to click at it, but then something catches your eye.
An article and it’s quite old.
‘Joey Drew Studios, also known as the workshop. Is an American corporation and an animation studio of the Bendy franchise, established in 1929.
Founded by Joey Drew and Henry Stein in an unknown full date other than the year of 1929, Joey Drew Studios is located at Broadway, Brooklyn, New York City, New York.
In 1946, Joey Drew Studios was under investigation after reports of hazardous work environments, missing employees, harassment, and excessive back pay, as well the company's danger of being bankrupt, all of which are a result of Joey's mismanagement of the studio. Anonymous employees threatened to make labor unions over the poor conditions, which included unpermitted buildings, hazardous electrical wiring, and a plumbing system prone to bursting. In addition, there were excessive work hours, most of which were unpaid and several animators were unable to see their families in weeks, after being threatened with disciplinary action and termination if they were unable to finish animations on tight schedules.
There were reports of barricaded offices, employees locked up in work spaces, and complaints of crazy malfunctioning machinery. Despite the evidence against the company, Joey Drew remained firm that the studio has done nothing wrong, calling the accusations "preposterous" and "ridiculous", dismissing them as either complaint from menial employees, or feeble attempts by competing studios to discredit Joey.
On August 16, 1959, the law firm known as Snooks, Spitner and Snooks sued Joey Drew, having heard the rumors of Joey's mismanaging of his own workers. 12 days later, the studio was closed down in accordance to legal regulation 11 U.S Code § 1125 (which forbids the misrepresentation of legally established companies) as evident by the bankruptcy report found in Joey's apartment, as well as health and safety concerns directly by the mention of a health and safety board meeting schedule found in the appointment lobby.’
Oof.
<<That’s a lot to take in>>
Why the fuck would Henry’s friend would want to meet at that nightmare show? Has he learned nothing after all this years? And not only that, the sucker it´s/was an abusive prick with his employees!
<<Man, you weren’t joking>>
You fear a screw lose isn’t Joey’s only problem.
<<He sounds like an asshole, I don’t want to put up with his shit...I’ve got enough dealing with people like him on a daily basis. Sure, not everyone it’s an ass and there’s some decent/kind people out there, but handling jerks as the likes of him tires me out>>
Sometimes you aren’t the most patient person, it all depends. But this whole ordeal it’s too much for you.
<<The studio is in the big city, New York it’s fucking expensive. I don’t have the money for travelling that far, I’ll have to bid on my savings and package supplies for the journey>>
Crap. Three days and you didn’t think all of this through! How can you be so stupid?!
Now this looks like one of those impulsive decisions you take for being careless and inattentive.
<<How could Henry put up with me when not even I can stand myself?!>>
You need an adult, that’s what you ought to have beside you.
Your life is such a mess sometimes…
“Before spending money on my idiocy I should read more and prepare myself.” You mutter angrily to yourself.
That’s exactly what you did the next two days, finally you are ready for departing.
You grab your backpack and the car’s keys. “Cellphone in the front pocket, all that’s left is open the door, lock it and call Abby, easy.”
During those two days you made a few calls and went up for gas, it was going to be a long trip from Miami to New York. Sure, it ain’t that extensive, but you’ll be driving by yourself for approximately 20 hours. A place to stay, money, gasoline and food are big girl’s problems. Not counting the money you’ll spend on a cheap motel to rest your head.
“That or make a few stops on gas stations…maybe sleeping in the car won’t be that bad…” The good thing is you have options; you aren’t tied solely to one alternative.  
<<Abby won’t charge me for doing me this favor, another plus>>
She’ll guard the house in your absence and will call if any emergency transpires.
Now, you are free to go.
<<I hope I made a good decision doing this>>
The first 8 hours were a torment, bored and your ass felt numb of sitting for that long, the last time you remained that still was in high school, since you made your schedule. Your feet hurt just as your arms did. You made a stop for eating and going to the bathroom, after that another 8 hours.
Overall, the journey was relaxing, while driving you admired the views offered to you, savoring each sight. It helped you keeping away some melancholy.
You miss Henry, no matter how much you tried to distract yourself with this excursion of yours, the emptiness stays in the back of your mind.
Your wounds are still fresh, you haven’t mourned properly, because you don’t want to. That’s why you are doing this, to keep yourself busy so you won’t think about it. You need it, you ain’t prepared for it yet.
Soon you’ll be.
After a short nap (before that you made many stops, ‘cuz you’re a whining bitch who ain’t strong enough to control her fucking bladder), you started driving again. You have three or four hours left on the road.
Time to listen some music, you activate Bluetooth and connect your phone to the car’s stereo, finally you found a song of your liking in Spotify and play it. You spent the rest of the trip singing along; sometimes you’ll speed up a little bit on the spur of the moment.
Soon you got to your destination, didn’t waste time changing clothes, you collapsed on the bed in the motel and slept for an hour. After that, you washed yourself and got ready for visiting Joey Drew.
“Here goes nothing…”
You regret already coming here, silly you just ruined a change of clothes! Why is there so much ink? You’ll never get out the ink of your shoes, fuck! You have been here for less than ten minutes and all went to shit for you! It doesn’t help this place keeps giving you the heebies-jeebies! Every time you take a step on the creaky wooden floor it feels as if someone is following you, like a slithering sound. The ink splashes keep creeping you out, if it wasn’t black you would think it’s blood, Jesus Christ.
<<Thank God, the lights still work; it would make this place spookier if they didn’t>>
As you venture further deeper into the studio, a beast rumbles, shaking everything around you, more ink drops fall.
At that moment…
…you knew you fucked up.
So you hide.
Your mind provides you one last thought before going high drive
‘WHY ARE YOU RUNNING?! WHY ARE YOU RUNNING?!’
<<FUUU-
3 notes · View notes
argylemikewheeler · 5 years
Note
mike sort of gets angry about small things and has mini temper tantrums sometimes. like one day mike will be going off about someone at work who has the worst attitude and will’s learned that one of the only ways to calm him down is to just plant soft kisses on his face as he’s yelling. often times will has to shut mike up by kissing him. and mike knows exactly what will is doing but he never stops him.
“You aren’t going to fucking believe what happened today!” Mike bust through Will’s front door without knocking, not that he ever needed to. Will could hear him stomping up to the door, rattling the planks of the porch.
“You know I love a good work story.” Will said calmly, placing his sketchbook aside. He’d been working on his most recent commission, waiting for Mike to return from his shift at the mall. Work hadn’t been going well since the first day. Will was sure it was a combination of Mike’s lack of interest in the service industry, the constant interaction, and the fact that he was using the job to avoid being home as much as possible. It was wearing on Mike, and it showed. More so in moments like this– temper flared and aggravation driving him all the way to Will’s house blind– than anywhere else.
“So, I’m trying to fucking do my fucking job, and this girl comes up to me–” Mike starts, pointing his finger off to the side, giving stage directions to the scene he was painting in front of Will. “And she asks me where she can find a fucking Sears.”
“Which does exist in the mall.” Will added quietly, trying to add logical footnotes to Mike’s story. He held a hand out to Mike and waved him over to the couch. Mike didn’t take it at first, still waving his hand around. Will grabbed it before he took an eye out and pulled him toward him. “Go ahead.”
“Yeah. It’s one of the main goddamn stores in the mall– she’s got to be blind to not know where it is. But I tell her. Because I have to. I have to be nice. Nice and scoop fucking ice cream. That’s all I do.” Mike grumbled. He fell back and plopped next to Will. He rested his head against the back of the couch and sighed loudly, with enough force to muster up a growl.
“You do a really good job with both, Mike.” Will said quietly, placing a hand on Mike’s arm. “You always give me a really big scoop with a beautiful smile.”
Mike sighed and let his head loll toward Will. “I have to be nice to you.”
“You don’t have to.” Will laughed, shaking his head. “But you do. Because you’re nice. And you scoop ice cream.”
“I still fucking hate it.” Mike muttered, clenching his jaw. “Because then, after I tell her, she goes away with all her friends.”
“Okay.” Will listens but begins slowly smoothing the collar of Mike’s uniform. “So she leaves. She’s gone.”
“And she comes. back. and she starts saying I gave her the wrong directions– which I didn’t! She just literally doesn’t know her rights from her goddamn lefts!” Mike sat up and waved his arms out, giving examples to the nonexistent audience.
“Mike, hey, come on.” Will said, placing a hand on Mike’s chest to try and pull him back in. Mike was upset about more than being told he gave bad directions. He was probably told he was bad at something a little more personal that morning at the breakfast table. Will didn’t have to ask, but he also didn’t want to know what had been said. Will had heard his own variation of it from Lonnie, he was sure.
“This girl starts standing at the counter, blocking the line behind her, and starts ripping into me– she’s like thirteen. I could have stepped on her if I wasn’t getting paid to be nice and scoop. fucking. ice cream.”
“Hey, come on.” Will moved on the couch and kneeled beside Mike. “You’re going to tire yourself out, Mike. We have dinner later.”
“She got away with it! Every other worker there heard her screaming at me for literally nothing and they didn’t do anything.” Mike continued, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck.”
