#and as I understand it a little bit autobiographical | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

love-kurdt · 4 months

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This is Me Trying (byler): 3

word count: 6,996

warnings for this chapter: none really, ngl. just very honest and open conversation. but same as all the other warnings in previous chapters, just be cautious if you see anything that may trigger you. this is semi-autobiographical so pls be kind <3

in short: if you are emotionally or mentally vulnerable, please dni.

The world buzzed with static around him, each second feeling like an eternity. Time stood still, just like the day Mike took off his watch. His hands were shaking, the anticipation inside him about to explode like fireworks. He balled his hands up into fists and put them in his sweatshirt pockets, but immediately pulled them back out because he could feel his palms getting sweaty.

Mike glanced around, and saw the nextdoor neighbor taking her dog out for a walk. He raised his hand in an awkward greeting, and she smiled back at him. He watched her run further and further away until they were out of his line of sight; a minute had definitely passed by now. He turned his attention back to the door, and lifted his hand again, going to knock one last time.

But then, before he was able to, Will opened the door.

Mike froze, his hand still in the air. He lowered his arm slowly, and took a mental photograph of Will’s awestricken face before he was met with a faceful of door. He should have seen that coming. He leaned his head against the door, exhaling with a shaky breath. “Will… I know I’m the last person you want to see. I just…” he hesitated, digging his nails into his palms. This was likely going to be his first of many fumbles. “This is going fucking splendidly already, Jesus Christ.”

There was no response on Will’s end, but Mike figured he might as well get everything off his chest, even if Will wasn’t there to hear it. Saying it out loud could probably suffice. “Uh… I guess I should start by saying I’m sorry. For everything. For hurting you with my words, with my actions, for being so fucking reckless with my life. I’ve accumulated a lot of regrets over the past few years, but…” here goes nothing, “loving you will never be one of them.”

Mike closed his eyes with his head still on the door, but jumped back a bit in surprise when he felt a light thump right next to his face. “... Will?”

“I’m listening.”

The faint sound of Will’s voice was music to Mike’s ears; low and velvety, with a hint of rasp. His stomach nervously flipped as he cleared his throat, continuing on. “I’ve been a mess without you. I don’t know who I am without you. This is me trying to say…” Mike trailed off. What was he trying to say? How could he reduce his love for Will into a single sentence? How could he explain himself in a concise, yet bold form that wouldn’t scare Will away? He couldn’t. He was doomed regardless of how the conversation would unfold. He asked Will the first thing that came to mind: “... You ever been to a college party?”

“Yeah, a few.” Will replied.

“Well, I just failed out of school because I went to way too many of them. I just drove here directly from my last one, actually.” He tried to add a bit of humor to his voice, but it ended up coming out sounding pathetically broken. Fumble number two. Fuck it all. Everything was going down in flames. Mike set his hand on the door, caressing the painted surface as if it were Will’s face.

“But here’s the thing— it’s hard to be at a party when you feel like an open wound. You’re all I think about, and it’s like I can’t… I can’t let go. It’s hard to be anywhere these days when all I want is you. And even though you don’t love me, and even if we can never be friends again, I need that closure, Will, and I need you to understand that I won’t move on if that never happens.” Mike felt the doorknob click below, and he lifted his head up just as the door opened again. Will emerged, tears lining his cheeks. Motherfucking fumble number three. When Will and Mike were little, they functioned as a unit. When Will was happy, Mike was happy. When Will would cry, Mike would cry with him. Now, Mike felt like he was five years old again, getting choked up at the sight of Will crying, and mentally cursed himself. “Fuck, now I’ve made you cry for the umpteenth time in our lives. What else is new?”

Will crossed his arms across his chest, and looked down towards the ground, still on the defensive. But his voice betrayed him when he said, “No, please don't worry about me. It’s fine. And I…” his voice wobbled, “I’m sorry for slamming the door. I was just so…”

Mike nodded in sorrowful understanding. “Yeah.”

He took a good look at Will, noticing how Will’s hair had finally grown out of the bowl cut, falling into his eyes in loose copper waves, ending just above his strong jaw. His eyes, even obscured with tears, looked green as ever. Mike wanted to drown in them.

“You changed your hair,” Mike heard himself say. Will let out a small smile at that, brushing some of his bangs out of his eyes, along with some tears that had attached themselves to his eyelashes.

“Yeah, the bowl was kind of… archaic.” Both of them began awkwardly laughing while still crying. Mike had to refrain from thinking too much, because if he did, he’d get all sentimental about how this was the first time he’d laughed with Will in… he couldn’t even remember.

“You like it, though?” he asked. He still sought his approval, after everything. Of course Mike liked it. Mike liked Will’s hair no matter how it was cut. But this style that Will was sporting currently had Mike falling flat on his face; and not literally, for once.

“Yeah, it really suits you,” he told Will, who was flattered at the compliment.

“Thank you. I mean, Mom’s skill set with scissors was… limited, but she tried.” Mike thought of that one time he’d walked into the Byers household unannounced back in junior year of high school. Will was sitting on a chair in the middle of the kitchen with a literal bowl on his head as Joyce shuffled around her son with a pair of kitchen shears. Joyce was an incredible mom who loved both of her boys unconditionally. Which reminded Mike…

“How’d you get my number?”

“Your mom gave it to me over Christmas break.”

“She shouldn’t have done that.”

“I’m sorry for letting her give me your number,” he apologized, picking at the nails of his index fingers with his thumbs. “And I’m sorry for calling you on your birthday. I should’ve respected your space.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Will replied quickly, eyes wide. “I was being a total asshole that day. I know this doesn’t excuse what I said to you, but I’ll have you know I’d just failed an English test–”

“Did you not read the material?” Mike smirked, and Will smiled back up at him, their eyes fully meeting for the first time.

“You know me too well,” he said, and Mike’s heart skipped a beat. “But then, when I thought my day couldn’t get any worse, my boyfriend at the time broke up with me.”

Mike gawked at that, his eyes narrowing. “On your birthday? That’s ass.”

Will leaned against the doorframe. “Mike Wheeler, everyone: ex-English major, literary nerd, and author.” Mike ignored the not-so-subtle roasts in favor of Will’s muscles, which were even more defined than he remembered. Will had obviously become well-acquainted with the gym. His gaze trailed along the divots of his biceps, and his mouth went dry when he realized that Will was wearing… the blue sweatshirt Mike had sworn had gone missing during senior year.

“But yeah,” Will continued, “leave it to Matt Winters to ruin the one day of the year where I don’t feel like shit. So when you called, I’d just gotten back home. And I felt so guilty for snapping at you and hanging up that I didn’t call you back after the fact, because I was afraid you’d be mad at me.”

“Are you kidding? I could never be mad at you. Ever,” Mike emphasized. “And we both know I’m not a good person when I hold grudges.”

Will’s strong eyebrows furrowed, and Mike feared he’d said something wrong, but Will rose up onto his tiptoes, lifting his hand up to Mike’s forehead in mock-concern. “Mike, are you okay? Do you need medical assistance?” Yes. If Will was going to act all flirty and cute and tiptoe-y and forehead touch-y, then they’d need to call an ambulance. Because Mike was down bad.

“Haha. You’re funny,” Mike deadpanned at the joke, despite himself.

Will retreated back to his spot in the doorway. “But seriously, I just told you that I have a real live ex, and you’re not mad?” How could Mike be mad at Will for that? Why would Mike be mad at Will for that? It wasn’t like Mike had any right or say as to who Will dated, and if Mike did so much as judge Will for any romance-related decisions, he’d be the biggest fucking hypocrite to ever walk the earth. He figured he’d come clean to Will about this one. It was the whole reason why he was here, after all.

“Will, I hooked up with four guys…” Should he say this next part? Sure, okay, whatever– “And all of them had the initials ‘WB’.” Mike’s focus shifted down to his shoes, too humiliated to see Will’s reaction. But he didn’t even have to see it, because Will giggled. Like, high pitched and adorably. Mike’s head snapped up and Will, having gotten caught laughing at Mike’s biggest shame, slapped his own hand to his mouth in a failed attempt to stifle it.

“No way,” Will said, his voice still suppressed with his hand.

“Way,” Mike quipped back. He decided to try something new then, reaching up to Will’s wrist and pulling his hand away from his face. His beautiful lips were curved into a shy smile.

Will shook his head, crossing his arms again, but not in hostility like he had before. “I don’t believe you.” And all of a sudden, it was August 1989, and they were back in Mike’s basement again. Those were Will’s last words to Mike before he’d stormed out, never to be seen again. And a year and a half later, Will became thoroughly aware of the aftermath, where Mike tried and failed to fill the Will-less void with–

“Wyatt Bowman, Wes Butler, Walker Brooks, Warren Blakeley,” he listed off what he’d endearingly dubbed The WBs™, but now in retrospect viewed as fucking pathetic, and watched as Will exhaled sadly. He tacked the only thing he could think of onto the end of his list to lighten the mood: “... And there was a guy named Elvis.”

Will snorted. “Like Presley?”

“Exactly.”

“Jesus,” Will whispered, running a hand through his hair. Mike wished it was his hand instead. As he took in Will’s jarred reaction, his world went cold. It made more sense when Mike shivered, looked up, and felt a few snowflakes land on his eyelids. He lowered his gaze back to Will, avoiding the impending guilt with lighthearted bluntness.

“Yeah,” he concluded unceremoniously, “so, you have an ex-boyfriend, and I have a disturbingly high body count. I think that makes us even.” Will’s lips formed a line, and Mike diverted his eyes back to the ground. He watched Will’s feet, clad in fuzzy socks and slippers, shift backwards. The moment was finally here; this was the end. They were not, in fact, even; Will was shutting him out for the last time, giving Mike the closure he’d practically begged for. Mike lifted his head so he could at least say goodbye properly, but saw that Will was… waiting for him?

“Wanna come inside?” he asked, and Mike raised his eyebrows in shock. Well, that was a plot twist if he’d ever seen one. He took a deep breath, muttering a slow “Yeah… sure,” and followed Will into his house. Mike took off his mud-caked shoes at the front door, remembering how much of a neat freak Will was, and imagining his reaction if he tracked the past seven or so hours into the house. He expected it would probably begin with “Michael James.”

Once situated, he took a look around the living room. There were multiple swirly, wooden furniture pieces that Mike knew Will wouldn’t have picked out in a million years, but he’d still managed to make the apartment his own. Framed movie posters, a black couch, and a few bookshelves were sprinkled modestly amongst the otherwise very feminine decor. Mike walked over to the bookshelves, which were fully stacked with comic books and picture frames. He peered at one of Will posed with Ivy and Hannah, who gripped onto either side of a metal pole that Will had perched atop his shoulders as he lifted them in a white muscle tank top. He knew he’d started working out. God, Will was attractive. He smiled to himself, moving on to look at the next photo. It was the exact same one Mike had on his desk, the photo that Jonathan took of Mike on Will’s handlebars. Mike felt like crying again, so he looked away before that could happen. His attention was drawn to the ceiling, which was lined with Christmas lights. He guessed the passage of time had thankfully worked in Will’s favor, as well.

“So Kate’s at work?” Mike asked, and Will whipped around from where he’d been organizing one of his other bookshelves, like he cared about what Mike thought in regard to his preference of alphabetical versus publisher order.

“How do you know about Kate?”

Mike hesitated, expression sheepish, “I… I ran into your friends Ivy and Hannah on campus. They’re how I found you.”

Will blanched. “Oh God. What did they say to you?”

Mike shook his head in reassurance, taking a step towards Will. “Nothing out of the ordinary. I think they were just worried about me, because I was… kind of lost.”

“You didn’t think to get a map?” Will, the little shit, teased as he took a step of his own towards Mike.

“I had one, Will!” Mike tossed a hand up in exasperation. “I just… couldn’t read it correctly?” He phrased the last part of his sentence more like a question, which Will must have thought was funny, because he moved a few inches closer to Mike in order to poke his chest.

“Okay, that tracks,” he grinned, and Mike feigned offense as he felt Will’s fingerprint burn a hole in his sweatshirt, the fire expanding to scorch his entire torso. Will was close enough that Mike could hear Will breathing lightly through his nose, and could see the freckles scattered like constellations across his neck. His eyes traveled up a bit to land on the one mole above Will’s lip, and he fought the urge to kiss it.

“Ivy and Hannah said to tell you they said you’re welcome, by the way, whatever that means,” he breathed, and Will processed what Mike had just told him before bringing his hands up to his own face as he turned beet-red.

“Of course they did.”

Mike observed Will’s reaction, pushing down the bit of hope that bubbled up inside of him. He hadn’t a single clue of what Will had told his two friends, but the way he reacted made him think that maybe it wasn’t all terrible.

“Wait,” Will brought a hand up to lightly smack his forehead, “I’m so stupid, I should have asked when you first came in.” You’re not stupid at all, if anything I’m stupid, but go on, Mike thought. “Do you need anything to drink or eat? You look like shit.”

“Wow,” Mike said as he glared back at Will, giving away his joking nature with a small lift of his lips. “But sure, water is fine, thank you.” Will stood there for a moment in contemplation. Mike gulped, feeling incredibly anxious as to what Will would say next.

“I’m gonna make you pancakes,” he told Mike, ambition in his tone. Mike wasn’t even supposed to be there, yet there Will was, taking on the role of hospitable host. Mike shrugged, leaving the option up to Will as to if he really wanted to be that kind to him.

“You don’t have to.”

Will was the one who shortened the distance between them this time, taking Mike’s much larger hand in his own, intertwining their fingers and gently rubbing his thumb along the back of it. “But I want to.” Mike felt lightheaded.

“Well, I didn’t say it.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Mike glanced down at their connected hands as Will spoke again, but he didn’t hear what he was saying. He blinked, pulling his attention back up to Will’s face. How was he supposed to concentrate on what Will was saying when their palms were brushing together with intentionality? And of Will’s own volition, no less.

“Wait, sorry, what?”

“I said, I’ll have some too, if it’ll make you feel better.”

Well, now Mike had to say yes. He gave in, and Will nodded in approval before letting go of Mike’s hand. Those few sweet seconds would have been enough to last Mike for another year and a half without him, but now Will was making him pancakes. There was no turning back after this. Will headed to the kitchen, turning back when he noticed Mike standing in the middle of the room and gesturing for Mike to follow him, chuckling to himself.

Damn Will for being so aware of the effect he had on Mike.

They made it into the kitchen, and Will headed to the pantry while Mike hopped up on the counter like when they were kids. Old habits die hard. Will eyed him from where he stood, grabbing the box of Bisquick. He ritualistically walked around the kitchen, grabbing eggs, milk, vegetable oil, and a bowl before setting them all down on the counter. He paused in what he was doing to reach over to his coffee pot, pouring a mug, grabbing the sugar bowl and dumping whatever was left into the mug before handing it to Mike, who took it with gracious hands. He’d remembered the way Mike took his coffee. Black, no cream, and a diabetes-level fuck ton of sugar.

“Thank you.” That didn’t even begin to cover how Mike felt about it.

Will hummed in response as he got to work, cracking an egg into the bowl and whisking it around. “So what have you been up to? I mean, besides hooking up with the entire male population of Indianapolis and failing out of school,” Will asked, and Mike died a little on the inside. The truth hurts sometimes, Wheeler. Deal with it.

“Jeez, Will. Harsh. Warn a guy next time,” Mike frowned, sipping his coffee. “I’ve been working on a novel.”