Will copied the action, running his fingers through Mike’s hair after him. He leaned in close to Mike to admire the timid curls trying to form along Mike’s ears. The very end of the curl tucked up and under Mike’s ear, resting on his cheek. Will nodded along to Mike’s continued ravings, but leaned in and placed a soft kiss just at the end of the curl. Mike’s jaw loosened, nearly going slack– if only for a moment.
“Oh did I tell you about my fucking boss?” Mike started again, jaw tight again.
“No, you didn’t.” Will said softly.
He moved up and placed his lips gently against Mike’s temple. He was on his way to a headache if he didn’t stop screaming and straining himself. Will kissed his temple again before trying to reach across his entire forehead.
“He told me that if I didn’t start putting in even more hours, he was going to start cutting my shifts down. Which doesn’t make any fucking sense! I’m only one person! I have a life, a sleep schedule, a boyfriend!” Mike cried. “I’d like to spend time with him. God knows I’m barely allowed that anymore.” Mike was allowed a secret runaway to Will’s house twice a week thanks to Nancy’s careful, consistent lying. “Everything is falling to fucking shit and all I–”
“Hey, it’s alright.” Will whispered, placing his hands on either side of Mike’s face. He placed a kiss over each of Mike’s furrowed eyebrows.
“What are you doing?” Mike sighed, his face relaxing, but mostly to change into confusion.
“I’m helping.”
“Is that what this is?” Mike said, lifting an eyebrow. “I still have a shitty fucking job and a shitty fucking family and a shitty fucking–”
“Would you shut up for three seconds?” He laughed.
Will pulled Mike’s face up to his own. Mike’s lips were still parted when they kissed, a word resting between them. It froze, the anger behind it dying the minute Will pulled him in. Sure, Mike had more to say and more to be upset about, but Will just wanted him to be quiet for just a moment. He wanted Mike’s mind to sputter and stall into a silence and allow him a reprieve from his own rumbling turmoil. Will never knew if it worked, but Mike at least always seemed to stop yelling afterward.
Mike sighed and blinked quickly as Will pulled away, bringing Will’s face into better focus. “My job sucks.” He said plainly.
“I know. It does.” Will agreed. He kept his hands on Mike’s face and let his thumbs gently brush over his cheeks. “But, you made it through today and now you’re with me.”
“I am. I am with you.” Mike nodded, a smile finally cracking his grimace. “Tell me about your day.”
“Finishing up that drawing for someone’s skateboard deck– one of Max’s friends.” Will said with a laugh. Mike lifted his eyebrows and looked down at the other cushions.
“Where is it? Can I see?”
“No, it’s not finished yet–”
“Oh, come on!”
“It’s not good enough yet!”
“Will, don’t fire me back up!” Mike teased, clenching his jaw. Will giggled and quickly placed another kiss on Mike’s lips. Mike placed his hands on Will’s waist and pulled him across his body. Will fell onto the opposite cushion with his legs stretched out over Mike’s lap, feet resting on his sketchpad.
“Not sure I like this angry side of you.” Will said with a quiet laugh.
“May I?” Mike’s hand grabbed Will’s foot by a toe and hovered before lifting it and grabbing the book.
“If you must.” Will waved toward the book with permission. “They wanted a Dessert Wasteland theme.”
“Clever.” Mike said, turning the book around before trying to find the right angle by craning his neck. “It’s good, Will. Really good.”
“Thank you.” Will said. There was still a certain tension in Mike’s voice, but Will wasn’t sure how much of that he could make go away with soft spoken words and kissing. He moved forward to sit on Mike’s lap, able to rest his head on his shoulder. Mike was looking at it upside down. “This way, Michael.”
“Oh.” He said, quickly flipping the book. “Still looks good– although now all these waves make sense. A-Are they waves? What is that?”
“Melted ice cream.” Will said, tracing the lines back to the vase-shaped glass sundae boat framing the corner design.
“Melted? What made you do that?” Mike said, furrowing his eyebrows again.
“Well, you see,” Will said, taking the book from Mike’s hands slowly. “I know this hothead that works at the Scoops Ahoy–” Mike sighed and let his head fall back again. Will giggled and threw his pad onto the coffee table. “I’m sorry. It was funnier to me.”
“Gotta kick me while I’m down, huh?” Mike said, sighing dramatically.
“Oh come on.” Will said, trying to pull on Mike’s collar and get him to level his head again. “Kiss to make it better?”
ao3
112 notes · View notes
lickstynine · 6 years
Text
Happy Holigays
This is a sequel to my Secret Santa gift from @builder051, featuring young! Min and Kazu. Make sure to read it first, cause it sets the scene for this. I really loved it, and had to build (ha get it) off it. I know it’s set on Christmas and I’m like a week and a half late, but... I don’t really give a fuck. it’s all fiction anyway. Enjoy.
It was well into the wee hours of the morning when the two finally made their way to bed. Kazu pulled Min against his chest, keeping the small blond from falling off mattress's edge. The old twin bed was far too small for two people, and nearly half a foot too short for Kazu, but as the alternative was a park bench, he really didn't care. Burying his face in Min's bleach-blond fluff, Kazu started to doze off, the exhaustion of fever taking a toll on his battered  body.
As Christmas morning rolled around, Minato got up bright and early; the bakery was closed today, but he still wanted time to have breakfast and watch the snow fall outside. Settling in at one of the small tables out front, he gazed out the big glass window, nibbling on warm, fresh pancakes and sipping hot chocolate. Normally he would have milk or tea with breakfast, but fuck it, it's Christmas.
There was a sharp chill in the air - the bakery didn't have a very good heater, it usually relied on the running ovens for warmth. Shivering slightly, Min stole a throw blanket off the couch, wrapping it around himself like a cape. He made his way back to the kitchen, cleaning off the griddle he'd made pancakes on and setting it aside. He turned instead to the kettle, pouring more hot water into a new packet of cocoa mix. He had the ingredients to make it from scratch, but he was feeling as lazy as he was indulgent.
Grabbing a candy cane from the jar on the counter, and a few cookies from the plate next to it, Min settled on the couch, turning on the TV, but leaving the volume low so as not to bother Kazu. He had a feeling his boyfriend would still be in pretty poor shape today, and Min wondered whether he had the ingredients to make chicken soup. Shrugging to himself, he cozied up under his blanket; soup wouldn't matter for at least a few more hours - Kazu wouldn't be up before noon unless the house was on fire.
Min was deep into some tired old hallmark movie when footsteps behind him alerted him to his boyfriend's presence. Kazu had dragged the comforter out of bed with him, and he shuffled over to the couch, dropping down next to Minato with a groan.
"Hi sweetie." The tiny blond ventured, "how are you feeling?"
"Shitty." Kazu's voice was barely there, a hoarse shadow of his usual deep baritone. He felt like he was dying - a hangover and a high fever were a nasty combination, and the added pain in his hurt wrist didn't help. He closed his eyes, the dim light of the old TV aggravating his headache.
Minato frowned sympathetically, scooting over to cozy up against his boyfriend. He ran a hand through Kazu's messy hair, loosening some of the tangles with his small, nimble fingers. Despite how quiet the dark-haired boy was being, Min could tell he was miserable, and tried to think what he might do to help. "I'm gonna go to the kitchen. I'll be back soon, okay?"
"Mm." Kazu nodded vaguely; it was unsure whether he actually heard Min, or was just pretending to listen. Either way, the tiny blond shuffled off, reheating the kettle and putting a pot on the stove. Minato ended up being gone nearly forty minutes. Kazu started to grow bored, opening one eye to scan the tiny living room. The shitty hallmark movie was currently on a commercial, which was debatably more entertaining than the film itself.
There were two presents hiding under the tree in the corner. Well, 'tree' was a generous term. It was a cone of cardboard wrapped in green tinsel, with dollar store ornaments stuck around it; Kazu had assembled it a few weeks ago, when Min broke down crying upon realizing they couldn't afford a tree. Kazu knew what one of the gifts was - the large, flat envelope concealed a portrait he'd spent weeks on, of him and Min in their favourite garden. He assumed the wrapped box to be holding something equally cheap and symbolic - perhaps some homemade jewelry, or a crocheted blanket. He couldn't know for sure, though. Min had been intensely secretive about the whole gifting process, wanting them both to be surprised on Christmas. Kazu couldn't help but feel a little guilty; he stayed in Min's house, ate his food, wasted his time, and all he had to offer was a drawing. It was an excellent piece of art, but it still felt worthless compared to all that Minato gave him.
His focus on the tree started to blur, and Kazu stretched out on the couch, grimacing and groaning as he struggled to get comfortable. His whole body ached, and there was an intense pain lingering in his right hand. He couldn't even remember what he'd done to hurt it last night, but it had to have been nasty. He was just glad it hasn't been his shoulder again; it still hadn't quite recovered from the last dislocation, and was also aching quite a bit with the aggravation of illness. Kazu closed his eyes, rubbing his temple with his good hand. His body was such a wreck - it'd be a miracle if he made it to thirty at this rate. He wondered if he even wanted to make it to thirty.
Kazu's morbid train of thought was cut short by the cheery voice of his boyfriend. Minato had returned, bearing soup, tea, and painkillers.  Kazu sat up, reaching first for the pills, downing them dry before grabbing the tea to ease his sore throat. "You're the best, babe." He croaked, "is your church still doing the saint thing? Cause you should be one."