“Ooh, do tell!” Will exclaimed, turning to Mike as he stirred the batter, the sweatshirt he wore— Mike’s sweatshirt— stretching as his muscles flexed underneath the fabric of the sleeves. Mike set his coffee down next to him and shifted so his hands were squished under his thighs. That way he wouldn’t be able to do what he truly wanted to, which was to grab Will by his waist and shove his tongue down his throat as he ran his fingertips over Will’s arms.

“Um, it’s a mythological coming of age, with a bit of a twist… the protagonist is gay.”

“Ohhh my god,” Will grinned, all teeth. “That is great. I love that.”

I love you, Mike thought, but held his tongue. “Right? But yeah, I’ve been working on that, and… journaling. A lot.” Well… journaling was a synonym of writing dozens upon dozens of love letters, right? But Will didn’t have to know that.

“Mike Wheeler using a therapist-approved coping mechanism? I’m proud of you,” Will said. Mike preened at the praise as he pulled one of his hands out from under his leg to pick up his mug.

There was a beat of silence, and Will stood there, his eyes fixed on Mike for a strangely long time as the pancakes sizzled. Mike watched Will’s Adam’s apple bob up and down. He was either hallucinating, tripping, or Will was checking Mike out.

“But what about you?” Mike asked, effectively snapping Will out of his trance, “Any groundbreaking endeavors I should be caught up on?”

Will shrugged as he plated the perfectly congruent, golden pancakes he’d made. “I’ve been working on this new painting for a while now… it’s a watercolor piece, so it’s kind of out of my comfort zone,” Will explained, turning to the refrigerator to grab a bottle of Canadian maple syrup. Mike nodded at what Will was telling him, but something else dwelled in the forefront of his mind.

“Yeah, you’re more into oils on canvas, right?” Mike asked, and Will’s eyes snapped up to meet his, establishing an understanding between the two of them. “I saw the painting,” Mike remarked slowly, trying his best not to freak Will out or make him feel ashamed of it. “I’ve gotta say, you flatter me, Byers. I am not that attractive.”

Will couldn’t hide his smile. “Shut up. Yes you are.”

Will handed Mike a plate, and Mike thanked him as they dug in, the two young men standing at (and sitting on) the counter as they ate. Mike cut into his pancakes, stabbing a bite-sized piece with his fork and swirling it around in the syrup on his plate. He looked up when he heard a similar scratching noise and saw Will doing the same thing. Will met Mike’s gaze, light smile gracing his face as he lifted the fork up and popped the piece into his mouth. Mike blushed when he realized he’d been staring, and quickly focused back on his own plate. He chewed the piece of pancake he’d cut and confirmed to himself only after one bite that these were the best pancakes he’d ever had. These were pancakes of reconciliation.

He turned towards Will to compliment his culinary skills, which would inevitably be shot down with a humble, “they’re just pancakes, Mike,” only to see Will staring at Mike already. Will’s eyes jumped from Mike to the floor to the kitchen cabinet to the floor and back to Mike all within the span of five seconds. Mike held his attention this time when he licked his lips, and Will watched intently as the syrup disappeared.

God, Mike felt like he was in high school all over again; those four years had felt like a romcom movie montage of staring, quick touches, and flirting back and forth. The only difference between those movies and real life was the reserved, cautious nature behind every single stare, touch, and flirtation. But this time around, Mike noticed, Will seemed more confident in himself, more purposeful in the way he carried and expressed himself. Everything lingered for longer than normal, than acceptable, than usual. It was a promising sign.

Once they’d finished their pancakes and put their dishes in the sink, Mike and Will headed to Will’s room. There was something intimate about entering Will’s space like this; something sacred, something previously unattainable. That was the dresser that held all of Will’s clothes. That was the desk Will drew at. That was the bed Will slept in. That was the phone Will had used to break Mike’s heart.

Mike admired the dark blue walls, decorated modestly with a few more posters, before he came across Will’s framed Hawkins High School diploma. Mike remembered that day vividly; after everyone in the Party had walked across the stage and gone back to Mike’s house to celebrate, Will had brought their friends into a secluded area of the house and told them he was gay. Mike, who had been head over heels in love with his best friend for over five years at that point, was having a crisis, because oh my God, Will was gay, and the flirting might not have all been in his head. Maybe he had a chance. But every interaction between them following that day was strictly platonic, and Will made sure Mike knew it. So Mike withdrew after a while, not wanting to keep stringing himself along like he had been.

“Little did I know that everything would change,” Mike said more to himself than to Will, but Will walked over to stand next to him, close enough that their arms brushed.

“Why, because I came out?” he asked, looking up at Mike, who didn’t reciprocate the action, but instead kept staring straight ahead at the diploma, as if it were a portal that would take him back in time to before his world imploded.

“No, not because you came out. Because… because then, I fell under the delusion that I could finally have you.” He looked down at Will then. “But then I fucked it all up in August.”

Will turned his body so he could fully face Mike before saying, “Okay, I’m confused. I’ve gotta ask. What’s your recollection of that night?”

Mike didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to remember it. Hell, he didn’t want to think about it. But Mike took a second to reason with himself, because Will was standing beside him, Will was asking something of him, and the least he could do after everything was oblige to Will’s one request. So Mike told him.

It was the summer of 1989, and all was well. Hawkins was no longer nationally renowned as an extra-terrestrial hybrid between earth and hell, but simply as a small town in the middle of nowhere, Indiana. It was the summer of 1989, and Mike was lying on the basement couch with his legs hanging off the edge. His eyes were closed, and he wore his headphones which were attached to his Walkman, playing Will’s mixtape on repeat, just as Mike had from the second it fell into his hands back in 1986. He felt the thumps of the opening and closing of the basement door, followed by light footsteps treading down the stairs. He cracked a singular eye open, but opened them both fully when he registered that it was Will who was entering his space. He always loved when Will came to his house unannounced; there was a certain element of familiarity, of family, of domesticity.

“Mike, we’ve gotta talk,” Will said, his voice a bit edgier than usual.

“Okay, what’s up? Are you–” Mike sat up, pulling his headphones fully off his head and resting them around his neck. Then he saw the look on Will’s face. He looked livid.

“What the fuck are these?” Will spat. Mike’s eyes widened at what Will held in his hands. Fuck. How on earth did he find them? Mike thought he’d hidden them well enough. Apparently, he was sorely mistaken, because Will held Mike’s letters, all twenty-six of them, all addressed to Will, in his shaking hands. Mike couldn’t even begin to explain, mouth hanging wide open.

“Dear Will,” the boy with the bowlcut began with a snarl, “when I look into your eyes, I see the rest of my life. Dear Will, why does loving you feel so wrong yet so right? Dear Will, I want you to hold me in your arms forever, because it’s the only place I can truly call home.” Mike wanted to die. “I don’t know what to… Why the hell are these addressed to me? And why… Why are there so many?”

“Because…” Mike squeaked out, eyes wide with intimidation, “they were for you. You were never meant to find those, I swear to God.”

“Are you making fun of me or something?” Will snapped, and Mike flinched. He’d never seen Will this angry before. He stood up then, his face on fire with inferiority from when he’d been on the couch as Will towered over him. Now, Mike was the one looking down at Will, whose chest was heaving with unadulterated rage.

“Come on, Will! I’m your best friend, and you really thought I’d make fun of you for being gay?” Mike kept his tone soft, what the Party called his Will Voice™, trying to calm Will down. It worked, at least a little bit, because Will’s breathing became more regulated, and less metaphorical smoke escaped his ears. But his eyes were still a menacing shade of green, his pupils blown wide.

“Well, no,” Will’s voice was lower this time, laced with venom, “but that does not mean you get to fuck around at my expense.” Will could not have been more wrong. Mike was anything but fucking around. Malice was the last thing on his mind when he thought about Will. When he thought about Will, he felt safe, he felt hopeful, he felt valuable, and he felt worthy. What he felt for Will was pure love, and he’d say it out loud… if he didn’t hate himself so much.

“I poured my heart out in those letters,” Mike told him, taking a step forward. Will stepped back. “I didn’t write them for shits and fucking giggles, they were genuine,” he continued, following Will as he backed away, stopping only when he had Will caged in between his arms, back against the wall of the basement. Will held onto Mike’s wrist, their watches positioned side by side. Mike closed his eyes and took a shaky breath, collecting himself in preparation for what he was about to say next. Confession time. “I wanted to send them so badly… I just didn’t, because I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

Mike opened his eyes, drinking in the expression on Will’s flustered face. He blinked slowly, lashes fluttering, and fuck, he could hear Will’s heartbeat. He licked his lips. Afraid of what? I’m afraid of the world. I’m afraid of our country. I’m afraid of this town. I’m afraid of my family. I’m afraid of your dad. I’m afraid of myself. But I’m not afraid of you, Will. I’m not afraid of you.

And with that, Mike leaned down and kissed Will.

Those were the best five seconds of Mike’s life, by far. Will’s lips were smooth, yet firm. They were warm. Mike wanted to kiss Will forever. He allowed himself, for once in his life, to take what he wanted, and moved his hands down from the wall to Will’s hips, gripping them with all of his pent-up passion, holding him close. He felt Will’s hands meet Mike’s shoulders, and… he was pushing Mike away. Oh no.

“What are you doing, Mike? Is this a joke?” What was it with Will thinking everything was so fucking funny to Mike? He’d just bared his soul to the love of his life, but Will had interpreted everything as simply cruel humor. That was what Will thought of Mike. He wouldn’t stand for it.

“No, Will, I’m in love with you,” he said in full earnest, grabbing Will’s hand, just like he’d always done throughout the years whenever Will felt angry, alone, or scared. In turn, Will aggressively shook Mike’s hand away like it burned him.

“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that, you don’t mean it.” What the hell?

“What makes you think I don’t?”

“I just… you’re…” Will forced his words out in a state of panic, ducking out of Mike’s reach as he headed for the stairs. “I can’t do this. Not now.”

“Please don’t go. Hear me out,” Mike pleaded, getting desperate now. “Will, you’ve got to believe me.”

Will turned around from where he stood, halfway to the basement door, his gaze ice cold. “Well, I don’t, Mike. I don’t believe you.” Mike took back what he’d thought about not being afraid of Will. He was terrified. He watched Will stomp up the rest of the way, slamming the door behind him. Mike put a hand up to his mouth, muffling a sob.

What had he done?

Mike stopped his pacing for a moment to breathe. He’d gotten it all out, and by some miracle, without breaking down. He looked over at Will, who rested his chin on his palm as he sat on his bed, staring into space. “I never got the chance to explain myself. You just… shut off.” Will blinked a few times, looking up at Mike with that same blank expression, and Mike wanted to scream. But he didn’t. He didn’t have the energy.

Will breathed out hard through his nose, getting up from his spot on the bed and meeting Mike where he was at, and placing a hand on his arm. Mike didn’t move; all this talk about Will abandoning him caused some of the resentment to return. But Will took Mike’s chin and moved it so their eyes could meet again. He looked sad.

“Because I had convinced myself that you could never love me the way I loved you. But all of a sudden you were telling me that you loved me romantically and wanted to be with me forever! How can you blame me for being thrown off?”

Mike shrugged, resigned. “I can’t.” And he meant it; he couldn’t blame Will for being thrown off, because Mike had gone through the complete opposite, having felt led on and let down. “But you also can’t blame me for waiting so long to say something. I literally hated myself for years for being gay.” Will’s hand that held his chin lowered down to the space between his neck and his shoulder, and he went to reply, but Mike spoke faster. “And when you came out, I thought maybe I could, too. But then, another part of me didn’t want to say anything, because coming clean about my true feelings for you would’ve destroyed everything we worked so hard to build back up after California.”

“Well, I didn’t make it any easier by keeping you at arm’s length after I came out,” Will said as he ran his thumb back and forth along Mike’s sweatshirt sleeve. “I tried to convince myself I was okay with being just friends in order to protect myself, you know?”

“Yeah,” Mike’s tone was rough as he crossed his arms, and Will pulled away. Nice going, Mike, you fucking asshole. “I mean…” Mike softened his voice, “I get your thought process. I just felt so… rejected. And after August, it felt so final. Like, I really thought you had zero feelings for me, and that I had severely misread things.”

“You didn’t. Believe me, Mike. You didn’t,” the words tumbled out of Will’s mouth, startling both of them at once.

Mike looked down, feeling the beginnings of tears pricking his eyes. “I’m trying to.”

Will reached out to Mike and pulled his hand up into his own, his fingertips gently mapping out the veins that spread out beneath Mike’s skin. “Do you still hate yourself now?” he asked, and Mike looked up slowly.

“I’m not gonna lie, yeah, I do,” he admitted, playing with Will’s fingers as he spoke. He was not proud of the person he’d become. He relived every single one of his mistakes on a constant loop, with each day bleeding into the next. The shame devoured him like a hungry beast. Every waking moment without Will felt like suffocation. Mike slowed his movements before confessing something else, something he never thought he’d ever be able to. “But I hate living my life without you even more.”

Will let out a small sniffle at that, and Mike was quick to comfort him, his hands flying up to cup his face and swipe his tears away. Will leaned into the touch, his voice breaking. “I hate living my life without you, too.”

“Can I…” Mike hesitated, uncertainty flooding his thoughts, but he swiftly pushed it away. “Can I hug you?” he asked. Will nodded, laughing wetly as he said, “Yes, of course.”

Mike pulled Will into a tight embrace, warmth filling his body instantly as Will’s head fell against his chest, right over his heart. He could only imagine what Will was thinking, granted the fact that his heart was thrumming at record speed. Will ran his hands up Mike’s back, pulling him down slightly by his shoulderblades. Mike nestled his nose in Will’s shaggy hair, breathing him in. He still washed his hair with the coconut shampoo he’d always used. In order to avoid the temptation to inhale Will’s scalp like a vacuum, he opted to place a feather light kiss there, so light that in the future, only he would remember it happening. As they stood there, their bodies flush against one another, Mike knew he didn’t need a watch to tell that time as an entity ceased to exist. Mike and Will held each other tightly as the rest of the world fell away. This was what Mike had been waiting for. Just this. He finally felt whole again.

He wasn’t sure how long they’d been clinging to each other, or who pulled away first, but he was sure of the fact that both of them were crying. Again. “Goddamnit,” Mike laughed, practically slapping his sweatshirt sleeve up to his face to absorb the tears that fell there.

“Since when have you been a Frequent Crier?” Will teased, and Mike remembered that Will had never been exposed to the outcome of his emotional revolution before.

“What can I say?” Mike continued the bit, “Their loyalty program has really good perks.”

“Can’t argue there,” Will laughed, leaning his forehead onto Mike’s chest again as Mike’s hands ran up and down Will’s sides. He memorized the feel of Will’s improved physique, trailing his hands upwards until his hands met Will’s chest.

“Also,” Mike said into the silence, causing Will to twitch slightly, but not enough to remove his forehead from Mike’s chest. “The Heart? Didn’t know I was still held in such high esteem.” Will’s hands, which had been resting on Mike’s hips, moved forward until they were wrapped around Mike’s lower back.

“You’ve always been my heart, Mike,” Will told him, voice steady and sure. “You never really stopped.” Mike felt his jaw drop, barely able to process what he was hearing. The words that left Will’s lips ricocheted around Mike’s brain, and he might have forgotten how to breathe for a minute. He needed Will to pinch him, so he could wake up from this… if it wasn't real, it would be a nightmare. Instead of asking Will to do it for him, he pinched himself, and felt butterflies erupt in his stomach when he didn’t snap his eyes open to the sight of his bedroom back in Indianapolis. He was still here, in Will’s room, and Will was holding him rather sensually, and Mike felt so fucking alive.