Minato giggled, rolling his eyes and sitting down next to his boyfriend. "I'm not that great. Besides, I think you have to actually be a devout Catholic to be a saint. I haven't even been to church since I was like seventeen."
"Eh, you're better'n those stuffy old fucks in my book." Kazu shrugged, wincing regretfully at the twinge in his bad shoulder. He wondered if it was acting up because he was sick and achy, or if he'd messed it up again last night, and just been too wasted to notice. He set his tea aside after a few sips, tugging the comforter around himself with a shiver.
Min frowned in concern. Kazu was normally very resilient to the cold; just last week, he'd been hanging out in this same chilly room in his boxers. For him to be shivering, he had to be seriously ill. Minato pressed a hand to Kazu's forehead, his icy fingers absorbing the heat as it radiated off his boyfriend. "Don't drink any more tea for a bit. I need to check your temperature."
"Won't the meds 've kicked in?"
"Not that fast." Min explained, climbing to his feet to find the thermometer. It was still on the bathroom counter, left over from last night. He tucked it into the sleeve of his sweater, stopping in the kitchen for a cookie before returning to Kazu. The dark-haired boy was curled up on the couch, eyes glazed over and cheeks flushed. Min flapped his sleeves in concern, almost losing the thermometer in the process. Though he'd taken care of hurt Kazu many times, he'd never seen his boyfriend sick before, and it was worrying on a different level. He sat back down on the couch, fidgeting anxiously as he looked over at the dark-haired troublemaker.
Turning to the Hallmark movie to keep himself occupied, Min still found himself glancing obsessively at his phone, checking it every thirty or so seconds until enough time had passed. After about fifteen minutes, he picked up the thermometer, reaching over to stick it in Kazu's mouth. The dark-haired boy mumbled something unintelligible, likely a dick joke, and Minato poked his nose.
"Hush."
The mercury crept slowly up the thin glass tube, and after a moment, Min gently retrieved it, squinting in the dim light to make out the tiny numbers. "One oh... oh my god..." His jaw dropped, and his sleeves began flapping again. "I think you need to see a doctor."
"You're stressing too much, babe. 'S just a fever. I always run hot, it ain't as bad as it looks." Kazu wasn't actually sure of that, but he was an excellent liar, and he put his good hand on Min's shoulder to further reassure his tiny boyfriend.
Minato sighed, still waving his sleeves as he spoke. "Okay, but if you're not feeling better tomorrow, doctor."
"Sure. That's fine." Kazu knew he could talk his way out of it, even if he was literally on fire tomorrow. Min was soft and naive and relentlessly optimistic; just saying "It's okay" was often enough to win him over.
"Good." Min tried to think of something more cheerful. "Do you feel up to opening presents?"
Kazu nodded, "Yea, why not. You first."
Minato hurried over to the tree, grabbing both gifts and setting them on the coffee table. He picked up his present, working his finger under the flap of the envelope to unstick the glue rather than tearing it. After a bit of fiddling, he pulled out a large sheet of heavy drawing paper, filled with easily forty hours' worth of intricate graphite.
Min's eyes widened and a grin spread across his face. "It's beautiful..." he beamed, "I love it." He tucked it very carefully back into the envelope, making sure not to bend or smudge it. "I'll find a frame tomorrow when the stores are open. I want to put it up on the wall."
"Eh, it ain't that great..." Kazu shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise.
"Are you kidding? You're such a good artist, it's crazy." Min scooped up the box now, offering it to his boyfriend. "Come on. Open yours. I got a great present, now it's your turn."
Kazu struggled with the wrapping for a moment; it was hard to untie a bow one-handed. Once he'd loosed the ribbon, he tore into the paper, lifting the cardboard lid without much expectation. As he focused on the gift inside, Kazu let out an audible gasp. It was a sleek leather jacket, sturdy and warm, with a hooded inner layer. He recognized it immediately, and felt a pang of guilt in his chest; it must've cost Min two months' savings at least.
"Do you like it? I remember you ogling it when we were window shopping last month." Minato smiled softly, hugging his boyfriend's closer arm.
Kazu nodded, barely able to force out the words. "I... I love it. Thank you."
"I thought you might. God knows you need a new one." Minato mused, his mind drifting to Kazu's old jacket. An amalgamation of fleece and denim, it was once black, but had faded to grey, and was more patches and cigarette burns than fabric. Though originally quite warm, it had long worn thin, and was well overdue for a replacement.
"Well, yeah, but... It's expensive..." Kazu's scratchy voice wavered in distress. "I didn't spend shit on you..." he mumbled shamefully.
Minato rolled his eyes. "I know that. You think I care? I love you, and I don't want you freezing to death. It doesn't matter if you repay me."
Kazu shook his head, too exhausted to argue. “You’re crazy, babe.” He croaked, carefully folding the jacket back into the box before setting it aside.
“Crazy for you.” Min corrected, climbing into Kazu’s lap. “Mm… you’re nice and warm.”
“No shit,” Kazu rolled his eyes, “I gotta fever.”
Minato shrugged. “At least you’re good for cuddling.” He tugged the comforter over them both, cozying up in Kazu’s lap.
The dark-haired boy wanted to protest. Despite having taken medicine, he was only feeling worse, and he’d been planning to retreat back to the bedroom after presents. The pounding in his head and churning in his stomach had him ready to bolt at a moment’s notice, but when Min let out a tiny content sigh, Kazu knew his fate was sealed. He’d be on the couch for the foreseeable future whether he liked it or not. Not that Minato wouldn’t have moved if Kazu asked, but because Kazu couldn’t bring himself to ask. He knew the tiny blond was happy and comfortable, and he’d already been enough of a thorn in Min’s side this Christmas. He could suck it up and be sick later.
Stuck on the couch with nothing to do but think, Kazu couldn't help but reflect on his gift. Was he a piece of shit for accepting an expensive present from Minato, when he already stayed at the bakery rent-free? Or did stuff like that stop mattering if you were dating the person in question? Should he have worked more last month, and maybe wasted a little less cash on his own vices, so he could get Min a real gift? Min had seemed pleased with the drawing, but maybe he was faking it…
No. Minato couldn't tell a lie to save his life, and he was very easy to please. If he said he liked something, he did. Kazu twisted his hair around the fingers of his good hand, the voices in his head still debating about how he was a piece of shit who didn't deserve Min, much less nice gifts from him. A shaky sigh rattled out of Kazu, and the seemingly distracted Min leaned up to kiss his cheek.
“If you don't feel good, go back to bed. We can do something together when you feel better.”
The dark-haired boy blinked in surprise, looking down at Minato through bleary eyes. “Are ya sure? I already crashed your Christmas Eve, I don't wanna make today suck, too.”
Min rolled his eyes, gently booping Kazu’s nose with his fingertip. “I don't care what day it is, stupid. I just want you to feel better. I'll be happy whenever we get to do stuff.”
“You… you will?”
“Of course I will.” Min nodded, wrapping his arms gently around his boyfriend. “You need to get some rest. Are you more comfortable here or in bed?”
Kazu just shrugged; both the couch and bed were too short for him, it was really just a matter of laziness - did he want to get up, or stay where he was?
“I won't move you then.” Minato decided, pecking Kazu on the cheek again before climbing to his feet. “I should make sure the kitchen is ready for tomorrow. Just call if you need anything.”
“Mm.” Kazu nodded, more dismissive than acknowledging as he curled up on the couch. He didn't need anything aside from sleep, and he knew Min would be careful not to bother him.
Min leaned down over the couch, making sure Kazu was well tucked in before walking off. “Sleep well, sweetie. Merry Christmas. I love you.”
“Yea… love you, too.”
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voltiers-a · 6 years
Text
[ @itaidoshin // cont. ]
         The brisk steps of the knight captain bounced off the stone walls of the barracks, alerting every recruit currently lounging in their bunk to her impending arrival  –  the distinct, tinny sound of her metal plated armour shifting as she wove her way through the enclosed halls made it easy to identify her as a superior  –  the soft leather gear afforded to new bloods moved silently, never arousing anyone to their presence.  
         They never had a chance to leap from their relaxed positions, assuming a salute  &   snap a quick, respectful greeting, however, as she did not stop for more than half a beat at each doorway. Scanning the interior – or, rather, who resided in each – with a quick flick of her gaze before moving on without a word.
         Sachiko had been called to an unplanned meeting with the Commander a little past noon. This wasn’t incredibly strange, many of her duties included parleying with the leader of the knighthood  –  handing in reports, discussing strategy  &  weekly check-ins on supplies  –  but upon stepping into his office today, she immediately realised this was no ordinary meeting. Two recruits sat sulking in the corner, scowling at their feet, nursing bloodied  &  bruised injuries, with their disgruntled knight captain at their side, gave her all the information she needed.
                                          This was Kazuya’s doing.
                                 Or, so they would’ve had her believe.
         He is your charge, Isaksen  —  she was reminded in a tone so bitter it could curdle milk,  though she was sure to give no indication of how it made her feel on her visage   —  you fought so hard for he, a common thug, to be accepted into our ranks,  &  yet he has brought nothing but headaches for us all. Do something about him, before I do.
         As little as Sachiko enjoyed this particular comrade for his snippety demenour that did nothing but scream noble born,  she knew him well, & knew equally well when the inflexion in his voice was something to take note of. That had been no throwaway remark.
         With this weighing heavily upon her, she stopped at the final door of the barracks. She had a clear view of him  &  felt her expression stiffen on her face as she noted his pained movements  &  strained smile  –  injuries far less than what the other two had suffered, but injured none-the-less.
                 Whatever they said I did this time… it wasn’t me, yeah?
                              You know me; I’ve been a good boy
         Good?  No, she could not describe Kazuya as good. That didn’t mean she didn’t believe him, but he was still very much  –  unconsciously or not  –  clinging onto the alias given to him by the peasants of the slums – Arashi, he was a storm,  &  storms rarely ever bring good tidings        ;      but she wouldn’t have brought him into this world if she thought that’s all there was to him.
         There were times – be it when they were training together or out on patrol, or even during the discussions shared between the two about everything  &  nothing they found themselves losing hours to – where she saw what she had seen the day of their first meeting. A fire, a determination cleverly concealed behind nonchalance  &  a lazy smile, one that he weaponised  &  could use at his will, to get him out of a tight spot or turn the tide of a battle, with or without the help of fellow recruits, or even her. He was still very much a lone wolf,  wild  &feral   ;   perhaps how he would always be, how he should be, yet there was something in the way he moved, spoke, smiled, that insisted he could use all of that for good, if he applied himself,believed in himself, believed in her desire to get him to that point.
                                       He may not be good,
                                         not right now,
                                     but he could be great.
         Silence befell them both  &  hung tightly in the air. She remained at the door for a moment longer, eyes fixed on his own, before entering his space  ;   a few long strides is all it took before she reached him  &  her gaze fell to the hem of his shirt. Messily half-tucked into his trousers, the knight captain craned her neck around his side     ————-    half a bandage hanging out of the section of shirt he had failed to tuck like a tail. He had tried to hide this from her.
         “… What did they say this time?”  Her voice melts in her throat, soft &  careful as nimble hands pull his shirt up, dark eyes darting across the areas of skin peeking through the gaps in the bandage, inspecting the damage. The ever-present frown on her brow flinched, deepening a fraction before dropping the pull-over back across his torso. Disapproval was not written across her face, but concern, with a slight heat of anger as the words of her fellow knight captain rang through her head & the smug faces of those recruits flashed across her vision.
         A few  years ago she had more or less been in his position, before cementing a reputation as cold  &  ruthless  &  unforgiving. Perhaps that was why she had grown so fiercely loyal to Kazuya in such a short space of time,   his plight was her own,  &  her desire to help him fulfil his full potential despite what others ( or he himself  )  might think now drove her. She had, &   for as long as he was her charge,   would always have his back    —    already prepared to wrestle the truth out of him   &   present it to the Commander    (  while old,   he was fair   &   kind,  &   one of the few she knew to also believe in Kazuya  —  whether the recruit himself knew it or not, was unbeknownst to her  ), or extract their own version of revenge. Whatever best suited him.
         “Lift your arms as far as is comfortable, we have to clean  &  bandage these properly.”    Taking a hold of the hem of his shirt, she waited for him to obey. Brown eyes drifting up to meet his  –  the mere inch in height difference allowing her to see the smaller injuries across his face too  –  Sachiko cocked a brow up at him.  
         “Just to be clear, I’m not asking here, I’m telling. Be that good boy you claim to be, Kazuya-kun,  &  do as you are told.”
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                  He doesn’t answer immediately, recognising when he’s caught; Kazuya merely sighs as she reaches for his shirt and examines his wound, obeying her order and shifting for easier access. The bandages are practically unraveled by now, merely sticking to where the blood is thickest along the cut in his side. Pale gaze fixed pointedly away from hers, he considers what to say.
                “Just the usual shit, y’know,” is what he settles for, tone gruff and smirk wry. “Wasn’t listening when the other guy decided a fist to the face was going to get my attention.”
                  A half-truth; there had been the usual comments about him, naturally -- that’s how these incidents always start. But they went one step further and brought up the person who brought him in. Questioned her honor and dignity, among other things. That she’d earned her metals on her back with her legs spread. That filth like him could only be here because this place has already been stained and stains only spread when left alone.
                 Kazuya had intended to breeze right past them as he had with others before them, but an odd pull and unfamiliar spark in his chest kept him rooted to the ground, drawing him back to them. Sachiko would definitely disapprove if she knew --- she’s a full-fledged woman and knight captain; she can handle a few insults --- but Kazuya has discovered that loyalty can make a man do unnecessary things.
                 Growing up the way he had, it’s easy to pick up a number of unique skills --- like how to provoke a man with his silence, to rattle them in a way that makes them slip before they even noticed. Which was what he did with his peers -- stoked their ire to the point of irrationality so that they’ll throw the first punch and he could return in kind, multiple times over --- and the fault wouldn’t be his own. Not entirely, at least.
               “Got ya in trouble again, did I?” he drawls, tone tinged with mild mirth as though he’s not sitting there with a bruised face and bleeding from a four-inch cut. “Sorry, capt’. Wish I attracted the ladies more than shitty punks -- but we can’t all have what we want, eh?”
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lollercakesff · 6 years
Text
Time & Again 14
Also available on AO3...
------
“I couldn’t unlock the door today,” El says from the couch in the cabin as Hopper walks in. He drops his utility belt on the table by the door and removes his hat, walking towards her.
“Sorry - what?” He pauses and looks between her and the TV, her eyes zeroed in on it.
“I had to crawl through the window after Mrs Wheeler dropped me off. Normally I can open the door without a problem,” she repeats and glances up at him then looks away.
Rubbing a hand across his face, he sighs. “Where were your keys? I thought we talked about this. You’re supposed to be cutting back on using your powers.”
“I forgot them,” she shrugs. He steps in front of the TV and squats down to her level, his eyes focused on her.
“El,” he watches as her wide eyes blink and her composure crumbles. “Kid, it’s okay,” he whispers into her hair as he wraps her up in his arms.
Hopper tries not to be frustrated with her, she was just a kid, but she had to know how serious this situation was. Though her symptoms weren’t getting worse - she hadn’t had a seizure again since the first one - her headaches weren’t really easing off. Doc Owens’ tests returned nothing substantial - her brain scans were not showing any degradation which was a relief, but the mystery persisted and was starting to wear on them both.
“What do you say we call up the Byers and see if they want to go out to eat tonight?” Hopper asks when she finally pulls away, her momentary lapse in independence ending.
“Can we go to McDonalds?”
Phone in hand, he scrunches up his nose at the suggestion as he dials Joyce’s number. She picks up on the third ring, breathless on the other end of the phone. “Hello?”
“Joyce, bring Will and let’s go out to dinner tonight. My treat,” he offers knowing her bills are usually tighter than his.
“Oh, I don’t know Hop,” she groans and he can practically hear the stress in her voice.
“Mom!” Will yells from somewhere in the house, the sound cutting across the line.
“Shh, I’m on the phone!” She shouts back and Hopper chuckles at the reaction.
“We’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Hopper states and hangs up, unwilling to take no for an answer. El and him make quick work of getting ready and arrive sooner than expected to a dark house before them. “I just called them…” He mumbles, looking between Joyce’s car and the empty windows.
Another second passes and Joyce and Will spill onto the front porch, Will struggling to put his coat on as Joyce drops her keys not once, but twice. He frowns at her flustered movements, watching carefully as they head towards the truck and pile in.
He knew the transition to not having Jonathan in the house would be tricky - Joyce relied on him heavily to keep Will looked after between her jobs - but he hadn’t expected the situation to fall apart at the seams like it looked to be.
“Hey,” El greeted as they clipped their seatbelts in and Joyce let out a heavy breath.
“Hi El - how’re you doing?” Joyce replied, turning to face her and focusing in on her in the way that made Hopper’s heart stumble with affection.
“I’m okay. I couldn’t open the door today so he’s trying to make me feel better.”
Hopper starts the engine as Joyce looks towards him, her hand reaching across the seat to grip his tightly in solidarity. The comfort comes unspoken between them and he manages to give her hand a squeeze before returning it to the wheel.
They’re halfway to town when Hopper shoots Joyce a look, eyebrows raised. “Why were all the windows dark when we picked you up?” He asks lowly as Joyce’s face flushes.
“She forgot to pay the electric bill,” Will pipes up from the back, laughing at the situation. Joyce scowls at him and tries to shush him from her seat.
“Oh,” Hopper nods, glancing at her briefly and gauging her reaction. “Was it a money thing or - “
“No. I just forgot. I went to the bank to wire the money for Jonathan’s tuition but I forgot to pay the bill when I was there. It’s fine,” she stumbles over the words as though she’s putting them together on the fly. He didn’t need to be a detective to see through it, but he knew better than to question her on it.
“Got it. Do you guys want to stay at the cabin tonight until you can call them tomorrow? It’s supposed to get cool…”
“Yes! Sleepover on a school night!” Will shouts from behind his seat as Joyce smiles weakly towards him.
“You’re sure that’s okay? I can bring the air mattress and set it up,” she offers a strained smile as he pulls into a parking spot.
“You guys can share Hopper’s room Mom, we know you share your room all the time when El stays over,” Will interjects and Hopper watches as El punches his shoulder.