“So… where do we go from here?” Mike whispered, and Will lifted his head, an unrecognizable look in his eyes. Mike backed away, fear slowly entering the peripherals of his mind, all possible worst-case scenarios threatening to cave in on him. He’d gone too far, been too forward, taken Will for granted, given off the impression of an ulterior motive.

“Sorry,” he said, almost a reflex at this point in his life. He always had something to be sorry for. Something to make up for. Something to–

“Me too,” Will whispered, grabbing Mike’s wrist before he could get too far. He pulled Mike back in sharply and grabbed him by the back of his neck, tugging him all the way down until their lips collided. Mike let out a little noise in absolute shock, but not wasting any time as he shoved his hands into Will’s hair, raising his head as he leaned into the heat of Will’s mouth. While Mike’s hands remained pretty central to Will’s upper body, Will’s hands roved Mike everywhere they possibly could. They lifted from Mike’s lower back, up his torso, past his chest, around the back of Mike’s head to brush the nape of his neck, through Mike’s long hair, then back down to grope Mike’s ass. Mike squeaked into Will’s mouth, and he responded with a low hum of a laugh that sent vibrations through Mike’s body and set him ablaze. Mike lowered his grip on Will’s shoulders to his biceps, squeezing them the way he’d wanted to since Will opened the door earlier that morning. Will broke the kiss then, smirking up at the taller man. “You really like my arms, don’t you?”

“Yeah, how’d you notice?” Mike tried to be sarcastic, but ended up sounding breathless. Will pressed a chaste kiss to Mike’s lips, turning them around and backing Mike up until his calves hit the base of Will’s bed. Mike was sure he had died and gone to heaven.

“You wouldn’t stop ogling. You were being so fucking obvious, it was hilarious,” Will teased, and Mike whined a little in embarrassment, but Will was having none of it, so he pushed Mike backwards until his back hit the mattress. “Don’t worry, babe, it was cute.”

Babe. Mike had thought Will would only call him that in his dreams. But this wasn’t a dream. Mike watched as Will climbed on top of him, one leg on either side of his waist, and leaned down to kiss him, nice and slow. Mike ran his tongue along Will’s lower lip, and he let Mike in immediately. They continued like that for a few minutes until Will lifted Mike’s arms up so they were pinned above his head, and Mike quietly moaned as Will began to kiss down his neck. He smiled at the ceiling. Mike Wheeler loved Will Byers, and Will Byers loved Mike Wheeler. All was right with the world.

But Mike would have a lot to explain over Christmas.

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#byler #byler fic #byler fanfic #byler tumblr #byler nation #byler endgame #will byers #mike wheeler #will x mike #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things 4 #thisismetrying1 #thisismetrying2 #thisismetrying3

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metamorphesque · 7 days

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also I just want to say- i am sorry for what your people's ancestors and ancestresses went through and my hearth breaks knowing what are still suffering Armenian people in Azerbajan. It is truly horrible not only what Armenian people went through, but that you (as in: the whole Armenian population) are still not allowed to have a closure because the real responsable have never apologized or even recoignized the fact that the genocide happened.

I knew about the genocide because an Italian writer of Armenian origins wrote two books called "La Masseria delle Allodole" and "La Strada Per Smirne", that I suppose are a bit autobiographic or at least family-biographic, because they told the stories of what her family and theirs families and friends went through back in the day. I don't know if they are avaliable in English, or how accurate they are, but I supposed you might be interested in knowing that they exist and they are read💕

wishing you the best.

Dearie, thank you for your message and your empathy. It means a lot to me and to many Armenians to hear such understanding and support. Understanding, wrapped in the warmth of compassion, is a beacon of hope amidst the darkness of unresolved grievances.

Recognition and acknowledgment of genocides and historical injustices are crucial steps toward healing and reconciliation. Alas, this is a luxury that my nation cannot afford. To this very day, Azerbaijan and its puppetmaster Turkey are overtly and unashamedly pursuing their barbarous agenda of “leaving only one Armenian alive – and that is for a museum”, and the world is doing nothing but supporting them. The fact that our government is not better than those savages and is slowly but surely selling our land to the enemy leaves little room to hope.

Ah! Antonia Arslan! How can an Armenian not know this name? I saw the movie adaptation (brilliant!) of “The Lark Farm” when I was 8 and I have not been the same ever since. The harrowing truth that’s portrayed in the film (the book) is simply impossible to bear for the human psyche. I remember weeping for hours and not being able to stop.

Once again – thank you, dear, for your compassion. It means more than you can imagine.

Take care!

#lovely people #asks #armenian history #armenian genocide

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itslottiehere · 2 years

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even the sun gets clouded sometimes (h.s) — part three

hello beautiful people! here we are, part three is all yours. this fic means so much to me, and this part is extremely autobiographic, and i just hope you don’t mind that lol. i just wanted to thank you again for the crazy support i received on this fic, it still doesn’t feel real. thank you, thank you, thank you. please, as always, read the trigger warnings. it’s a sensitive topic, and i don’t want anyone to feel uncomfortable. as always, please leave your feedback in my asks on in the tags, it’s really important! without further ado, happy reading! love you all <3

> part one | part two

masterlist | leave your feedback or requests here

tw: angst, fluff, swearing, talk of self harm.

word count: 8.4k (grab a snack)

—

their movie nights became a regular thing. every week, one of them would text the other “movie night?” and in a half hour at most they were sitting on her couch, a take out of some sorts on the coffee table, deciding who could choose the movie that night. it usually happened after a hard day, like when harry’s car got totalled (and he got to sleep on her couch again. “double win this time”, he thought) or when she had back to back clients who were way too rude, and she just wanted to relax. if someone had asked her a month before if she thought about spending time with harry as “relaxing”, she would’ve laughed at their faces for 10 minutes straight. but it turned out that harry’s a great listener, a really good one. maybe not so much at giving advice.

“just tell him to fuck off.”

“harry, i can’t do that, he’s my boss!”

“and what? bosses can’t fuck off?”

this went on for a few weeks, and in that time she got to know a little bit more of harry: his interests, his hobbies, the movies he liked best.

he was a real fan of romcoms, and the dichotomy was extremely funny: a tall, well-built man, who had a resting face that seemed to be of someone bothered 24/7, who teared up whenever he saw a cliché love story.

harry would argue all the time that he was definitely not crying, and she’d let it slide. it was kinda cute.

she also learned that harry was a lover of cats, and wished he could get one but feared that they were going to get lonely, with him being out most of the time.

“it’d be nice to have someone around, you know? the apartment gets lonely sometimes.”

she nodded solemnly, understanding perfectly what he was saying. sometimes it was just nice to have someone there with you. not in a romantic way, not even in a friendly way, but just in.. an existing together kind of way.

she felt the same often, and that’s why niall was frequently over at her place. he loved being at her’s — mostly for the couch and the beer she kept just for him in the fridge — and she liked the company.

harry actually found out a bit more about her. she didn’t share much — and he didn’t dare ask any personal questions this time, still embarrassed about what happened almost two months and a half before. but he learned what she did for a living, which was interesting.

“yeah, i work for a publishing company. that’s why i have a thousand books all over, i can’t seem to find a place for every one of them. but it’s okay, i love being surrounded by them.”

“but the others say that you’re on the night shift whenever you are not out with us, made me think you were a nurse?”

“oh well, they say that when i stay late at the office. i usually stay there till after 11pm, hence why they call it “the night shift”.”

“why do you stay so late?” harry inquired, putting his chin into his hand, leaning a bit forward.

“sometimes it’s because i have a deadline, or because i’m reading a draft that’s just too captivating and i didn’t even realise that time passed. i really enjoy my job, and even if sometimes i have to deal with not-so-nice clients or a crabby boss, i love it all the same.”

“i see, that’s pretty great, actually. not many people get to say that about their job, you know?” she just nodded. “so, any new novels i should be on the lookout for?”

on friday night, harry texted her “movie night?”, even though they already had one on monday, but he was so tired from the week and just wanted to relax. and seeing her was what made him the most relaxed.

more times than not, he wouldn’t be able to finish the movie, nodding off about halfway. then he was waken up by soft — albeit, slightly cold — hands of a certain someone, who put a quilt that smelled so much like her on him and was picking up his legs, urging him to lay down and get in a more comfortable position.

she never woke him up telling him to go home, just offered him a place to stay. he really couldn’t put into words how much he appreciated that.

so, he was hoping to see her and perhaps get to sleep on that soft couch, surrounded by everything that reminded him of her. he didn’t know if it was weird, how much comfort she brought him.

all his hopes were crushed when she texted him back.

“i’m so sorry, i’m on the night shift. rain check?”

he stopped in his tracks. he was already on his way to pick up dinner, because she never said no.

not even when she was on her period and wanted to just be swaddled in a soft blanket, away from the world. she told him that he could come over, but she had one simple condition.

“please bring over the greasiest burger you can think of. there’s an extra key under the doormat, i can’t stand up.”

when he arrived, he did find the keys and he opened the door. he saw her all curled on the couch, and he could’ve just smothered her cheeks with kisses.

the thought scared him at first, but when he really thought of it, it was the same feeling he got whenever he saw a cute little kitten or puppy. like, a cute aggression kind of feeling.

he saw her face light up as soon as he came in her line of sight.

“well, that’s a nice change.” he thought. perhaps her smile was directed to the burger sitting in the bag on the coffee table, but harry thought it was directed to him as well.

so, to hear her say she couldn’t make it to movie night, made him frown. he really, really wanted to see her. he was even going to let her choose the movie!

but a change of plans was needed.

—

it was nearing 8pm, her stomach was rumbling and her eyes were about to close. all she wanted that night was go home, have a nice bath and get into some cozy pjs, preparing herself for the christmas shopping she had to do during the weekend.

the thought of asking harry to come over for a movie night crossed her mind, but she didn’t want to bother him, he probably had better plans for a friday night. she was more of a homebody, so staying at home sounded like a dream, but harry told her he liked going out in clubs and such.

that’s why she was surprised when he texted her, and she hated telling him no, but she had too many things on the following monday, so she thought she would get ahead as much as she could.

which meant that she had to turn down movie night, and she just knew he had that cute pout on his lips, that he’d get once she’d won the third round of “rock, paper, scissors” for who could choose the movie that night.

around 8:15, there was a soft knock on her office door.

“oh sorry guys, i’ll get out right now but you can also not clean this room, i’m going home late!” she got up from her chair and started picking up her papers so she could get out of the cleaning crew’s hair.

but when a familiar mop of curly hair came through the door, she stopped cleaning up.

“harry? what are you doing here? is everything okay?”

“yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. i brought dinner.” he came through the door and walked into her office.

“but... why? a-and how do you know where i work?” she looked at him quizzically.

“i texted sarah and asked her for the address. and why? can’t i just want to see you?”

she couldn’t stop her cheeks from getting warm, as warm as the feeling she was feeling in her belly. he wanted to see her.

“no no, of course.” she coughed a little. “please sit. and thank you so much, i’m so hungry.”

“yeah, i know, i could hear your stomach growling from the end of the hall.” he chuckled.

“hey!” she acted offended, but was smiling as wide as him.

they ate their dinner — well, she inhaled her food — and they chatted a bit.

“so, tell me more about your job. about you, in general. it feels like i’ve done all the talking these last couple of months.” he cleaned his hands on the paper towel, getting his fingers clean from the sticky sauce.

“uhm, i don’t have much to tell, i’m not that interesting to be honest.”

“i think i have to disagree.” he looked up at her, and she could feel herself swoon. “why are you here tonight?”

“oh, i just have back to back staff meetings on monday morning, and then i have meetings with clients in the afternoon and i’m not going to be done with everything in time if i don’t stay late tonight. i need to have the weekend free of work.” she confessed, clearing up her desk from their containers.

“need a weekend away from everything?” he wondered.

“i do, yeah.” she smiled. “but that’s not happening this weekend, unfortunately. i have to shop for christmas presents, i’m already late and i have to get them all at once, and it’s really overwhelming.” she sighed.

“you’re tired.” he noted.

“not all that nice to hear that for a woman, you know? it means i look bad.”

“no, it’s not what i meant. i just can see your eyes halfway closed. you can’t work right now, you’re falling asleep.”

“but i need to, harry, i have to fin-“

“no, you don’t.” he interrupted her, his gaze piercing. “i’m getting you home. and i won’t take no for an answer.”

“but harry, i-“

“nope. we’re going home.”

“but-“

“do i need to pick you up and carry you to the car? because i will do it if you keep fighting me on this.”

she looked at him, wondering how the hell they ended up there.

harry just tilted his head to the side. “you ready?”

it felt like she had no other choice but to nod.

—

when she asked him to stay and watch a movie, harry couldn’t say no, finally getting what he wanted all along.

this time he knew he probably wasn’t going to be the one to fall asleep first, for once! as soon as she was asleep and in bed, he was going to go home.

his plans slightly changed though, because a sleepyhead decided to rest her head on his lap, and he couldn’t move an inch. he wouldn’t.

and honestly? he really didn’t want to.

it was like when a cat decides to rest its head on you. you are the chosen one, and you will not move till the cat moves first.

now, instead of a cute ball of fur, there was a just as cute girl, curled up with her hand close to his knee, lightly fisting the fabric of his trousers.

she didn’t fall asleep that way, but when harry saw the uncomfortable position in which she passed out, he had to do something to make her a little more comfortable. and that’s how they ended up here.

he saw her sleeping before — at adam’s cabin, especially — but never got to linger on her features.

he could see she had a slight furrow in her brows, and he just wanted to put the pad of his finger against her skin and smooth it out. was she having a bad dream? was she overthinking even when asleep? was she uncomfortable?

then he focused on the curve of her nose, and lastly on her lips. they were slightly pouted, a bit open, and just looked so soft. so pretty, and pink, and soft.

harry couldn’t say this was the first time he thought something like that. he found himself often looking at her lips, especially since she told him she usually focuses on them when people talk.

“like, i don’t want to seem like a creep, but if i don’t watch a person’s mouth while they talk to me, it’s like 90% of the information doesn’t reach my ears.”

and since then, he couldn’t stop himself from doing that. although, he often did that with her only.

huh, weird.

and then he started watching her lips when she would eat, seeing how she kept them shut while she was chewing, because she couldn’t bear hearing people making noises with their mouths when they eat. harry got a pillow straight to his face one time, followed by the threat of her smashing his teeth in if he didn’t cut it out. a feisty one, she is.

and while he observed them in all of these occasions, he noticed how plump they were, how pink and just... pretty.

one night, when he was a bit tipsy, he was just about to tell her all of this, but thanks to his lucky starts sarah unknowingly came to his rescue, tearing her away from him and dragging her to the bathroom.

he thought that was for the best, she should never had to know the thoughts he had swirling through his mind. it mostly happened when he was unconscious, especially when he was staying over at her house.

“it’s just because you’re literally surrounded by her stuff. you are in her apartment, on her couch, with her quilt around you, her smell lingering. it’s fine.” he thought to himself, a pathetic way of shoving his dreams out of his mind.

when he first dreamt about kissing her, he was scared shitless. they had been friends for about a little over a month then, and he felt a bit weird dreaming about a friend that way.

it wasn’t even something dirty, they were just having fun at the park, he was pushing her on the swings.

“higher, harry, higher!”

“love, if i push you any higher you’re going to fall!” he said laughing.

“i don’t care, just do that, please!”