“You weren’t supposed to tell them that we knew,” she hisses towards her friend, their attempt at keeping the secret falling apart.
“Yeah but the air mattress sucks. It has holes and everything, El. She’d basically be sleeping on the floor!”
“Okay - got it. Let’s just leave it at that,” Hopper laughs awkwardly and makes a show of leading the way into the restaurant.
They settle down to eat and after El and Will disappear into the playplace leaving Joyce and Hopper alone at the table. Neither of them know really where to start with the conversations they need to have so instead they choose to sit quietly, Joyce coming over to lean next to him as they watch the kids beyond the glass.
The ride home is a loud one as the kid’s excitement ramps up. Smiling, Hopper listens to the noise with a contentment he hadn’t felt in a long time. When Sara died he’d thought that that was the end of family for him - he was on his own. He’d divorced Diane less than a year after her death, his drinking and self-medicating tearing apart the patchwork marriage they’d been struggling through for the last year. Moving back to Hawkins and taking on the Chief of Police position had been a measure of desperation and he’d disappeared into himself, drowning in alcohol and a spree of one-night stands.
He’d never imagined that the disappearance of Will would be a catalyst to changing so much of his life - it had brought him El, lead him back to Joyce and somehow helped him build a paper house that he was determined to make work for as long as he could. He didn’t want to think about the end and what that would mean for him. He’d been telling Joyce the truth that day when he’d said he wouldn’t survive it. He wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
But that wasn’t a thought he wanted. Not as Joyce and Will piled into the truck with their overnight things and he drove back to the cabin in the dark. He got lost in the feel of the evening, the laughter coming easily as they forgot about everything that was going on. When Joyce and him were left on the couch as the hour grew late, he didn’t care that the kids were in the other room as he pulled her to him, his lips settling on hers as he sighed against her.
“I thought we were hiding our tracks better,” she murmurs after a moment, leaning back so she can look at him as her arms wrap around his neck.
“Mmhm, it was bound to happen eventually though.”
“That’s true. I don’t know - I guess I just,” she shrugs and tucks her head against his shoulder. “I think I just worry - they’ve been through a lot in the last few years. I don’t want us not working - “
“Are you thinking we’re not going to work out?” He interrupts and pulls back, a chill running through him.
“No - not at all. I’m just...“
“Scared?” He offers when she pauses, her lip between her teeth.
“Yeah. That’s a good word for it. I feel like everything is going well for once, like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop or something.” He closes his eyes and nods, his arms bringing her close again.
“God, I feel the same way. But I think half that fear is that you’ll just stop needing me and find someone else again,” he whispers the last part, self-conscious and vulnerable as he admits it.
“Again?” She presses, her fingers lightly scratching through his hair.
“It’s stupid.” His words are muttered, his lips placing kisses along her neckline as he tries to distract her.
“No, it’s not. Jim, when did I ever stop needing you?” She sits back and searches her eyes with his, fingers gripped in his shirt as though she couldn’t bare the thought of letting go.
“Like in highschool, with Lonnie,” he shrugs and looks away sheepishly. Joyce’s burst of laughter makes him jump in his skin, his eyes snapping back towards her.
“You told me that you couldn’t be with me,” she scoffs.
“I did not. I said that  - “
“‘I’m not right for you, Joyce,’” she tries to mimic his voice, her hands coming to her hips as she sits up tall on his lap. “It hurt me. I didn’t know how to deal with it and I made a mistake. But I never stopped needing you. That’s why I found you on Graduation Day and told you about the pregnancy. I needed your help then but - “
“I went off to war,” he adds quietly. They pause, their memories heavy on them until Hopper leans in and presses a whisper of a kiss to her lips. “We’ve found our way back,” he murmurs, his hand sliding up to cup her cheek. She returns the kiss, deepens it, before drawing back and getting to her feet.
She leads them into his bedroom and they take their time undressing in the light of the bedside lamp. When they climb into the bed and pull the quilt up around them, Joyce makes an effort to tuck her back against his until they’re flush and his hand is free to ghost over her skin.
They ensure to keep silent, their moans swallowed as their hands explore. It’s only after Hopper slides out of her, his body spent, that she rolls over and slips her leg between his with her nose against his throat.
“Are you going to call Owens about El?” Joyce asks when their breathing returns to normal, the calm night around them quiet and still.
“Yeah. I’ll do it tomorrow. I don’t know though - I feel like maybe it’s a good thing if her powers stop working. She can be a normal kid for once if it - I mean, is it shitty for me to feel like this?” He mumbles above her, his body instinctively tightening at the admission.
“No. I don’t think it’s bad to think that. It’s been a challenge for her - for you both… Who knows what’s going to happen.”
“Right? I feel like we can handle it. Whatever happens. This is actually - jesus - it’s the first time I feel that way.” He pauses and squeezes her to him. “Thank you.”
“Mmm, don’t say that now. Show me your thanks in the morning,” she whispers and runs her hand down to his ass where she gives it a playful squeeze.
“Oh, don’t worry - I fully intend to. Can I ask you something though and you won’t get mad at me?” His voice is tentative and low and her response is a mumble that he takes as a yes. “Did you really forget to pay the bill, or were you out of money this month? It’s just - I know the tuition to NYU is insane and as much as I love you here in my bed, I don’t want - “
“Hop… We were having a nice time,” she hisses and moves her head until she can look up at him. He laughs and slides his hand into her hair, guiding her back against him.
“I know. I know. It’s just - I love you and that kid. I can help or we can figure something out that works - “ She pulls back from him then until she’s practically out from under the blanket, her elbow propping her up and exposing her breasts, the distraction immediate.
She stares at him until his gaze slides from her chest to her eyes, the tears that shimmer there making his heart stutter.
“Joyce - “ He starts, terror and confusion lacing through him. What had he said to cause this reaction? Reaching, he brushes his hand over her shoulder and up to her chin, pausing there as she leans into it.
“Hop.” Her whisper reverberates within him and he forces himself to keep his mouth shut. He felt like they were on the verge of something huge, the chasm between them one they needed to cross. “I - I mean… I love you too.”
The breath of relief shakes through him, a deep laugh rumbling through his chest as he pulls her towards him. “I thought I’d pissed you off,” he mutters and kisses her forehead.
“You do, regularly. But I’d never heard you say you loved me before,” she says and he can hear the smile in her voice.
“Well I do. I have. For quite some time,” he admits willingly. He couldn’t remember specifically when it happened, but it was somewhere between a shared cigarette at her kitchen table and watching her fall off that ladder.
“I don’t know if I stopped, to be honest,” she whispers in response as a yawn strikes her and has her curling in closer.
“Joyce…” His fingers lift her chin so he can capture her lips with his, a slow kiss that deepens as he becomes harder at her hip.
“We need to sleep,” she giggles as her hand wraps around him.
“I know. But we just said something huge. Shouldn’t we - you know - seal the deal?” He asks lowly as his own hand finds her center and slips his fingers inside her.
“You’re definitely right. What was I thinking?” She sighs and surprises him by rolling him back and straddling him without warning. He takes the hint and changes his attention to her breast, teeth scraping across her nipples as she rises up and takes him inside.
The act is heated and quick. Their bodies working together, chasing each other with hands and lips, until Hopper has to lift a hand to her mouth to stifle her moan as she comes hard above him. When she collapses onto his chest he revels in the way her teeth nip at a sensitive spot on his neck, her heat squeezing around him until he can’t stand it anymore and he comes inside her with a heavy grunt.
Exhausted, content, they let their bodies cool until Hopper pulls the blanket over her shoulders.
“Hey Hop,” she whispers as her body moves to be his little spoon.
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
“Love you too.”
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machihunnicutt · 6 years
Text
Fic-vember Day 7
Ugh, this is late. My bad. Here’s some more of Lost and Found:
Lost and Found (les mis fic)
Chapter 2: Hesitation
(Or read on ao3.)
Grantaire didn’t want to leave yet. He was sinking in his couch, blinking blearily at the sketchbook in front of him. It was cold with the fall breeze rustling fiery leaves that seemed in almost endless supply, but he didn’t want to get up and shut the window. He had a little time left to finish his sketch of Enjolras. It was messy, as usual. Everything about Enjolras was sharp and well defined and Grantaire could only grasp at straws with his lackluster style.
He was always doing this: drawing and redrawing Enjolras until his image burned into his vision even when his eyes were closed. It was probably a problem, but Grantaire was good at ignoring problems. This sketch wasn’t so bad when he stopped to look at it. He did, reaching shakily for his coffee mug. The coffee was cold now and his hands were beginning to twitch the way they did when he needed a drink or a cigarette. For the sake of this halfway decent sketch he ignored the shaking.
Three minutes later he had something halfway decent and a headache. He sunk further in the couch and held the sketch up. It needed the vibrancy of the colors outside his window. It needed the cold too, just enough so you could tell that Enjolras commanded any room he entered. Just enough to tell you that if you looked at him too long you might freeze.
He got up, changed, and splashed some water on his face in an attempt to make himself presentable. He knew the others worried if he looked too worse for wear. Even Enjolras had commented once, after a night where he’d drank more than slept.
“R.” His hand on the table had woken him up. “Are you alright?”