“no love, i can’t, you’re gonna get hurt.”

she started slowing down once he stopped pushing her and when she was almost still, he came in front of her, stopping her for good when he placed his hands on her knees, crouching down a little to get to her face level.

when he caught the look she had on her face, he could’ve just melted. she was pouting, pouting, for pete’s sake.

“hey, what’s this all about?” he said, pointing at her lips.

“you didn’t push me higher.” she looked at him, trying her hardest to keep her pouting face, but he could see the smile that wanted to creep up on her face.

“aw baby, want me to make it better?” he said sweetly, tilting his head to the side.

“yes, please. thank you.” she smiled a little, looking at him.

and that’s when he leaned in, leaving a sweet kiss, taking her plush bottom lip between his. he could feel her crumble underneath his touch, even if he was seeing this from a third person point of view. he could feel the soft skin of her lips, tasting her cinnamon chapstick, and what he imagined — and was almost positive — she just tasted like: the sweetest nectarines of the best summer of your life.

when he pulled away, he saw her eyes were still closed, as if she was wanted to bask in the moment for just a second longer.

“made it better?” he told her, smirking at her still flushed face.

“mmh mmh, i think so.” she finally opened her eyes, and smiled back at him. “now, your turn!”

“love, how do you think you’re going to be able to push me!”

“shut up, i’m strong.” he gave her a cut the bullshit look, and she was absolutely offended. “i’ll show you, c’mon! get on then!”

he woke up gasping, looking around the room to understand where he was. when he realised he was at her apartment, he groaned a bit. of course he was.

as said, he was scared. not just by the kiss itself, but by the sheer intimacy of it, because it clearly wasn’t the first they shared, anyone could’ve seen that. he also noticed how happy she was, how loud her laugh was, how comfortable she had to feel with him to show him her more childish side.

what scared him most, you ask?

the fact that he envied the dream version of him.

ever since then, those kind of dreams came to his mind often, but he always pushed them aside, as games his mind was playing on him. he didn’t think about kissing her when he was awake, did he?

“no, i don’t”, he kept telling himself.

but seeing her all curled up against him, her lips looking so soft and plump made him think twice about his words.

instead of just laying one on her — when she was unconscious, may he add — he decided to tuck the hair that fanned over her face behind her ear, with a touch so light he thought that he wasn’t even touching her. but he wanted this contact to last a little bit longer.

so, he lightly grazed his finger over her cheek. even her skin was soft as a pillow, what was wrong with her?

he run his thumb along her jaw, and when he felt her shift, he panicked.

“shit, shit, shit, don’t wake up, don’t wake up, please.” he murmured so quietly it was barely a whisper, putting his hands up as if she was going to go off like a bomb.

she didn’t wake up, but she did turn her head, from facing the tv to facing harry. she brought her hand again at — now — the top of his thighs, but instead of holding onto his trousers, she gripped his sweater, that was a bit baggy.

“thank fuck” he thought, because she would’ve grabbed his crotch if she didn’t find that sweater.

—

after the movie was over — harry didn’t pay too much attention to it, after she fell asleep — he thought it was time to make her go to bed and rest properly. but he really didn’t want to wake her up.

so he tried to pry his sweater away from her fist, just so he could lay down her head on the couch and get up. he did just that, and once he was on his feet, he crouched down again, putting one arm under her knees and one under her back, picking her up.

when she was finally in his arms, she curled up against him, tucking her head in his chest, a hand spread at the center of it. harry looked up to the ceiling, asking any god or ethereal being what the hell did he do to deserve this.

once they reached her bedroom door, he opened it with his foot and carried her to her bed. he tucked her in, and as he was about to leave when he felt someone gently take his wrist, and heard a soft voice, barely a whisper.

“stay over? don’t wanna wake up alone.”

and could he really say no to that?

could he really say no to her?

she was asleep before he could answer, so he just took her hand, squeezed it and told her under his breath. “of course, love.”

—

the following morning harry woke up before her, which was kind of unusual. she was usually the one who stirred him awake to have breakfast — she got better at cooking eggs and pancakes, so he didn’t have to lie anymore about just drinking coffee in the mornings.

but last night she must’ve been spent, she probably wanted to sleep in a little more.

that gave him time to look around her living room, seeing how she decorated for christmas. there was a huge tree, probably almost three meters, with warm yellow fairy lights and red and gold adornments, a shiny star on the top.

then there were all kinds of trinkets all around, even little statues of mary, jesus and joseph, the whole nativity scene. he didn’t know she was a religious person.

he thought it must’ve taken her so long to decorate all by herself, especially the tree. she probably climbed over something to put the star on top, risking to fall down and get hurt. couldn’t she have asked him to help her?

he decided to stop lurking and go into her kitchen to fetch some ingredients to make her breakfast, for a change. when breakfast was almost ready, he decided to go wake her up.

he walked into her bedroom as quietly as possible, not wanting to startle her awake. when harry reached her sleeping figure, he put his hand on her shoulder, shaking a little.

“good morning, sleepyhead. it’s time to wake up.”

she grunted in response.

“c’mon now, breakfast is almost ready.”

she grunted again, making him chuckle.

“not a morning person, are you?”

“just five more minutes, please.” she croaked. he muttered a low “alright”, and went to go back to the kitchen, but her fingers grabbed his wrist.

“stay here, i’m cold. heater must not be working properly.”

he couldn’t say if he was more happy or shocked by her request. smirking, he sat back down on the bed, close to her legs. but that wouldn’t cut it, clearly.

“what are you doing all over there? get in here.” she moved the comforter and patted the bed underneath. when she noticed he wasn’t moving from his spot, she spoke up again. “hey, get in here quick, the heat is going to leave.”

he chuckled, and finally stood up and got into bed beside her. he wasn’t even in there for two seconds, that she was already wrapped around him, as if he was going to disappear.

“just five minutes, right?” he softly asked her, his arm going around her shoulders, hand on her bicep.

“yeah, five minutes.” her face was tucked in his neck, and he could feel her lips grazing the skin of his throat when she spoke.

she really was cold, and she had been the whole night. when he carried her to bed last night, she was half awake, and when she asked him to stay over, she imagined he was going to sleep with her in her bed. but then, he went back to the living room, and she was just too tired to call him back.

so, when harry came to wake her up, she tried putting it a little more plainly, and even then the man couldn’t take the hint.

5 minutes soon turned into an half hour, and she can’t lie: she never felt so comfortable. who knew harry was so great at cuddling?

the both of them were in that sleepy state when you’re not really asleep but you’re not totally awake either, and if she didn’t have to run to the shops to buy christmas presents, then she would’ve stayed there for the whole day.

harry could describe the feeling as heaven, nothing ever felt so right. how come they didn’t cuddle before?

but other questions came to mind: what’s happening? why did he wish he could stay in this bed forever? why does her tracing patters on his chest make him feel like he’s on a rollercoaster?

when they finally dragged themselves out of her bed — that was even more comfy than her couch, if possible — breakfast was indeed ruined and they decided to eat while they went out.

“wait, you want to go christmas shopping with me?”

“you’re the nut job who’s going shopping for presents five days before christmas. you need all the help you can get.”

and so, off to the shops they were.

but here’s the thing: how can you purchase a present for someone who’s right there with you? and what the hell would he like for a present? she had absolutely no clue what to get him.

maybe he wasn’t getting her a present, but she wouldn’t care, after all they started being friends only for a few months before, she wasn’t expecting anything from him. but hell was going to freeze over before she didn’t get him a present, that was for sure.

she got all the others presents, and harry went back to her apartment, looking like a porter with all the bags he had in hand.

“you sure you got everything? don’t you have a third grade cousin that needs something? or a remote uncle that you haven’t seen in 17 years?”

“my god, you should be a comedian.” she looked at him with a fake smile.

“i don’t even know how they are going to receive these if you bought them today.” he scoffed. “mind opening the door for me, darling?”

“i’m trying! you’re a pain in the ass, styles.” she grumbled. “and i’m going to spend tonight packing them, and then i’ll overnight them. i don’t know if they’ll get the presents in time for christmas, but it’s the thought that counts.”

she finally managed to open her apartment door, and let harry go in first: the man couldn’t wait to drop all the boxes and bags.

“and i wouldn’t have this problem if i went back home for the holidays, but i’m not, so here we are.” she said while closing the door.

“why aren’t you going home?” and why did she sound so upset about it?

“you know, work, life, stuff. i hope to see them a little later next year, but going back now was impossible for me.” she shrugged.

“i see. at least we’re going to spend it all together, though?”

“yeah, it’s going to be great, i bet.” she gave him a tight lipped smile, which didn’t sit right with him.

“what’s up?” he asked.

“nothing, what?”

“you’re not the only one who can read people. tell me what’s going on in your mind.” he looked at her pacing around the room, leaving the presents on the kitchen table.

“it’s nothing important, it’s probably going to sound so silly, you wouldn’t-“

“i wouldn’t have asked if i didn’t care. please, tell me.”

she took a deep breath and sat on the couch. “it’s just that christmas is my favourite holiday. i love the atmosphere and back home we really celebrate christmas: a table of no least than 20 people, all the aunts and uncles and cousins, people who i probably see once a year, at that very dinner.

and then we have all these traditions, little things that make me miss home. like, my mum used to wake up me and my sister with christmas music on christmas day, every single year, and she still does it every time we get back home for the holidays.

or like, on christmas eve, me, mum and my sister go to the church i used to go to when i was younger for the vigil, and we have this mass that it’s like two hours long but it’s just so beautiful. i wouldn’t consider myself a religious person, but being in that room just brings me so much comfort that i can’t even put into words.” she looked up at him, eyes a bit teary.

“then we used to come home, around 11am and we would watch “the grinch” while we waited for midnight to open our presents.” she sighed. “it’s such a special holiday for me, and when i think about the fact that there was a time when it didn’t feel like that, when i was away from them... i don’t know, it makes me sad.” she gave him a small smile, looking down at her shoes.

“hey.” he put his hand on her knee. “we don’t have to talk about this, any of this. i’m sorry i pushed you, i didn’t want to make you sad.”

“no, it’s okay.” she swallowed thickly. “i- uh.” he saw she was struggling to find the words.

“i think i’d like to speak about that, if you wanted to hear about it. i don’t want to force you to stay there and just... i don’t know, throw all my trauma at you.”

“you wouldn’t. i would gladly listen, if you feel comfortable enough, though. niall is going to rip my head off if you aren’t.” the last part he murmured under his breath.

“what was that?” she inquired.

“nothing important, love. whenever you are ready.”

she took another deep breath, sitting crisscrossed on the couch, facing him but with her head looking towards her fingers, which she was basically tearing apart.

“since i was a child, i used to feel things, emotions, very strongly. i would always say that they would feel amplified, and i absolutely loved that. i loved feeling everything so deeply, because it reminded me that i was alive and i was here and i could do anything i wanted to. but once i moved away, i don’t know what happened, but i just started feeling a little less, and a little less. till i was numb.

i was desperate, i couldn’t recognise the person looking back at me in the mirror. i didn’t cry, i didn’t laugh, i was just... being, existing. i was younger, i was stupid and i did something even more stupid, just wishing that i would feel something, even if that something was pain.” her voice started wavering, she pulled her lips in her mouth in an attempt to stop her tears from falling.

harry was watching her, but didn’t dare utter a word. she was finally opening up — he doesn’t know if for the first time ever or not, but he didn’t dream of interrupting her, if she wanted to go on.

after a little while, when it seemed like she calmed down a bit, she resumed talking.

“it went on for a while. it wasn’t just the physical aspect of it that was causing me problems, but also the mental state i was in. i cut everyone out of my life, didn’t go home for two years straight: i skipped christmas, birthday dinners, anniversaries. i felt like the worst person ever walking on earth, but i still couldn’t really feel anything. and that just made me spiral, because i was mourning the person i was before. i missed her. fuck, i missed her so much.” she sniffled.

“but then, one day i just knew that it all was getting too much, that i couldn’t keep going like this or else the ending i was heading towards was going to be catastrophic. so i reached out and asked for help: i went to therapy, and i still go to this day. not exactly for the same reasons, but mostly to have a place where i can just let go, i guess.” she stopped and looked at harry, who was staring at her, his brows lightly furrowed, meaning he was listening to every word.

“and therapy really helped getting me out of that mental space. it was difficult, uncomfortable, i had my fair share of setbacks, but during one session my therapist told me something that i hold close to my heart to this day, ever since then.” she smiled to herself, eyes focused on the cushion she was sat on.

“she told me: ‘you know, even the sun gets clouded sometimes.’ even the happiest people — or what seem to be the happiest of people — have their dark days. and that’s fine. you just need to get through them.”

harry thought that no metaphor could ever be as perfect to describe her as this one was.

he was still silent, waiting to see if she had anything else to add. but she misinterpreted his silence for something bad.

“oh god, i’m sorry if this was too much for you, you could’ve told me to stop but since you didn’t i went on and i didn’t even check-”

he couldn’t stop himself from grabbing her waist and make her straddle his lap, arms tightening in a hug that could’ve crushed her bones, but he didn’t care, he just wanted to have her close. his face tucked in her neck, inhaling her perfume, and he hoped she could understand from this hug everything he wanted to say, but couldn’t find the right words to say out loud.

he didn’t need to say anything, all she had to know was expressed by the way he was hugging her. his face rested in her neck, her hand went straight to his hair, playing with the curls at the nape of his neck.

she doesn’t know for how long they stayed like that, but didn’t even care.

—

christmas was around the corner. on monday, she went to the post office, dropped off every present, went to work and had the full day she knew she was going to have, but she had just two more days of work before christmas eve, then she’d spend that beautiful following day with her friends. it wasn’t going to be like at home, but it was with another family she loved just as much.

during these two days, she worked hard on harry’s present. she didn’t know if it was going to be as good as she wanted it to be, but she’d try her very best to make sure it was.

on christmas eve, she stayed home putting the finishing touches on the presents that she had to bring the following day at sarah’s, and checked on the food she had to prepare for their dinner.

around 9pm, she sat down on the couch, looking at her decorated apartment.

the christmas tree she got was almost a carbon copy of the one her mum had at home: three meters tall, way too big for her living room; even the decorations were very similar.

she was sad about not being able to go home that year, but she had to be back to work on the 27th and it wasn’t smart to make such a long trip for just one day, even if it was a special one.

but there was something more that was making her sad, or well, worried: she hadn’t skipped christmas since those years. she wasn’t in that mental place anymore, she had been clean for years now, but you can never know what could trigger you and make you fall back in old habits.

so she tried not to think about that, but of course she just couldn’t stop. she started feeling guilty for behaving the way she did, cutting everyone out of her life, lying to them and pretending she was alright. in her mind, she knows she wasn’t in a good mental state, but that didn’t take away any of the guilt she was feeling.

her thoughts were interrupted by a knocking on the door. she thought that maybe it was the landlady coming by to wish a happy christmas — she was a lovely older lady who always gave her candy whenever she ran into her.

but when she opened the door, she found someone a little bit younger than her 70-year-old landlady.

harry stood there with a bottle of red wine and a present in hand.

“happy christmas eve. let me in?”

“and here i thought you were a caroller. you sure you don’t want to sing anything?”