When he sat up he had drool on his face and it took a moment for Enjolras to become more than a blur of gold.
“The meeting’s over,” he’d continued. “Do you want me to walk you home?” he asked brusquely.
He laughed but it came out scratchy and sad. “I’m fine oh fearless leader. Don’t worry about it.”
Enjolras’s eyes narrowed and their gaze was icy. “Fine then. You just don’t look well. You should take care of yourself.” He readjusted his bag on his shoulder and turned to leave. R was still trying to process his words when Enjolras hesitated and turned back to face him.
“I don’t know why you call me that,” he said, voice rising . “I’m not...I mean it’s not as if I’m fearless anyway. You’re wrong about me.”
“I’m wrong?” He repeated dumbly.
“Yes.” Grantaire wasn’t sure he’d seen him this flustered before. The ice had melted as rapidly as it had appeared. His face was almost as red as his shirt. R tried to memorize his expression to draw later but he was too disoriented to capture the details properly.
“Why do you care whether or not I take care of myself?” He asked. It wasn’t the question his brain needed to ask but it was the only one his lips could find.
“Forget it R.” It was almost a whisper. His hands were twitching on the strap of his messenger bag. “Goodnight.”
Today, maybe he’d have the right words. He put on his shoes and grabbed his keys and jacket, carefully emptying the pockets as to leave behind his flask and pack of cigarettes. Impulsively, he tore out the sketch of Enjolras, folded it, and put it in his now empty pocket. It was time to meet the others.
***
Marius couldn’t help but stare at the sky. It had turned a dreamy pink during their drive and was even more brilliant now that he was out of the car. He was glad the fundraiser seemed to be going well. The line to enter the maze was long and he saw Eponine wave from her place at the ticket booth.
“Damn, good turnout huh?” Courfeyrac said beside him. Marius tried to school his body into normalcy but it wasn’t happening today. Instead he half flinched half smiled and blurted out the first thing he could think of.
“The sky reminds me of you.”
“The what now?”
“The sky,” he repeated, looking around to see if the others were paying attention. Combeferre and Enjolras were busy debating whether or not to get in line now or to check out the brochures the organizers were handing out with the hot apple they were selling. “I um…sorry, it’s dumb I was just looking at the sky and thinking about how it’s the color of cotton candy and it’s pretty and calming and reminds me of you. Sorry that’s weird.”
Courf laughed and Marius jumped. “That’s really cute. Why are you sorry?”
He called what you said cute not you, Marius’s brain helpfully reminded him. Calm down. Courf was taking his hand so he didn’t have to worry about responding.
“I don’t know what they’re gonna do, but you and I are going to buy some cider.”
“Okay.”
Courfeyrac didn’t let go of his hand until they were at the front of the line. He paid for the cider despite Marius’s deliberate reaching for his own wallet. “I owe you one anyway,” he said, though he said this often and Marius was never certain of what Courfeyrac was supposed to have owed him. If anything, Marius was the one who owed him. His first year of school, when he arrived on campus and found out his grandfather had pulled the plug on his housing contract out of spite, Courf welcomed him with open arms for the entire semester. He didn’t even ask for anything in return even when Marius insisted he repay him somehow. Back then he was working full time in addition to class, nearly sleepwalking back to their apartment on nights when he had late shifts. Still, Courf was there with coffee and flashcards when he needed to study, made sure Marius ate regular meals even when cash or time was tight, and knew precisely when to give him space and conversely, when they needed to huddle under blankets on the couch and watch shitty movies until the sun came up. After a semester of that, Marius didn’t think Courf owed him anything ever again.
The cider was warm and sweet and helped to settle the nerves that had found their way to Marius’s shaky fingers. They rejoined the others, some of whom had cider of their own already, and got in line for the maze. Cosette had an extra cider to give to Eponine when they got to the front.
“I told her to bring gloves but oh no , don’t listen to your smart and caring girlfriend ,” she said teasingly. “Her hands are going to be so cold. She’s gonna eat her words.”
Courf laughed. “Mari didn’t bring gloves either did he?”
Marius shook his head and slipped his free hand further up his sweater sleeve.
“Honestly, what am I going to do with you,” Cosette said, feigning indignance. She looked as if she was going to put her hands on her hips but her hands were still occupied with the cider. She had on the red earmuffs Ep had gotten her for Christmas and she had the matching scarf Marius had knitted for her wrapped around her neck and hair, keeping the hair pressed to her neck like an extra golden scarf.
“It’s alright, here,” Courf offered his hand again and Marius took it, still reeling from the hand holding moments before. “I’ll be your glove.”
Cosette laughed and he shot her a look, blushing furiously. “I’ll see you two at the end then?” She kissed Marius on the cheek. “Don’t get lost.”
They split naturally into several groups before entering the maze. Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet linked arms so Bossuet was in the middle (they didn’t trust him not to go in the wrong direction or knock something over.) Cosette, Combeferre, and Bahorel comprised the second group once Cosette had had her fill of distracting Eponine from her volunteer duties. Courfeyrac was with Marius. And finally, Enjolras was matched with Grantaire. Marius found this duo a bit odd but was happy that they were making an attempt to get along.
The hay was piled high and though Courf stood on his tiptoes to try to to see over it, he couldn’t. They worked at the puzzle easily for awhile. Marius liked figuring things out, even if he was a bit slow on the uptake at times. They took turns directing, switching when they hit dead ends. When Marius’s direction got them nowhere he apologized and Courf told him not to because the fun was in the challenge. So far they hadn’t managed to bump into the others.
“Do you remember that time I talked you into singing that song from Grease with me during karaoke?”
It had been Eponine’s birthday and they’d sung “Summer Nights” so of course he remembered. “Yeah, why?”
Courf was looking wistfully up at the cotton candy sky. “Nothing, it’s just the thing you said about the sky. Except for me it’s you and that song.” He turned his gaze back to Marius and smiled. “I’m really glad you’re here with me,” he said.
Oh god, he should do it now shouldn’t he? It was the perfect time. There wasn’t anyone or anything to interrupt him but his own seeping fear. There was nothing but the voice at the back of his head telling him he wasn’t worth the trouble he caused. There was the part of him that still felt like the little kid who was nothing but ignored. He was still the anxious, dorky, mess who didn’t even have his life together enough to articulate what he’d felt for years. He couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t…
“Hey, are you okay?’ He blinked and Courfeyrac’s shock of dark hair flickered back into clarity. The concern in his eyes nearly paralyzed him.
“I um...need a minute. Sorry.” His feet moved before his brain told them to and then he was taking off through the maze, leaving Courf speechless in his wake.
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Warm Bodies
Check out my other works on my AO3 Here: artobsessed_writes 
Bakugou walked through the door of his dorm and dropped his book bag on the floor with a loud thud. He was exhausted with having to deal with idiots like Deku and Kaminari all day while also trying to study for the upcoming exam. He just wanted a hot shower and to sit on the couch and play videogames until the sun came up considering today was Friday.
Making his way into his dorm he went to the bathroom to shower and change into a fresh pair of clothes. Needless to say he felt a lot better once he was done with changing. It wasn’t often that he got the dorm to himself since Todoroki doesn’t seem to go out much unless Deku makes him. Thankfully it’s date night or whatever for them today so Bakugou is all alone ‘til tomorrow, which he couldn’t be more grateful for. He grabs a glass of milk from the fridge and heads over the couch to set up for the obvious all nighter.
He nearly breaks the glass in his hand with the new rush of rage when he sees the sleeping figure on the couch. Of course the nit wit is here. The world would never let anything go Bakugou’s way, it might explode if it did. The red headed figure made a soft sound and smiled in his sleep.
“Probably thinking about fish or something stupid.” Bakugo mutters to himself. He kicks the couch hard enough to nearly tip it over.
“Oi! Shitty hair! Get the fuck off my couch right now before I fucking crush you skull in!”
The redhead squealed as he woke up and leapt off the couch and onto the coffee table with grace and precision no human being could possibly possess. He blinks and tilts his head as he pouts, the bell that is around his neck ringing as he does so. Bakugou hates that stupid bell, if it wasn’t for that bell he wouldn’t have this damn fox spirit following him around everywhere.
“Katsuki.” The red head whined, “That was mean.”
Bakugou just scowled as he sat down on the couch. “Like I care Shittyshima. You aren’t even supposed to be here so you really have no room to complain.”
He leans his head back on the couch and closes his eyes for a second trying to calm his anger when he suddenly hears that retched bell and when he opens his eyes he has a lap full of the fox spirit. “Kirishima. My name is Eijirou Kirishima. Haven’t I told you that already?” The most annoying part of that question was that it was completely genuine. The stupid fox didn’t really understand names and the uses of the them so he sometimes forgets to introduce himself when he meets new people or so Bakugou has been told many times.
“Of course you have already told me that. Why else would I have used that fucking nickname? Honestly sometimes I just think you are slow in the head or something.” Being this close to Kirishima was starting to really grate his nerves.
“Then how come you never use it? I call you by your name.” That ticks Bakugou off even more.
“I know you fucking do and I hate it. I’ve told you before that I hate it when you call me by my first name.”
This conversation was going nowhere Bakugou wanted it to go so he shoved Kirishima off his lap and made him sit on the couch. “Stay here.”