“shut up and let me in, it’s freezing.”

this was probably the first time harry came over unannounced. he always texted her first, or waited for her to text him for their movie nights, but since she told him about the traditions she had with her family back home, he knew he had to do something.

it wasn’t hard to understand that this holiday season was hard for her, not only because she was far from her family, but because of what happened in the past when she was away from them.

harry could imagine the kind of thoughts that had been swimming in her head these last few days, and he couldn’t stand it. no one should have these kind of thoughts ever, especially not during the holidays.

especially not her.

so, he decided to participate in one of the little traditions she told him about, and thought that maybe they could watch “the grinch” together and open their presents at midnight.

when he told her this, she had the prettiest smile on her face. she never smiled at him like this, and this time he was sure that it was for him. that made him smile just as wide.

they watched “the grinch” together and they both teared up at the part where he was picked on at school.

harry was shocked when she told him that cindy lou was played by the same actress that played jenny humphrey in gossip girl.

“no fucking way that’s her! she looks so sweet here!”

“people grow up, harry.” she laughed. “and hold on- you watched gossip girl? how have you never shared this with me?”

“didn’t think it was an interesting fact to share.”

“are you kidding me? it’s a very important piece of information! you can’t trust anyone these days.” she muttered ironically, but that didn’t stop harry from throwing a pillow at her.

once the grinch was over, it was around 11:30, so they decided to make some hot chocolate and wait for midnight.

“alright, 11:59, one minute to go!”

“you know it’s christmas and not new year’s, do you?”

“yes, you ass, i do know. but i wanted to wish you merry christmas at exactly midnight.”

harry smiled at her, shaking his head lightly.

they looked at each other, until her screen showed 12:00am, making it officially christmas day.

“merry christmas, harry.” she said sweetly.

“merry christmas, love.” he answered back, looking at her fondly.

“now, for the good part... presents! wait here, i have to get yours in my bedroom.”

“ooh, i like where this is going.” he said smirking, earning an eye roll from her.

“get your mind out of the gutter, styles. you little freak.”

he shook his head, but he was getting a bit antsy. what if she didn’t like his present? what if he didn’t like her present and his poker face wasn’t good enough and he made her feel bad? he was sure she could’ve gifted him something straight out of the trash and he would’ve loved it, but you never know.

she came back into the living room, and he could see she was feeling the same way as him. she sat back down on the floor with him, near the tree, and had her presents in hand.

wait, presents, plural.

he was fucked, wasn’t he?

“they aren’t the greatest presents and i usually am great at gift giving, like insanely good. but i really did try my best and i hope i didn’t disappoint too much. go easy on me, please.” she said the last bit laughing, but he could feel the insecurity in her voice.

he wanted to let her know that she would never disappoint him, but no words were coming out of his mouth.

huh, so your smart mouth can talk shit all day but can’t pay her a compliment?

but it felt like she already knew.

“so, this one first.” it was in a tube, and he didn’t know what to think. so he was quick to open it, and he smiled widely when he saw what it was.

“it’s a movie poster where you can scratch the movies you have seen. i bought the same one, i want to put it up the wall, so we can see those movies together and scratch them.” she said, looking down at her hands.

“i love this. this is so beautiful, thank you so much.” he said truthfully. it was such a sweet gesture, and of course she would think of such a thing.

“alright, then for the second present. i thought the first one wasn’t going to be enough-” he went to interrupt her but she wouldn’t let him. “no, you shush. i thought it didn’t convey how much i care about you, so i wanted to give you this.”

she gave him the next gift, that resembled a book a lot. when he opened it, he smiled to himself: “the unbearable lightness of being”.

she told him a thousand times that this was her favourite book and that he just had to read it, because it changed her life. but when he opened the book and flipped through the pages, his breath hitched.

this was her own copy.

“i, uh. i annotated it for you. i know it’s a used copy, — and i’ve read it like 20 times i think, so it’s pretty used — but i felt like it was just right to use my own. it’s kind of like i’m giving a piece of me to you, and i wouldn’t want to give it to anyone else, to be honest.”

he heard what he said, but couldn't tear his eyes from the book in his hands.

inside the first page, there was a small inscription.

“thank you for being here even when it’s cloudy. merry christmas, H.”

he was staring at the words scribbled on the page, wondering how lucky he had to be to be there, with her.

“it’s okay, if you don’t like it, i can just-”

“please, stop with that. i love it, i’m just speechless, i don’t think a thank you is gonna cut it.”

“a thank you is more than enough, harry. it’s nothing too special.” she shrugged.

“it is to me. and i’ll hold onto this forever, i promise you.” he said looking deep into her eyes, making her soft.

“i’m glad you like it, then.” she smiled. “and you speechless? that can be my present, holy shit!” she tried to lighten the air a bit, given the seriousness of that moment.

“heyy! rude.” he scowled. “now, for your present.”

he gave her a box, wrapped with a pretty bow and a note attached to it; she decided to read what he wrote before opening the present.

she was so giddy, anxious and happy. she couldn’t believe she was actually here with harry, reliving a tradition she only had at home. and she couldn’t wrap her head around the fact that this was all harry’s idea, that he wanted to make her feel as if she was home.

she was just so grateful for that mishap in the woods back in october, because it brought them here, and she wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

she opened the little envelope, and took out the note.

“with the hope you’ll find your eugene fitzherbert soon enough.”

she looked up at him quizzically, but he just tilted his chin forward, silently telling her to open the box and check for herself what his note was referring to.

when she finally opened it, she felt her jaw hitting the floor.

“it’s a first edition. you probably already know this, but rapunzel is a story by the grimm brothers. and i know there’s no eugene fitzherbert in this one, and i know you love him, but i couldn’t not buy this when-”

he couldn’t finish his sentence because she threw herself in his arms, tackling him to the ground with her on top.

“this is the best thing anyone has ever gotten me. you’re just the sweetest harry, i can’t believe you did this for me. i don’t deserve this, oh my god.” she whispered in his neck, her lips grazing the soft skin. he felt the small kiss she left right on his throat, and he hugged her tightly against him, as if he wanted for them to stick together.

“you deserve this and more, love.”

they stayed on the ground for a little while, and when she was trying to pull away he just hugged her closer.

“just, uh. just one more minute, okay?” he said lowly.

“of course. whenever you want to let go.”

he thought he never wanted to.

but when she tried to pull away again, he couldn’t stop her.

“now my presents look like shit, in comparison to yours.” she pouted, but it was soon replaced with a smile. “i can’t even think about how much you spent over it, my goodness. you’re nuts.”

harry just chuckled, and she started talking again, looking at him in a new way.

“uh, can i do something? but you have to tell me if you’re not comfortable and if you want to stop right away, because i don’t want you to feel forced into anything and-”

harry quickly picked up where this was going, so he placed his hand on the back of her neck, sat up, went and shut her up for good.

her lips felt as soft as they looked, as soft as they did when he’d dream about them. this was what heaven felt like, he was sure of it.

he lightly bit her lower lip, taking it between his front teeth, earning a small whimper from her. he was going to die, he was sure of it. but if this is the last thing he got to do, he’d pass away peacefully.

she had been waiting for this moment for so long, and now that it was happening it felt like she was walking on air. his lips felt like soft pillows against her own, and she could taste the hot chocolate on them and his tongue. she couldn’t get enough.

when he pulled her bottom lip with his front teeth — those bunny teeth she was lucky enough to see whenever he gifted her a toothy grin — she couldn’t help but whimper against him, melting even more when he sucked on it lightly, as if to make it better.

they kept kissing until they were out of breath, but it seemed like neither of them wanted to leave the other’s lips for even just a second, afraid that this perfect moment was going to disappear.

but harry pulled away first, afraid of actually passing out if he kept going.

and god, he couldn’t believe the sight he had in front of him: her eyes still closed, as if she was wanted to bask in the moment for just a second longer.

exactly like he dreamt about.

when she fluttered her eyes open, he knew he was done for. that was it, the peak of his existence. how had she gotten him so wrapped around her little finger? he was absolutely whipped for her.

she looked into his eyes, those pools of green that had always drawn her in. eight months ago, they looked at her with something very close to disdain, but now? disdain was the furthest thing she could find in them.

and fuck, was she glad about it.

after they stared at each other for a while, she spoke up again. “i still feel like i need to pay you back somehow, that present was too much.”

“mmh, i think i have an idea.” he smirked, leaning in.

“oh really?” she said teasingly, leaning in as well.

“mmh mmh.”

and they kissed again. and again. and again. and a little more after that.

—

on christmas morning, she woke up snuggled in her comforter, with two arms wrapped around her midsection, keeping her close. she sighed with content.

could things get any better?

“‘morning, love.”

apparently they could. he felt his lips kiss her head, but she wanted more. she turned around to face him, and didn’t wait a second to smash her lips against his, hearing him hum against her lips.

“good morning, bub.” she smiled against his lips, leaving another quick kiss. “sorry, i didn’t even brush my teeth.”

he shook his head, grinning at her. “don’t care, not even in the slightest. i’ve waited for way too long to do this, so please do whenever you want to.” to mark his words, he kissed her again.

“you did?” she looked up at him and he nodded.

“waited a long while for you, darling. i don't mind having waited now, though.”

“ah, you’re such a sap. no surprise you love romcoms.” she smacked his chest lightly, leaving her hand right above his heart.

“hey! don’t be rude now.” he scolded her with a smile on his lips.

“alright alright, you walmart version of ryan gosling.”

“oh, you’re going to regret this.”

—

harry had to go back to his place to get ready and pick up the gifts to bring to sarah’s.

“can’t you come with me?” he pouted.

“i’m sorry, i have to shower, get dressed and stuff. i’ll see you in a little while, i promise.”

“you could just wear my stuff.”

that made her feel all gooey on the inside, but also made her chuckle. “don’t worry, i’ll steal all your hoodies in no time. i've already started, if you remember.” she smiled, leaving a small peck on his nose.

“good. they look better on you anyway.” he pecked her lips three times before kissing her for a little longer.

“okay, now you have go or else we’re going to be late.” she said between kisses.

“mmh mmh, you’re right, should definitely go.” he said, but just went ahead and kissed her, before she pushed her hand against his chest.

“stop it, we really are going to be late. i’ll see you soon, i promise.” she smiled softly at him, lightly shoving him outside her door.

who thought harry could be such a softie? again, herself from 8 months ago would be laughing like a crazy person if she knew that harry was at her doorstep, pouting because he had to go home and couldn’t keep kissing her.

a couple of hours later, she was dressed up and ready to go. she heard her phone ring, meaning she received a message. glancing at her phone, she couldn’t help the smile on her face.

“i’m on my way. you ready?”

“yes, i am, E.”

“don’t know if you thought this was another person you spent all day kissing, but my name starts with an H, love.”

she didn’t bother telling him why she called him E, maybe he’d get it someday.

—

here it is! it’s time to say goodbye to these two softies. this fic is probably the best thing i’ve ever written, and i’m incredibly proud of it. i hope you enjoyed it as well! thank you so much for your support, it’s been crazy. thank you!

tag list (for those tagged, do you want to be on the permanent tag list? let me know!):

@his-only-angel-1989 @sunshinemoonsposts @cherrysulewski @idgasb @feestyles @msolbesg @call1800coochie @a-strange-familiar @the-art-of-living-honestly @onlyangel-k @sushiirestaurant @annesauriol @longingtobewithu @jjharry @hes-club @fairyinpurple @harrysbigspoon

#my writing #harry styles #harry styles angst #harry styles blurb #harry styles fic #harry styles one shot #harry styles os #harry styles x reader #harry x reader #harry styles imagine #harry styles writing #harry styles x y/n #harry x y/n #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic rec #harry styles smut

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deadbydangit · 8 months

Note

Hi! Love ur work, hope your having a good day!! ^_^

How about a reader with photographic memory? Or Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory (HSAM?)

With Doctor, Evan, and Hillbilly

I'm sorry this took a bit. I've been very anxious lately. I hope you enjoy this, I had a difficult time with it.

With a Reader who has a photographic memory

Doctor, Trapper, Hillbilly

Doctor

Oh?

A photographic memory you say?

Well, let's test that.

It isn't that he doesn't believe you.

But facts such as this tend to be over exaggerated.

When it's revealed after several tests that you weren't over exaggerating?

His all for it.

He loves to see what your mind is capable of.

He'll show you pictures and ask you about little details.

And it's pretty helpful.

As smart as Herman is, he's a total scatter brain.

Literally, he'll leave brains around and forget where he put them.

"Dearest, have you seen that brain I've been dissecting?"

And you'll know right where it is.

Unfortunately, you've walked into his lab and seen things you really didn't want to see.

Now that's stuck in your head.

Herman feels bad about it.

To make up for it, he'll give you pretty pictures or take you to pretty places.

Trapper

That's nice dear.

He really could care less.

Photographic memory. Neat

Until he realizes how useful it is.

"Damn it! Where the Hell did I leave that trap?"

Over there.

And there it was.

His workshop is a disaster zone!

So he'll ask you to clean it up.

And with you there, he'll have a system to remember where everything is!

It's so helpful you don't even know.

Evan makes sure you know he isn't just using you for your talent.

Sometimes, he'll do something extra special, then do the exact same thing much later.

Nostalgia can be a fun thing, right?

And that's all he really wants for you.

To have fun and be happy.

Hillbilly

A photographic memory?

What's that?

Explain it to Max.

He still doesn't understand.

You'll have to do a demonstration of some type.

But now he thinks you're magical.

His memory is actually awful.

You can show him something one minute, then he'll immediately forget where it is.

Even big things!

So when you're able to find them?

"How did you find that!"

It was pretty much in front of him.

You're magical.

Explain to him you aren't.

He still thinks you're magical.

You have to be.

#dbd imagines #dbd ask blog #dbd x reader #dbd killer #dbd hillbilly #dbd doctor #dbd trapper

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greenerteacups · 10 days

Note

this might seem v random but, if you haven't come across it already, i would really recommend tavi gevinson's latest online zine 'fan fiction' -- not because of the fan fiction element of it, though, but because of your evident love of taylor swift (who it's about) and your impeccable literary taste. and would love to hear your thoughts!

This was an excellent recommendation, and I loved it. I will admit that the RPF segment had me leery (RPF throws me for reasons I have yet to intellectually inspect but believe may relate somehow to the concept of voyeurism) but I'm glad I finished it, because she pulls it together very well. The dialogue in the last segment is especially great, particularly these parts:

And this:

Because this gets at what I find so Gordian about Internet conversations among even relatively respectful/measured people about Swift's work and presence: we can't seem to figure out what it is we want from her. There is no right way for a woman to be more famous than most presidents. Do we want her to need us or not? Should she care about our approval or shouldn't she? Is the fact that she doesn't "feel" authentic to us the consequence of having demanded authenticity for so long she literally had to shape her personality to fit what "felt real" to millions of people, and in the process, of course, of course, inevitably, produced work that felt authentic to no one?

And then also, like. To what extent do fans use her autonomy/consent as a lever for bad behavior? I.e. does the "invitation" of personal information in her songs license us to speculate about her like she's a character on a TV show? Where is the line of appropriate speculation in an autobiographical medium? I was talking to my friend at dinner just tonight about how it's gross that people can't seem to give her the credit of writing songs that aren't 100% always About Her, and my friend pointed out that she invites comparisons to her own life by teasing names and iconography we identify with her public persona. It's like Brett Easton Ellis writing a book about a character named Brett Easton Ellis. Sure, they're not the same person, but you've invoked a symbol, and people are not being ridiculous for trying to analyze that symbol in the context of the work. In order to do that, they need to understand what the symbol is. Which means the biographical stuff actually is relevant to the text, and Swift's obvious irritation at her fans for failing to just... fuck off a little bit and let her live, while an entirely fair and morally defensible human response, is complicated by the way that her art is produced to resonate best for those who care most. Folklore and Evermore prove even Taylor is on some level aware of this, because she uses the third-person mechanic (and again in "Bolter") to differentiate those protagonists from the narrative construct of "Taylor Swift" in her other first-person work — i.e. pulling apart the Swift who is speaking and not the Swift who is singing (if that makes sense).

And then, finally: "The irony gets a bit tired. You can just say you like music. It's fine." What a deliciously recursive little bit of irony, considering it's a criticism being offered by a character whose ironic distance is itself being criticized. And the fact that the author is putting her own self-criticism in the mouth of a non-existent popstar who's deliberately flattening her take on her subject matter? Mingling valid with invalid criticism to establish a protective distance from her flaws and prove her smarty-pants intellectual self-awareness while also implicitly disowning the faults in her work, an (ironically) childish gesture of insecurity that stands at odds with the mature intellectual persona? Trying to have about seven or eight different cakes, and eat every one of them? "The irony gets a bit tired." Fucking perfect. I laughed.

#fuck it I'm making another tag for this #swiftism #greenteacup asks

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fuck-you-upmusicbracket · 5 months

Text

Searching for A Former Clarity (Against Me!)

And in the journal you kept by the side of your bed/You wrote nightly an aspiration of developing as an author/Confessing childhood secrets of dressing up in women's clothes/Compulsions you never knew the reasons to/Will everyone you ever meet or love/Be just a relationship based on a false presumption?/Despite everyone you ever meet or ever love/In the end, will you be all alone?

"Searching for a Former Clarity is about the process of dying. It's the closing track to the album, and it shares a theme with the opening track, but while Miami uses disease and dying as a way to talk about the city metaphorically, Searching for a Former Clarity is much more personal. It's also partly autobiographical. Laura Jane Grace wouldn't come out for another seven years, although if I'm remembering right she was convinced that this song would immediately out her to everyone. (I could be thinking of a different song from the same era. It's kind of a running theme in her music.) A while back I saw an old video of her performing this song, when it was still new and she still wasn't out. It felt wrong to see that version of her, honestly (I'm old enough that I should have been a fan in the 2000s but I'd never heard of Against Me until a couple years ago), but it also amazes me just how much *better* she looks now. She looked so much older then, and unbelievably more miserable, than she does now. I hate that she had to live like that for so long, but I think about that contrast every time I hear the song now. Honestly, with that in mind, I never want to hear anyone saying shit about how they are glad someone suffered so that they could Make Art(TM) about it. Fuck that. Don't get me wrong, I love this song and most of Against Me's discography, but I'd willingly give all of it up if it could somehow retroactively mean that Laura Jane Grace didn't have to have the shitty life experiences that led to it. Yes, a lot of art comes from suffering, but people shouldn't have to fucking suffer for art. I've had some experiences lately that forced me to think about my mortality a bit more seriously than usual. If I died today, there would be an extensive record of my gender, and my complex feelings about gender, on various mostly anonymous twitter and tumblr and reddit accounts. If I died today, nobody who knows me would know the name I chose for myself. Not that I'm a historical figure (I'd probably be entirely forgotten in a decade tbh) but speculation about my gender would be *at most* someone's conspiracy theory based on poorly-sourced and badly-interpreted speculation. I'd be buried as a man, I'd be remembered as a man, I'd be forgotten as a man. That was my choice. I have my reasons for making it. I don't know if it is right or wrong or even if the concepts of "right" and "wrong" are the right ones to use when thinking about it. I'm still going to have feelings about it every chance I get. Searching for a Former Clarity is a pretty good way to get them. Emma. That is the name that I chose."

No Rain (Blind Melon)

And I don't understand why I sleep all day/And I start to complain when there's no rain

"Okay, I know this is not the usual song genre vibe of a fuck you up song BUT THE LYRICS and the fact that the song is so soothing and a little up-beat just fucks me up. Like this is the song of my life- literally. My brother thinks of me everytime he hears this song which I think shows how much I relate to this song. It fucks me up specifically because I RELATE so hard to it. The overwhelming loneliness is the theme of this song, and the idea that days just pass with no passion or enjoyment and we do what we can just to stay awake and keep going despite the monotony of it all. And how all of this can be solved if that one person will just stay with you."

No Rain submitted by @ghostlystrangers

#fuck you up bracket #tournament #polls #against me!#blind melon

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girlonthelasttrain · 4 months

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I didn't do a yearly roundup of my fic writing output before the end of 2023 because I was preoccupied with other things, so here it is now:

In 2023

I posted 5 stories, 4 in English and 1 in Italian

for a total of ~53,700 words, the most I've posted in one calendar year ever since I started posting fic online

2 fics for Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, 1 for Star Trek: Voyager, 1 for Star Trek: Picard and finally, after many years of only writing Trek-related fic, 1 for Wheel of Time (TV)

all are f/f (because in this at least I'm very consistent), and two of the stories feature polyamory

the longest fic is Best Left (~38,400 words, the longest fic I've ever posted so far) and the shortest is Sotto il Passo Ratosha (~1200 words)

Under the cut thoughts on each fic!

Mistaken for Strangers (Star Trek: DS9, Kimara Cretak/Kira Nerys, ~1700 words)

Kira calls for the Habitat Ring, Guest Sector with more mixed feelings than her usual fare. It’s not that she blames Ezri, or anyone else for that matter, for assuming things about her enmity with the Romulan senator; they wouldn’t understand. In all honesty Kira isn’t sure she does, either. She remembers all too clearly how it was to be on the other side.

Written for the Rare Femslash Exchange 2022, this is the latest entry in my longstanding Kira/Cretak series. It was fun to imagine Kira as a young, and (understandably) rigid, freedom fighter and contrast her with Kira's current predicament (ie, enjoying a secret sexual relationship with Romulan Senator a little too much for her own good).

Even when I am not, I am (Star Trek: Voyager, Seven of Nine/B'Elanna Torres, ~9,600 words)

B’Elanna turns back to the console and resumes entering commands into it with grim determination. Harry watches her in silence, once again unsure what to do. There is clearly something bothering B’Elanna, there’s no doubt about it now, and it’s deeper than he thought.

Once again written for the Rare Femslash Exchange 2022, this one is kind of niche fic. The prompt specifically mentioned the Voyager novel “String Theory: Cohesion” which is an incredibly fun romp for B'Elanna/Seven fans. In it, the girls are forced to become a ‘collective of two’—essentially telepathically connected—and I wanted to explore the fallout from that with a bit of a personal spin. I love telepathy tropes, I'm fascinated by the idea of mind-sharing and horrified that anyone could know someone else's innermost thoughts, or even get lost in them. I was reading a lot of Gloria Anzaldúa when I wrote this (the title comes from “Borderlands/La Frontera”) and I thought that B'Elanna, who all her life has been forced to live on the margins, would especially not react well to that kind of identity-erasing experience, while also being forced to confront a latent attraction which has come to the forefront.

Sotto il Passo Ratosha (Star Trek: DS9, Jadzia Dax/Kira Nerys, ~1200 words)

Si guardò intorno, come stordita; si era nascosta lì per un rastrellamento quindici anni prima, buttandocisi dentro con il fucile, e ora era tornata e aveva in mano quello stesso fucile. Eppure la cesura fra i due momenti non poteva essere più ampia.

I wrote this for the None English Fest 2023, based on the first chapter of an autobiographical novel on the Italian Resistance to the Nazi occupation (“I Piccoli Maestri” by Luigi Meneghello). I admit I haven't translated it yet because I now feel pretty ambivalent about having connected an explicit narrative of decolonization like the Bajoran struggle to this particular page of Italian history (which was not that). The reference is still meaningful to me personally, and it fit the characters and Kira and Jadzia very well imho, but it's perhaps best left as a writing exercise that very few people will be able to read. That being said, in 2023 I realized just how much Italian I'm forgetting; carrying even a slightly involved conversation has become pretty challenging and my vocabulary is shrinking rapidly. Writing this short fic was not a small effort. I want to try and write (and read!) in Italian more often in 2024. And if you're reading this as an ESL fic writer: this is your sign to write more in your native language. Do It. Don't let English monopolize your creative output.

Best Left (Star Trek: Picard, Raffi Musiker/Seven of Nine + Seven of Nine/B'Elanna Torres + Raffi Musiker/B'Elanna Torres, ~38,400 words)

She’s older now, and out of uniform, looking much worse for wear after what she just went through. But there had been a time more than twenty years prior when her face had been on every Federation newsfeed, along with the rest of the crew of the USS Voyager. “You know her?” Raffi turns to Soji, frozen in bemusement beside Emil. “I’ve never met her but yes, I know who she is,” Raffi says. “You two stay here and keep an eye on things. Seven needs to see this.”

Written for the Rare Pair Exchange 2023, with this fic I brought my current OTP (B'Elanna/Seven) into the Picard timeline while also falling a little bit in love with Raffi and learning to appreciate S1 of the Picard show, despite my many complaints. I won't lie, writing this fic was hysterical, challenging, crazy fun and it broke me a little bit. I still can't say whether or not I'm proud of how it turned out; while writing it felt like I was courting disaster at every turn, and it would've certainly benefited from a better drafting process. Still, it is one of the most ambitious projects I've ever undertaken, and I feel like I didn't completely fumble the ending, so there's that. If you read it, please let me know—I'd love to hear what you thought of it, good and bad.

Master's Apprentices (Wheel of Time (TV), Lanfear/Liandrin Guirale + Liandrin Guirale/Moiraine Damodred, ~2700 words)

“All your life you have sought power out of fear,” she murmurs distractedly, as if finding the truth of your existence in braids you don’t remember plaiting. Then, her eyes meet yours again, solemn. “But no more. I found you out, Liandrin. I know every one of your secrets. There is no need for you to hide any longer.”

Written for the Femslash Exchange 2023, I admit this fic caught me by surprise. I've written for years in the same extended universe (Star Trek), and I wasn't sure I would be able to wade into a completely different setting. So in order to get over myself I tried something I had wanted to attempt for a very long time, second person POV. I think it fit well the ‘dreamscape’ I was trying to evoke, and I'm glad I took this route. Liandrin is a fascinating character to write for me, too. I share more than a few personality traits with her (most relevant for this fic her inability to get over old feelings—I still regularly dream about my ex, despite the fact that our break up almost fifteen years ago was hardly amicable), so it wasn't difficult to relate to her or realize that I could make the same terrible choices, or be preyed on by someone figuring out my weaknesses, if I don't take a principled stand. I had fun writing this fic.

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dnpsuck · 1 year

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If you could recommend Dan any comedians (or media) to study who/what would you choose? Like things that might help him improve his craft? Not in a mean way just in a honing his skills type of way. A little homework as a treat.

you have no idea how much you're indulging me with this right now, but let's fucking gooooo

i honestly think dan is well-versed in comedy and having the experience he's currently having with touring his comedy material is only gonna help him (even if it's mainly to an audience that already likes him), so in general i think he's on the right track, so the things i say here are way more for people who are interested in comedy in general than about what i think dan should do, but i will mention some stuff related to him just to further contextualize his comedy.

what i would recommend anyone that is interested in comedy (not only as a career path but as a genre, a study subject, etc) would be getting into theory to understand some of the whys and hows of comedy.

i wrote my undergraduate thesis on comedy (and i got an 100% score 🤓) and as torturous as writing a thesis can be, reading and learning more about comedy through an academic lens was extremely exciting, which is why i recommend diving into the different theories and theorists and how comedy is perceived in different historical contexts.

under the cut i put some more thoughts and recommendations to learn more about comedy:

There are several theories that try to explain what is comedy, humor, why we laugh, etc. but I try to narrow it down to 3 main ones: Incongruity, Superiority and Relief.

Although I have not read ALL of them ENTIRELY (some of these I've only read the bits that helped my thesis), for pure theory I recommend some of the work I used for my own research:

• Poetics by Aristotle

• Laughter: An Essay on the Meaning of the Comic by Henri Bergson

• Humour by Terry Eagleton

• Essays on Poetry and Music by James Beattie

• Humor by Sigmund Freud (Yup. That guy)

• Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious by Sigmund Freud

• Human Nature by Thomas Hobbes

• Leviathan by Thomas Hobbes

• On Humor by Luigi Pirandello

• Histoire du rire et de la dérision by Georges Minois (I couldn't find an English version of this book online, but it's available in French and Portuguese)

Another way to be exposed to some theory without a lot of effort is by watching Nannette by Hannah Gadsby because she quite directly addresses Incongruity and Relief in that special. I also think it's a good experience overall, so even if you don't wanna learn about comedy, go ahead and watch Nannette.

When it comes to comedy as a tool for social change (which I see as an important aspect of comedy, and I believe that is also a goal for Dan's journey with comedy) I recommend the following (especially the first one):

• A funny matter: toward a framework for understanding the function of comedy in social change by Caty Borum Chattoo

• Storytelling for Social Change: leveraging documentary and comedy for public engagement in global poverty by Caty Borum Chattoo & Lauren Feldman

• Why stand-up matters by Sophie Quirk

When it comes to mental health, a big topic in Dan's comedy, needless to say Bo Burnham is a great source for that kind of material, but the truth is many comedians (big names and beginners) are talking mental health nowadays in their work, so there is a lot of work to explore out there. But I recommend watching Laughing Matters, a short documentary featuring several comedians talking about their mental health and their careers in comedy, and John Mulaney's part on Netflix's The Hall: Honoring the Greats of Stand-Up where he talks about Robin Williams. These works help demystify that terrible myth that in order to be a comedian or seek comedy you have to be some sort of tortured soul, that whole idea of "my trauma made me funny", etc. Still kinda on that line of mental health but a bit more, like, autobiographical, which is kind of the line where Dan is going, I feel like Nannette, as previously mentioned, is a good one and so is Rothaniel by Jerrod Carmichael (HBO Max). Although most comedians will do kind of autobiographical work, I think these two just kind of hit closer to where Dan is aiming.

To understand more comedy from the POV of comedians themselves I recommend any podcast on comedy like Comedy Bang Bang, You Made It Weird, Conan O'Brien Needs A Friend, etc. and listening to episodes featuring comedians you like. I think having a favorite comedian and watching anything by them where they talk about their journey with comedy can make this easier. Comedians In Cars Getting Coffee is also this great window into this world of comedy and the way these comedians see their craft and their journeys (fair warning about this show and, honestly, getting into comedians in general: many people here are talented but suck ass as people. Consume their work at your discretion).

For me, I love John Mulaney as a comedian, so I tend to favor his views on comedy and I find that his interview with Larry King in 2018 is quite a great way to see his understanding of performing comedy and his own role in it. I also like Robin Williams, Bill Hicks, Julio Torres, George Carlin, Patti Harrison, Maria Bamford, Jerrod Carmichael, Joel Kim Booster, and many more. But honestly, my main reference is John Mulaney, and most of my comedy knowledge comes from the US comedy, so I do think having a niche helps.

You may like British comedy better, or maybe you enjoy comedy from your country better, or maybe you just don't get physical comedy at all, or you can only feel alive when you consume cringe comedy, etc. I like comedy a lot but I'm not into every kind of comedy in the same way. But I would say that being exposed to as many different kinds of comedy, formats and comedians as possible can be very positive because there's so much to learn from any well-done joke, y'know?

For me, one type of comedy that feels indispensable to any performer is improv comedy. The "yes, and..." mentality is essential to anyone going on stage and facing an audience. And to anyone writing comedy, being given a random situation and not escaping from it but learning to expand it is essential. And, honestly? Just regular living can be improved with some improv. So, obviously: Whose Lines Is It Anyway? is a good way to start there (I favor the older ones but that's because I ferociously consumed every 90s-2000s episode of the US WLIIA when I was a teenager). If you're Brazilian, Improvável by Barbixas is a great way to start as well with almost endless content to explore.