The red head happily obliged and Bakugou went to the cabinet under the TV to grab two game controllers and puts in a Black Ops game. He needed to vent some aggression. Sitting back on the couch he hands a control to Kirishima. “Here.” Kirishima fumbles with it and looks at all the colorful buttons. He has seen things like this before while watching kids play against each other on handheld devices. But normally there is a screen in the middle yet there isn’t one on this controller. He flips it over, still nothing.
“Uh, how do you use this?” His long nails made hitting the buttons kind of hard. “You basically mash the buttons when you are angry and you try to kill the people on the screen.” Bakugou points to the TV screen where a match has already started. “Oh, okay.” That sounded simple enough. Kirishima mashed the buttons like he was told to do and an hour and a half later he had won most of the matches. He pumps his fist in the air when the last match ends and the text says ‘Player 2 Won’ on it again.
“That was awesome! I’ve never played something like that before. Do you have any more games?” The fox spirit asked in utter glee. Bakugou on the other hand was probably more irritated that he was before. The game had meant to relieve stress not add to it but of course he had to be competitive when it came to playing against Kirishima and he had lost.
“No, shut up. Your fucking annoying voice is giving me a headache.” He throws the controller on the coffee table in a huff of anger. Kirishima’s excitement dampens a little at the news but then he takes in his owner's attitude. He’s been like this since he got home. Normally Bakugou is moody and angry but it passes after a while. His tail swishes back and forth and his ears twitch as he thinks of a way to calm Bakugou down. Suddenly an idea pops into his head and Kirishima lights up again. “Katsuki, I want to try something. Will you let me?” He jumps onto the coffee table so he is in front of the volatile blonde. Bakugou huffs and glares at him. “What is it?” Most the the time the stupid fox’s ideas were just plain dumb but Kirishima seems to be practically buzzing with excitement so if Bakugou wanted the damn spirit to sleep tonight so he could at least get some shut eye he might as well humor him a little. Kirishima takes his response as a yes and stands up. He grabs his wrist and pulls the blonde up off the couch.
“You’ll like it, I promise.” He says with a big smile and leads him over the bed and makes him sit which Bakugou does reluctantly. He crosses his arms as the fox gets behind him. “What on earth are you doing shittyshima?” There is anger in his voice but it also has a touch of curiosity. “Nothing bad, I swear. Uncross your arms.” Bakugou sighs but does as he is told. Kaminari likes to point out that Kirishima is probably the only person that Bakugou will listen to and as much as he hates the idea he has to agree with him. It probably has to do with Kirishima being the first person to actually talk to him like a normal person rather than a ticking time bomb that is trying to keep from going off. As Bakugou is lost in thought he suddenly feels hands on his back. He stiffens, knowing that whatever Kirishima is trying to do will only end up with him scratching him like he always does. “Relax.” The red head’s voice comes from behind him and after awhile with no scratches Bakugou does start to relax. That’s when he notices what Kirishima is doing. He is massaging his back and rubbing out all the tension and soreness that is in his muscles from today and every day up until today. Despite his nails being sharp enough to cut steel, the pads on his fingers on smooth. Bakugou’s shoulders sag a little more as he lets his eyes fall close. All irritation from before seems to just seep out of him as Kirishima works over his muscles.
When he gets to a particularly sore spot Bakugou hisses and flinches but Kirishima just whispers reassurances to him. It’s not often that Bakugou is so mild mannered and subdued but when Kirishima is done with his massage and Bakugou is lying on the bed on his back, he can’t even work up the energy to get upset when the stupid fox climbs over and straddles him.
“Seems that the massage really worked hmm?” Kirishima smiles down at him and Bakugou just avoids eye contact rather than give him a response. That is until he felt those same fingers under his chin as they tilt his head back to look at Kirishima.
“Don’t be mean, shouldn’t I get at least a thanks. Maybe a kiss? “ he says hopefully. Bakugou will never understand this damn fox. He is ruthless when he comes to fighting and has no problem getting his hands dirty with the blood of his prey but he is the sappiest and most considerate person Bakugou has ever met when he isn’t fighting or scavenging for food.
“Fine.” As if he could say no to his face anyway. Lifting his arm, he tangles it in Kirishima’s red lock and pulls him down for a kiss. Nothing about Bakugou is gentle, not his attitude, his voice or his approach to things, but something about this stupid fox makes him want to be gentle. His soft lips against Bakugou’s chapped ones, his fingers tangling in his hair, being extremely careful of his nails. That damn red head was just too considerate and kind for his own good and it was starting to rub off on Bakugou as much as he hated to admit it.
Kirishima broke the kiss to start trailing butterfly kisses down the blonde’s neck. If anyone ever asked him who was the one that melted under a simple touch like this he was instructed to say it was him but he knew the truth. Since all Bakugou’s irritation and anger was gone and it was just the two of them nothing was stopping him from letting soft little sounds leave his lips as Kirishima pushed his shirt up to kiss his chest.
The fox had an obsession with Bakugou’s body much to Bakugou’s usual irritation. The blonde liked fucking. Just using it as something to take out aggression enough so that he can make it through the rest of the day without exploding. Kirishima on the other had liked love making, cherishing his partner and taking his time when it came to appreciating everything about them. It was endearing in a way, a way that Bakugou would never admit out loud but it was at the forefront of his thoughts as he thread his fingers through Kirishima’s hair.
Kirishima looked at him with those bright red eyes and smiles. He leans back up and captures Bakugou’s lips again in a kiss. This time it was less sweet and innocent. It was hot and heavy and it left Bakugo panting for air when Kirishima pulled away.
A smirk graced the fox’s lips. He took pride in being the only one that can make Bakugou a complete mess like this. Something starts to poke him and he grinds down on it lightly drawing a soft moan from the blonde underneath him.
“Are you getting hard Katsuki?” As much as Bakugou wants to yell at him, his voice is like a soft and smooth purr that sends a shiver up his spine and he is right about Bakugou being hard.
“So what if I fucking am huh? Don't look so smug about it- ah!” Before he could barely finish his sentence Kirishima ground down hard on his hips and all Bakugou could do was glare at him.
“Do you need a little help with this problem?” the smirk hasn't vanished yet and Kirishima slips his hand inside his pants and starts to palm him through his underwear. Bakugou’s face is flushed now and hips buck, looking for more friction. Kirishima leans down to whisper in his ear.
“I think you do. I want to hear it from you though. Tell me you want me to help, that you want me.”
Bakugou rolls his eyes, which is a little hard since staying focused on anything is a monumental mental task. Threads his fingers through Kirishima hair.
“Of course I want you. Why do I have to say it every fucking time we do this?” It was the only thing Kirishima seemed to need to hear over and over. From what Bakugou could gather Kirishima wasn’t used to someone wanting him. He was a forgotten spirit that roamed the forest by night and watched humans live their lives by day. All while staying high in a tree branch so he couldn’t be seen. He knew humans didn’t want him anymore and as much as he laughed it off and said it didn’t bother him, just from this one habit Bakugou knew that it meant a lot to him. “Cause I like hearing you say it.” Kirishima’s bright voice shakes the blonde from his thoughts. His hand pushes Bakugou’s pants down and throws them haphazardly on the floor and his underwear follows as well. Moving down so he can have a better view of Bakugou’s dick, Kirishima carefully wraps his fingers around the base. He is much better at this then when they first did this and he is aware of his claws at all times now, so when he starts to move his hand up and down Bakugou doesn’t really worry about having his dick shredded to pieces. He is also to lost in pleasure to even care if that happened right now.
Kirishima moves his head down and runs his tongue along the underside of Bakugou’s dick. It sent shivers up the blonde;s spine and a long drawn out moan was pulled from his throat when Kirishima takes him fully into his mouth. Bobbing his head up and down the redhead makes sure that he locks eyes with Bakugou. He knows how much Bakugou loves watching him when he is giving him a blow job. Bakugou starts to buck his hips up into Kirishima’s mouth and Kirishima relaxes his throat so he can take it. It doesn’t take long to bring Bakugou to the edge and his moans are higher and louder as he gets closer and closer to his orgasm.
Before he can have any release though Kirishima pulls off of him and climbs back up his body to straddle him. A whine comes from Bakugou before he can stop it, but he makes up for it with a glare as he bares his teeth at the fox.
“What the fuck?! Why the fuck did you stop you stupid fox?” Kirishima only smirked at him which just made his anger escalate. “I don’t want you to cum yet.” Kirishima says as he takes off his pants, his tail swishing lazily back and forth as he positions himself over Bakugou’s dick.
“I want to feel you inside me.” He lowers himself onto the blonde’s dick, feeling the stretch and burn of being filled up so much, so suddenly. The moans that fall from his lips are sounds that Bakugou never wants to forget. They are as clear as the bell around his neck and so angelic that it should be a sin for a spirit like him to sound like that. Kirishima’s tight heat wraps around him as he sits fully on his dick. It was enough to make him cum right then and there but Bakugou had his pride to think of and no way he was letting Kirishima have the satisfaction of seeing him cum from just entering him.
As soon as Kirishima is finished sinking onto him he starts to move. Bracing his hands against Bakugou’s chest, he lifts his hips up and brings the back down. The way he is biting his lip and the moans that escape even though he is trying to keep them back break all of Bakugou’s mental control and he puts his hands on Kirishima’s hips and starts to thrust into him. Kirishima’s moans start to get loud as Bakugou watches his face become overcome with pleasure. He leans over and presses their chests to gether so Bakugou can have a better angle. With a few thrusts Kirishima is nearly screaming with pleasure as Bakugou hits his sweet spot. “Ah…..Katsuki, Katsuki. So good…..it feels so good.” Normally he hates hearing his first name but the way Kirishima says it with a voice that sounds completely blissed out makes him moan hard. He turns his head and captures Kirishima’s lips in a searing kiss. It’s messy and uncoordinated but still perfect. He swallows all the noises and moans Kirishima makes and with a hard thrust to his sweet spot the redhead is moaning into his mouth as he cums. Bakugou keeps thrusting into him and breaks the kiss to breathe. Kirishima is whimpering from the oversensitivity but the looks on his face is what sends Bakugou over the edge as he cums deep inside Kirishima. He slows and stops, letting Kirishima laying on his chest as they both catch their breath.
“Did that help ease your mood?” Kirishima asks after awhile of just listening to the blond breathe. “Yeah Eijirou, it did.” He wasn’t lying. For how annoying the fox can be he seems to always know how to relax Bakugou and make him forget about the bad day he was having. Kirishima’s ears perk up, the large red earrings in them swaying with the motion.
“You used my name.” The underrated joy in his voice was impossible to ignore and Bakugou just sighed and wrapped his arms around the boy on top of him. “Yes you stupid fox, I used your name. Happy?” Kirisma just grinned and snuggles closer into Bakugou. He yawns, showing off all his sharp canine teeth and closes his eyes. “Yeah, that makes me really happy.”
Bakugou runs his fingers through Kirishima’s hair as he falls asleep with a slight smile on his lips. “Whatever you say you stupid fox.”
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Servant of Fate (Part 3)
Hey, so much for uploading one part every day. Well, the best laid plans of mice and men, not counting chickens before they hatch .. etc. But here it is, the third part. This is getting a little more complicated than I actually expected.
The feeling of her touch faded, as did the darkness. When Sanji finally opened his eyes again, a surprising amount of things had changed. So much indeed, that he was overcome by nausea.
He closed his eyes again and began rubbing his temples to get rid of it, and to cope with the fact that he had solid ground beneath his body, no longer the shaking deck of the Thousand Sunny. The rustling the ground made when he moved indicated that he was lying on something rather soft.
Straw?, he slowly thought while regaining his senses. Yes, it was straw, the smell was rather distinct, as was the one of burning tobacco that hit his nostrils only moments after.
“Already awake?”, this time, it was a strangely familiar male voice. It took him a few seconds to realise that the stranger had taken on his male form again, forcing him to open his eyes and come to his feet. Even though he was still feeling slightly confused, his stance was solid again, readying himself for any ambush that might happen.
“At ease, friend. Take a few more seconds to come to your senses, you might need them. Hope you don’t mind that I borrowed one of your cigarettes to pass the time.”, the long-haired man was standing right next to a wooden door. Little by little, more impressions reached his sight. They must have been standing within some kind of a barn or a shack.
Still rubbing his temples, Sanji raised his voice a little. “Careful with that .. don’t wan’t to burn to death in here .. where are we?”
“Well, at least you’re asking half the amount of right questions by now. Please, allow me to welcome you to Cocoyashi Village, ten years ago.”
Cocoyashi .. isn’t that .. Nami-san’s home!
His eyes were open wide and with sheer force of will, he pushed the nausea out of his system, becoming alert.
“That’s not possible! Stop playing your shitty tricks on me.”, his hands balled into fists. Whoever this person was, he or she went too far.
“I told you that you will be given the chance to prove your word’s worth. Now listen to what I have to say, because time is short.”, he was looking at him with the slightest hint of annoyance that also resounded in his words.
“Good. As I already said, this is Cocoyashi Village, on the exact day that the fates lay claim on the life of an innocent. In this particular case, it is a woman.”
To any other person, these words could have meant anything. To Sanji though, Nami’s past was a tragic story that he never, not even for a second, dared to forget.
“Bell-mère? Nami’s mother?”, he still did not fully believe to be here, but just for the off-chance of it, he went with it.
“That is indeed her name. And as I have promised, I will grant you permission to defy fate.. somewhat.”, initially, the implications he made weren’t exactly clear to Sanji, but he got at least some of it.
“Do you mean that I can act within this village?! Is there a chance to save Nami’s mother?”, even though he was still injured from the clash with the Big Mom Pirates, Sanji was fairly certain that he had become strong enough to take on Arlong and his crew. I should spare Hatchan, though., he remembered when recalling the fishmen.
“To somewhat defy fate, my friend. Within reasonable boundaries. There’s a catch to all of it. And if you’d hold your tongue for just a minute, I’d fill you in on those.”, again, slight annoyance was found within his voice while Sanji feared for the worst.
“First off, what do you think will happen if you ease the pain of your navigator’s tragic past? Not to her, I mean, but to you.”, the gears of Sanji’s mind began to work as fast they ever had. Was there so much to take into account? After a few more seconds, it began to dawn on him.
“If .. if I take away her pain by defeating Arlong before he could murder Bell-mère, would I still have a reason to do it in the present?”, the stranger’s smile was enough an answer to confirm his apprehension.
“No, you wouldn’t. Actually, you couldn’t have one, for it would cause a paradox. It’s not the only reason, though. As I have already told you, the fates will claim the life of an innocent today, in this village, within the very minute that the fishman will shoot the mother. No matter what you do, the fates will have their due.”, he sighed and Sanji’s head began to hurt.
“But .. isn’t me being here a paradox in its own right?”, he closed his eyes and began massaging his temples again, this stuff was complicated.
“You’re a bright one, aren’t you? Indeed, it could be. That’s kind of the whole point of bending the rules. When I took you here, I altered your existence .. a bit more than a little, to be perfectly frank. To the point of your crew having another cook and you never having met them. Yes, don’t give me that bland look, you know your captain. Remember his charisma and his will to become the Pirate King, of course they would’ve found another cook, one that your navigator might or might not fall in love with. Not that it matters, though.”
“Altered my existence? What exactly does that mean? Have I ever existed in my own time? Will I have a reason at all to come here? If they have another cook, is it even necessary to do anything here?”, time travel sure was a different beast, even getting a grasp on something connected to it brought back the terribly nauseating feeling.
“You tell me, Pariah. No father, not even a surrogate father, no family, no crew. You’re of the Void now. With all your adventures and feelings being but the passing of an ethereal dream, is there still a reason?”, there it was again, slight interest within the ageless face of the stranger. For a long moment, Sanji was unable to answer. The situation was more complicated than he or the author of this story could have dreamed of. Breathing out slowly, he tried to grasp some of these memories that the stranger called ethereal.
“I .. I remember everything.”, he slowly began, continueing the massage of his temples. “My .. mother, the iron mask .. Zeff and the terrible hunger .. Nami .. my nakama ..”, the headache got stronger, but Sanji’s grasp on his old life did not waver, not even for a moment.
“Impressive. Very impressive. There’s your answer, then. May these memories be your beacon within the Void, Pariah. As long as you remember them, things might not have been fully erased from existence. That is what the something is that is making humanity special! This universe is vast and uncaring, even a lifetime of a hundred years, whatever impact on that might be changing the world is worth nothing on a cosmic scale, but still, through heart and dreams, you manage to cling on to something. Your life, Pariah, is but the blink of an eye. Still, you manage to give yourself purpose. The only way to survive, to be someone, is to provide your own torch in a universe that is indifferent about your very existence.”, the stranger nodded solemnly and took another deep draw from the cigarette.
“I WISH THAT I WAS ADOPTED BY A RICH FAMILY!”, the sudden shout, followed by a door smashed shut, startled Sanji, especially since the voice seemed somewhat familiar.
“Was that Nami-san?!”, he went for the barn’s door to check on her, only to be stopped by the stranger’s grip on his shoulder.
“Yes, it was. Time is marching on, hold out a minute longer because I feel that you’re still not able to see the whole picture. The fates will have their due, my friend. Either they will claim an innocent life today or the consequences .. would be dire.”, he finally let loose of his shoulder and smoked the last bit of the cigarette.
“If I kill Arlong, the fates will have what they want: A dead body!”, Sanji finally shouted at the stranger, but only gained the shaking of his head as an answer.
“Someone innocent. Yes, Arlong would be dead, but he’s not exactly what I’d call an innocent. Even I cannot foresee what would happen, but it ranges from a storm or a cataclysm to destroy Cocoyashi to just about anything. War might sweep over the village, another, even worse pirate might come to pillage and plunder and kill. If you try to deny the fates what is rightfully theirs, you will be paid back in kind.”, the stranger crushed the cigarette under his heels, still staring at Sanji.
“Nami-san and the others will be happy and able to reach their dreams within the time you’ve taken me from if I stay here, right?”, finally, he was able to grasp the whole picture, along with what seemed to be the stranger’s plan since the start of their conversation. He nodded in approval.
“Then the fates will have their due.”, Sanji nearly spat out these words when the stranger finally allowed him to open the door.
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