And, honestly? Any video essay on comedy, comedians or comedy media you enjoy. We all love a good video essay. I like:

• How Nathan Fielder Undresses People by Nerdwriter1

• The Power of Storytelling: John Mulaney by PhilosoFun

• The Hidden Formula Behind Almost Every Joke on Late Night by Slate

• Efficiency in Comedy: The Office vs. Friends by Drew Gooden

• The Death of Laugh Tracks by Drew Gooden

• Is SNL Even Funny? by Drew Gooden

• I watched one SNL episode from every season by Drew Gooden

(What I mean here is that Drew Gooden needs to make more video essays on comedy, please.)

Oh, another thing that is really important is delivery. I will, once again, bring up John Mulaney because I think his delivery is phenomenal. The Salt and Pepper Diner is a masterclass on comic delivery, I believe. I mentally quote "Hey, November Rain is over! ... No, it's not. There's more." all the time. Which brings me to another point, listen to stand-up albums. I love watching a good stand-up special but audio makes you really appreciate the delivery of the joke. The comedian has to convince you they're worth of your time with their ability to get a joke out of their brain into the world with no help of visuals. It helps you understand that comedian's comic voice. And I think John Mulaney does that really well.

Of course there is a variety of different comics with different deliveries to also be impressed by: Dan Mintz and Nathan Fielder have kind of similar styles of voices but their humor is kind of different. Leslie Jones, Pete Davidson, Conan O'Brien, Katt Williams, Bo Burnham, Julio Torres, Daniel Sloss, Ali Wong, Katherine Ryan, Hannah Gadsby, Wanda Sykes, Tig Notaro, Chris Rock, etc, they all have different ways to speak, but they know how to work their rhythm well enough to land their jokes the right way. You gotta find your own rhythm.

And I think a final thought is: authenticity. Not that you have to give 100% of yourself all of the time. You can tweak stories, enhance certain situations, hide things, not tell the full truth, you can even straight up LIE, and all that. but you gotta make it believable. An audience that senses a lack of authenticity, won't be entertained for long. If you're not explicitly coming in with a fictional character, your audience will be seeking your essence. Your comedy is a reflection of you. So whatever you say, whatever part of your life you decide to expose, whatever vision you share, your audience is associating that to you. You're not just a medium from where the jokes come from, you are it. Which is why you can't just tell a joke because you think it will be funny, you gotta tell it because it's honest to you, to your beliefs, it resonates with you. You have to understand that the audience will see that joke as an expression of yourself.

See why Dan's joke about not washing his feet back-fired? He either picked something unauthentic to him - according to him he just chose a random example - or he did pick something authentic to him but, like many comedians do, backed out once he got called out. He had the choice of running with it, owning the joke but he backed out. And if he's honest when he says he just chose a random example, then he made the mistake of not being authentic to his own beliefs when telling a joke.

In the endddd, my favorite way to learn about comedy is by watching comedians talk about comedy. And comedy is too rich of a field to be explored only through the academic angle, or one theorist's point of view so having people who live and breathe comedy talk about it is a great source of knowledge. That's one of the reasons why in my thesis, when I explained the theories of comedy, I didn't just quote theorists, I also quoted comedians.

Final thoughts: just, y'know, be yourself. Have fun. Don't joke about not washing your feet if you don't want people to think you don't wash your feet, etc. And most importantly, punching up will always be the best way to use your craft for the better.

If you read until here, why the fuck would you do that? But thankssss. <3

#lola.ask

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tackypies · 9 months

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Tacky i NEED to hear more about your opinions on Andersen and his stories. Your post on the Snow Queen got me HOOKED

god forgive me for what i'm about to unleash <audhd

hc andersen has been pigeonholed into being a children-only author by english speakers because of poor translations and european attitudes towards fairy tales. if we're to understand the complexity of his stories, we need to understand a bit about hca as a man, because every single story he's written is autobiographical in some shape, way, or form. he cannot be removed from his stories, because his stories ARE him

hc andersen was born in the provincial danish town of odense in 1805, which lagged behind the "modern" world. it was a unique city because it retained the rural traditions and superstitions of the local folk while also serving as a gathering place for cosmopolitan nobles and rich merchants. this was crucial to hca's development bc he was exposed to one of the few theaters in all of denmark, was able to mingle with the upper classes, and was able to learn his folk roots through stories and practices

his father was a cobbler who harbored dreams of going to school, but never made it. his mother was an illiterate washerwoman, pious and superstitious. hca was a single child - very rare for the time! - and as a result his parents pampered him the best they could despite living in the slums. his father often read stories to him and created puppet theaters out of scrap, while his mother exposed him to folk traditions. there's so much more i could say about his parents, but needless to say his upbringing had such a huge impact on him that you can see them again and again as characters in his stories

andersen was not a typical child. he was dreamy, he was gawky and large, he wove flower garlands and sewed clothes for dolls instead of playing with other boys, and he harbored delusions of grandeur which were encouraged by his family, that he was destined for Greater Things. he was heavily bullied by all the other kids and from an early age on, he sought the company of middle and upper class families by performing (i.e. singing, putting on a show) for them. he IS the ugly duckling. i'm skipping a great deal of things, but long story short is, from an early age hca learned to perform for others in order to be seen as Special and Wanted. he left for copenhagen at the age of 14 to make his "debut" as an actor - despite knowing no one - and had to beg and perform his way into upper class homes once again to garner their pity and financial support

this couldn't have worked out for him in another time. when andersen arrived in copenhagen, the romantic movement was burgeoning. there was the belief that talent could be nurtured and grown if a student was Properly Civilized, and hca happened to be an excellent charity case. he eventually caught the eye of the collins family, who funded his schooling

there's so so many events i'm skipping over once again for the sake of brevity, but the long and short of it is that hca's success as an author - and his financial stability - depended on the collins' patronage for a very long time, to the point where he gained an obsession/crush on edvard collins, the man charged with helping andersen's career. i'm talking about "sending homoerotically charged letters to the guy when he's about to be married and being denied an invitation to said wedding bc the family's afraid you'll cause a scene and make an embarrassment, and also bc you wrote your first draft of the little mermaid based on your conversations with said guy" levels of crush.

as a queer, neurodivergent writer, andersen resonates with me so much. he's very much a writer for those on the outskirts of society. he expressed disapproval over the united states forcing native americans out of their territories and sympathized heavily with jews, at a time when religious tolerance wasn't high. he struggled with his attraction to men and women (he once wrote to edvard collins he desired to kiss him as if edvard were a woman and had an affair with a male dancer in his later years) and his own expression of masculinity, per the gender roles of 19th century europe, and frequently referred to himself as having a "feminine nature" - though this shouldn't be taken as him identifying as a woman (more on that later maybe?)

his stories are heavily christian in their message and symbolism, but you have to remember that this was the cultural language at the time. his relationship with faith can also be seen as his attempt to find faith in humanity - and he has SUCH a rocky relationship with faith throughout his lifetime. his stories are social commentaries as much as entertainment for children - and his later tales illustrate his more metaphorical, cynical side. just look at this chilling summary of "the most incredible thing":

this is commentary that stands true even to this day! holy shit!

if you want to read more about hca, i highly recommend the following books:

hca is a fascinating author who, unfortunately, suffered gravely from poor translations and preconceived notions of what fairy tales are. when you read his stories, you have to read them understanding that 1) how andersen portrays his characters is often reflective of his OWN childhood experiences and 2) what andersen writes is an excising of his internal struggles and questions - questions of faith, of his sexuality, of his views on society, of feeling like an outsider who must always perform up until the very end of his life. his struggles are human - and that's why his stories have such power even to this day

all in all:

(from wullschlager's intro to nunnally's translation:)

biographies

hans christian andersen: european witness - paul binding

hans christian andersen: the life of a storyteller - jackie wullschlager

hans christian andersen: a new life - jen andersen

translations

hans christian andersen: fairy tales - tiina nunnally

the annotated hans christian andersen - maria tatar

#asks #vivienna-vivid #im so sorry. im deranged #hans christian andersen

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libraryfag · 8 months

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feel free to pick & choose if this is too many, but merrily (as well), trc, and hamlet for the ask game!!

holy trinity of media that makes me insane about tragedy!

Merrily:

Favorite character: a tie between Charly and Mary.... i literally cannot chose between them Second favorite character: Frank, to complete the trio, he's such an asshole but i do love him

Least favorite character: Not a proper answer because I really don't have a least favorite character but gussie was honestly done a little bit dirty by the show.i understand that it's a very easy way of showing how the friendship collapsed overtime but the show makes it seem like it was all gussies fault and i feel so bad for her because it wasn't as if she was deliberately doing it it just sorta happened but whatever.

The character I’m most like: hm. i think maybe Act Two Frank specifically just bc im so so in love with theatre. merrily is so so special to me bc it really captures that magic. not a character but i really really relate to Opening Doors bc thats just what writing a show is like or making any art reallly.

Favorite pairing: Frank/Charly/Mary not just platonic not romantic not sexual but a secret fourth thing (including all the above) they loved each other so much!

Least favorite pairing: theo I totally agree with everything you said about frank and meg. i cant think of anyone else i could say so i might as welll copy your answer

Favorite moment: Opening Doors which has grown on me since i heard that Sondheim said it was his only autobiographic song. as well as the previously discussed reliability of it, it's such an earworm, like ive had it stuck in my head basically alll year its crazy. Also it shows how close they were together which makes it incredibly heartbreaking also

Rating out of 10: 9/10. its one of my favourite musicals ever! obligatory point reduction for whatever was wrong with the original production (Hal Prince wtf were you doing casting children??)

The Raven Cycle

Favorite character: Ronan Lynch <3 Second favorite character: oh god. im just going to say chainsaw bc i love her so much and i don't want to single out any of the other protagonists bc then i feel bad.

Least favorite character: Maggie Steifvater is such a great author I cannot name a single character I'm not 100% invested in, even ones that would be so easy to get bored by, like Mr Gray or Greenmantle I need to learn everything about them ever.

The character I’m most like: gansey tbh. to the point where i try not to think about it

Favorite pairing: all of the guys (aka blue, gansey, adam, ronan, noah and maybe henry, i don't know him so well yet). basically the same as my merrily answer, labels don't really matter: what matters is they all love each other so so much its insaneeeeeee. im also a big sucker for whatever ronan and adam have going on

Least favorite pairing: tbh i wasn't so invested in maura and the gray man at first.

Favorite moment: i love it when ronan is protective of chainsaw.. he loves that bird so much

Rating out of 10: 11/10 aka so good its literally having a detrimental impact on my school results and mental health/sleep :)

Hamlet

Favorite character: Hamlet Thee Dane. truly the character of all time

Second favorite character: i think about ophelia every single day

Least favorite character: depends on the production tbh. like i used to not care about laertes and polonius, but i became obsessed with the former either last year or the year before, and the version i read this year (Nicki Greenberg's graphic novel which i would recommend) had a really engaging interpretation of the latter which was so good i got sad when he died.

The character I’m most like: hamlet is literally me btw.

Favorite pairing: tragic danish boyfriends is a classic and brilliant but hamlet and laertes also upsets me so so much. like they are literally perfect foils

Least favorite pairing: ugh. gertrude and hamlet sexually. freud suck my dick

Favorite moment: yes ive seen/read it 5 times now. no, i've never not been emotionally destroyed by the ending

Rating out of 10: 10/10. one of the best pieces of fiction ever. which is a totally subjective statement but also im right.

#thanks for the ask theo it wasn't too many i love ranting about media #my asks #friends!#hamlet #trc #merrily we roll along

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love-kurdt · 2 months

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This is Me Trying (Mike's Version) (byler): 3

word count: 6,996

in short: if you are emotionally or mentally vulnerable, please dni.

The world buzzed with static around me, each second feeling like an eternity. Time stood still, just like the day I took off my watch. My hands were shaking, the anticipation inside me about to explode like fireworks. I balled my hands up into fists and put them in my sweatshirt pockets, but immediately pulled them back out because I could feel my palms getting sweaty.

I glanced around, and saw the nextdoor neighbor taking her dog out for a walk. I raised my hand in an awkward greeting, and she smiled back at me. I watched her run further and further away until they were out of my line of sight; a minute had definitely passed by now. I turned my attention back to the door, and lifted my hand again, going to knock one last time.

But then, before I was able to, Will opened the door.

I froze, my hand still in the air. I lowered my arm slowly, and took a mental photograph of Will’s awestricken face before I was met with a faceful of door. I should have seen that coming. I leaned my head against the door, exhaling with a shaky breath. “Will… I know I’m the last person you want to see. I just…” I hesitated, digging my nails into my palms. This was likely going to be my first of many fumbles. “This is going fucking splendidly already, Jesus Christ.”

There was no response on Will’s end, but I figured I might as well get everything off my chest, even if Will wasn’t there to hear it. Saying it out loud could probably suffice. “Uh… I guess I should start by saying I’m sorry. For everything. For hurting you with my words, with my actions, for being so fucking reckless with my life. I’ve accumulated a lot of regrets over the past few years, but…” here goes nothing, “loving you will never be one of them.”

I closed my eyes with my head still on the door, but jumped back a bit in surprise when I felt a light thump right next to my face. “... Will?”

“I’m listening.”

The faint sound of Will’s voice was music to my ears; low and velvety, with a hint of rasp. My stomach nervously flipped as I cleared my throat, continuing on. “I’ve been a mess without you. I don’t know who I am without you. This is me trying to say…” I trailed off. What was I trying to say? How could I reduce my love for Will into a single sentence? How could I explain myself in a concise, yet bold form that wouldn’t scare Will away? I couldn’t. I was doomed regardless of how the conversation would unfold. I asked Will the first thing that came to mind: “... You ever been to a college party?”

“Yeah, a few.” Will replied.

“Well, I just failed out of school because I went to way too many of them. I just drove here directly from my last one, actually.” I tried to add a bit of humor to my voice, but it ended up coming out sounding pathetically broken. Fumble number two. Fuck it all. Everything was going down in flames. I set my hand on the door, caressing the painted surface as if it were Will’s face.

“But here’s the thing— it’s hard to be at a party when you feel like an open wound. You’re all I think about, and it’s like I can’t… I can’t let go. It’s hard to be anywhere these days when all I want is you. And even though you don’t love me, and even if we can never be friends again, I need that closure, Will, and I need you to understand that I won’t move on if that never happens.” I felt the doorknob click below, and I lifted my head up just as the door opened again. Will emerged, tears lining his cheeks. Motherfucking fumble number three. When Will and I were little, we functioned as a unit. When Will was happy, I was happy. When Will would cry, I would cry with him. Now, I felt like I was five years old again, getting choked up at the sight of Will crying, and mentally cursed myself. “Fuck, now I’ve made you cry for the umpteenth time in our lives. What else is new?”

I nodded in sorrowful understanding. “Yeah.”

I took a good look at Will, noticing how Will’s hair had finally grown out of the bowl cut, falling into his eyes in loose copper waves, ending just above his strong jaw. His eyes, even obscured with tears, looked green as ever. I wanted to drown in them.

“You changed your hair,” I heard myself say. Will let out a small smile at that, brushing some of his bangs out of his eyes, along with some tears that had attached themselves to his eyelashes.

“Yeah, the bowl was kind of… archaic.” Both of us began awkwardly laughing while still crying. I had to refrain from thinking too much, because if I did, I'd get all sentimental about how this was the first time I'd laughed with Will in… I couldn’t even remember.

“You like it, though?” he asked. He still sought my approval, after everything. Of course I liked it. I liked Will’s hair no matter how it was cut. But this style that Will was sporting currently had me falling flat on my face; and not literally, for once.

“Yeah, it really suits you,” I told Will, who was flattered at the compliment.

“Thank you. I mean, Mom’s skill set with scissors was… limited, but she tried.” I thought of that one time I'd walked into the Byers household unannounced back in junior year of high school. Will was sitting on a chair in the middle of the kitchen with a literal bowl on his head as Joyce shuffled around her son with a pair of kitchen shears. Joyce was an incredible mom who loved both of her boys unconditionally. Which reminded me…

“How’d you get my number?”

“Your mom gave it to me over Christmas break.”

“She shouldn’t have done that.”

“I’m sorry for letting her give me your number,” I apologized, picking at the nails of my index fingers with my thumbs. “And I’m sorry for calling you on your birthday. I should’ve respected your space.”

“Did you not read the material?” I smirked, and Will smiled back up at me, our eyes fully meeting for the first time.

“You know me too well,” he said, and my heart skipped a beat. “But then, when I thought my day couldn’t get any worse, my boyfriend at the time broke up with me.”

I gawked at that, my eyes narrowing. “On your birthday? That’s ass.”

Will leaned against the doorframe. “Mike Wheeler, everyone: ex-English major, literary nerd, and author.” I ignored the not-so-subtle roasts in favor of Will’s muscles, which were even more defined than I remembered. Will had obviously become well-acquainted with the gym. My gaze trailed along the divots of his biceps, and my mouth went dry when I realized that Will was wearing… the blue sweatshirt I had sworn had gone missing during senior year.

“Are you kidding? I could never be mad at you. Ever,” I emphasized. “And we both know I’m not a good person when I hold grudges.”

Will’s strong eyebrows furrowed, and I feared I'd said something wrong, but Will rose up onto his tiptoes, lifting his hand up to my forehead in mock-concern. “Mike, are you okay? Do you need medical assistance?” Yes. If Will was going to act all flirty and cute and tiptoe-y and forehead touch-y, then we’d need to call an ambulance. Because I was down bad.

“Haha. You’re funny,” I deadpanned at the joke, despite myself.

Will retreated back to his spot in the doorway. “But seriously, I just told you that I have a real live ex, and you’re not mad?” How could I be mad at Will for that? Why would I be mad at Will for that? It wasn’t like I had any right or say as to who Will dated, and if I did so much as judge Will for any romance-related decisions, I'd be the biggest fucking hypocrite to ever walk the earth. I figured I'd come clean to Will about this one. It was the whole reason why I was here, after all.

“Will, I hooked up with four guys…” Should I say this next part? Sure, okay, whatever– “And all of them had the initials ‘WB’.” My focus shifted down to my shoes, too humiliated to see Will’s reaction. But I didn’t even have to see it, because Will giggled. Like, high pitched and adorably. My head snapped up and Will, having gotten caught laughing at my biggest shame, slapped his own hand to his mouth in a failed attempt to stifle it.

“No way,” Will said, his voice still suppressed with his hand.

“Way,” I quipped back. I decided to try something new then, reaching up to Will’s wrist and pulling his hand away from his face. His beautiful lips were curved into a shy smile.

Will shook his head, crossing his arms again, but not in hostility like he had before. “I don’t believe you.” And all of a sudden, it was August 1989, and we were back in my basement again. Those were Will’s last words to me before he’d stormed out, never to be seen again. And a year and a half later, Will became thoroughly aware of the aftermath, where I’d tried and failed to fill the Will-less void with–

“Wyatt Bowman, Wes Butler, Walker Brooks, Warren Blakeley,” I listed off what I'd endearingly dubbed The WBs™, but now in retrospect viewed as fucking pathetic, and watched as Will exhaled sadly. I tacked the only thing I could think of onto the end of my list to lighten the mood: “... And there was a guy named Elvis.”

Will snorted. “Like Presley?”

“Exactly.”

“Jesus,” Will whispered, running a hand through his hair. I wished it was my hand instead. As I took in Will’s jarred reaction, my world went cold. It made more sense when I shivered, looked up, and felt a few snowflakes land on my eyelids. I lowered my gaze back to Will, avoiding the impending guilt with lighthearted bluntness.

“Yeah,” I concluded unceremoniously, “so, you have an ex-boyfriend, and I have a disturbingly high body count. I think that makes us even.” Will’s lips formed a line, and I diverted my eyes back to the ground. I watched Will’s feet, clad in fuzzy socks and slippers, shift backwards. The moment was finally here; this was the end. We were not, in fact, even; Will was shutting me out for the last time, giving me the closure I'd practically begged for. I lifted my head so I could at least say goodbye properly, but saw that Will was… waiting for me?

“Wanna come inside?” he asked, and I raised my eyebrows in shock. Well, that was a plot twist if I'd ever seen one. I took a deep breath, muttering a slow “Yeah… sure,” and followed Will into his house. I took off my mud-caked shoes at the front door, remembering how much of a neat freak Will was, and imagining his reaction if I tracked the past seven or so hours into the house. I expected it would probably begin with “Michael James.”

Once situated, I took a look around the living room. There were multiple swirly, wooden furniture pieces that I knew Will wouldn’t have picked out in a million years, but he’d still managed to make the apartment his own. Framed movie posters, a black couch, and a few bookshelves were sprinkled modestly amongst the otherwise very feminine decor. I walked over to the bookshelves, which were fully stacked with comic books and picture frames. I peered at one of Will posed with Ivy and Hannah, who gripped onto either side of a metal pole that Will had perched atop his shoulders as he lifted them in a white muscle tank top. I knew he’d started working out. God, Will was attractive. I smiled to myself, moving on to look at the next photo. It was the exact same one I had on my desk, the photo that Jonathan took of me on Will’s handlebars. I felt like crying again, so I looked away before that could happen. My attention was drawn to the ceiling, which was lined with Christmas lights. I guessed the passage of time had thankfully worked in Will’s favor, as well.

“So Kate’s at work?” I asked, and Will whipped around from where he’d been organizing one of his other bookshelves, like he cared about what I thought in regard to his preference of alphabetical versus publisher order.

“How do you know about Kate?”

I hesitated, expression sheepish, “I… I ran into your friends Ivy and Hannah on campus. They’re how I found you.”

Will blanched. “Oh God. What did they say to you?”

I shook my head in reassurance, taking a step towards Will. “Nothing out of the ordinary. I think they were just worried about me, because I was… kind of lost.”

“You didn’t think to get a map?” Will, the little shit, teased as he took a step of his own towards me.

“I had one, Will!” I tossed a hand up in exasperation. “I just… couldn’t read it correctly?” I phrased the last part of my sentence more like a question, which Will must have thought was funny, because he moved a few inches closer to me in order to poke my chest.

“Okay, that tracks,” he grinned, and I feigned offense as I felt Will’s fingerprint burn a hole in my sweatshirt, the fire expanding to scorch my entire torso. Will was close enough that I could hear Will breathing lightly through his nose, and could see the freckles scattered like constellations across his neck. My eyes traveled up a bit to land on the one mole above Will’s lip, and I fought the urge to kiss it.

“Ivy and Hannah said to tell you they said you’re welcome, by the way, whatever that means,” I breathed, and Will processed what I had just told him before bringing his hands up to his own face as he turned beet-red.

“Of course they did.”

I observed Will’s reaction, pushing down the bit of hope that bubbled up inside of me. I hadn’t a single clue of what Will had told his two friends, but the way he reacted made me think that maybe it wasn’t all terrible.

“Wait,” Will brought a hand up to lightly smack his forehead, “I’m so stupid, I should have asked when you first came in.” You’re not stupid at all, if anything I’m stupid, but go on, I thought. “Do you need anything to drink or eat? You look like shit.”

“Wow,” I said as I glared back at Will, giving away my joking nature with a small lift of my lips. “But sure, water is fine, thank you.” Will stood there for a moment in contemplation. I gulped, feeling incredibly anxious as to what Will would say next.

“I’m gonna make you pancakes,” he told me, ambition in his tone. I wasn’t even supposed to be there, yet there Will was, taking on the role of hospitable host. I shrugged, leaving the option up to Will as to if he really wanted to be that kind to me.

“You don’t have to.”

Will was the one who shortened the distance between them this time, taking my much larger hand in his own, intertwining our fingers and gently rubbing his thumb along the back of it. “But I want to.” I felt lightheaded.

“Well, I didn’t say it.”

“You didn’t have to.”

I glanced down at our connected hands as Will spoke again, but I didn’t hear what he was saying. I blinked, pulling my attention back up to Will’s face. How was I supposed to concentrate on what Will was saying when our palms were brushing together with intentionality? And of Will’s own volition, no less.

“Wait, sorry, what?”

“I said, I’ll have some too, if it’ll make you feel better.”

Well, now I had to say yes. I gave in, and Will nodded in approval before letting go of my hand. Those few sweet seconds would have been enough to last me for another year and a half without him, but now Will was making me pancakes. There was no turning back after this. Will headed to the kitchen, turning back when he noticed me standing in the middle of the room and gesturing for me to follow him, chuckling to himself.

Damn Will for being so aware of the effect he had on me.

We made it into the kitchen, and Will headed to the pantry while I hopped up on the counter like when we were kids. Old habits die hard. Will eyed me from where I stood, grabbing the box of Bisquick. He ritualistically walked around the kitchen, grabbing eggs, milk, vegetable oil, and a bowl before setting them all down on the counter. He paused in what he was doing to reach over to his coffee pot, pouring a mug, grabbing the sugar bowl and dumping whatever was left into the mug before handing it to me. I took it with gracious hands. He’d remembered the way I took my coffee. Black, no cream, and a diabetes-level fuck ton of sugar.

“Thank you.” That didn’t even begin to cover how I felt about it.

Will hummed in response as he got to work, cracking an egg into the bowl and whisking it around. “So what have you been up to? I mean, besides hooking up with the entire male population of Indianapolis and failing out of school,” Will asked, and I died a little on the inside. The truth hurts sometimes, Wheeler. Deal with it.

“Jeez, Will. Harsh. Warn a guy next time,” I frowned, sipping my coffee. “I’ve been working on a novel.”

“Ooh, do tell!” Will exclaimed, turning to me as he stirred the batter, the sweatshirt he wore— my sweatshirt— stretching as his muscles flexed underneath the fabric of the sleeves. I set my coffee down next to me and shifted so my hands were squished under my thighs. That way I wouldn’t be able to do what I truly wanted to, which was to grab Will by his waist and shove my tongue down his throat as I ran my fingertips over Will’s arms.

“Um, it’s a mythological coming of age, with a bit of a twist… the protagonist is gay.”

“Ohhh my god,” Will grinned, all teeth. “That is great. I love that.”

I love you, I thought, but held my tongue. “Right? But yeah, I’ve been working on that, and… journaling. A lot.” Well… journaling was a synonym of writing dozens upon dozens of love letters, right? But Will didn’t have to know that.

“Mike Wheeler using a therapist-approved coping mechanism? I’m proud of you,” Will said. I preened at the praise as I pulled one of my hands out from under my leg to pick up my mug.

There was a beat of silence, and Will stood there, his eyes fixed on me for a strangely long time as the pancakes sizzled. I watched Will’s Adam’s apple bob up and down. I was either hallucinating, tripping, or Will was checking me out.

“But what about you?” I asked, effectively snapping Will out of his trance, “Any groundbreaking endeavors I should be caught up on?”

Will shrugged as he plated the perfectly congruent, golden pancakes he’d made. “I’ve been working on this new painting for a while now… it’s a watercolor piece, so it’s kind of out of my comfort zone,” Will explained, turning to the refrigerator to grab a bottle of Canadian maple syrup. I nodded at what Will was telling me, but something else dwelled in the forefront of my mind.

“Yeah, you’re more into oils on canvas, right?” I asked, and Will’s eyes snapped up to meet his, establishing an understanding between the two of them. “I saw the painting,” I remarked slowly, trying my best not to freak Will out or make him feel ashamed of it. “I’ve gotta say, you flatter me, Byers. I am not that attractive.”

Will couldn’t hide his smile. “Shut up. Yes you are.”

Will handed me a plate, and I thanked him as we dug in, the two young men standing at (and sitting on) the counter as we ate. I cut into my pancakes, stabbing a bite-sized piece with my fork and swirling it around in the syrup on my plate. I looked up when I heard a similar scratching noise and saw Will doing the same thing. Will met my gaze, light smile gracing his face as he lifted the fork up and popped the piece into his mouth. I blushed when I realized I’d been staring, and quickly focused back on my own plate. I chewed the piece of pancake I’d cut and confirmed to myself only after one bite that these were the best pancakes I’d ever had. These were pancakes of reconciliation.

I turned towards Will to compliment his culinary skills, which would inevitably be shot down with a humble, “they’re just pancakes, Mike,” only to see Will staring at me already. Will’s eyes jumped from me to the floor to the kitchen cabinet to the floor and back to me all within the span of five seconds. I held his attention this time when I licked my lips, and Will watched intently as the syrup disappeared.

God, I felt like I was in high school all over again; those four years had felt like a romcom movie montage of staring, quick touches, and flirting back and forth. The only difference between those movies and real life was the reserved, cautious nature behind every single stare, touch, and flirtation. But this time around, I noticed, Will seemed more confident in himself, more purposeful in the way he carried and expressed himself. Everything lingered for longer than normal, than acceptable, than usual. It was a promising sign.

Once we’d finished our pancakes and put our dishes in the sink, Will and I headed to Will’s room. There was something intimate about entering Will’s space like this; something sacred, something previously unattainable. That was the dresser that held all of Will’s clothes. That was the desk Will drew at. That was the bed Will slept in. That was the phone Will had used to break my heart.

I admired the dark blue walls, decorated modestly with a few more posters, before I came across Will’s framed Hawkins High School diploma. I remembered that day vividly; after everyone in the Party had walked across the stage and gone back to my house to celebrate, Will had brought all of our friends into a secluded area of the house and told us he was gay. I, who had been head over heels in love with my best friend for over five years at that point, was having a crisis, because oh my God, Will was gay, and the flirting might not have all been in my head. Maybe I had a chance. But every interaction between them following that day was strictly platonic, and Will made sure I knew it. So I withdrew after a while, not wanting to keep stringing myself along like I had been.

“Little did I know that everything would change,” I said more to myself than to Will, but Will walked over to stand next to me, close enough that our arms brushed.

“Why, because I came out?” he asked, looking up at me, who didn’t reciprocate the action, but instead kept staring straight ahead at the diploma, as if it were a portal that would take me back in time to before my world imploded.

“No, not because you came out. Because… because then, I fell under the delusion that I could finally have you.” I looked down at Will then. “But then I fucked it all up in August.”

Will turned his body so he could fully face me before saying, “Okay, I’m confused. I’ve gotta ask. What’s your recollection of that night?”

I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to remember it. Hell, I didn’t want to think about it. But me took a second to reason with myself, because Will was standing beside me, Will was asking something of me, and the least I could do after everything was oblige to Will’s one request. So I told him.

It was the summer of 1989, and all was well. Hawkins was no longer nationally renowned as an extra-terrestrial hybrid between earth and hell, but simply as a small town in the middle of nowhere, Indiana. It was the summer of 1989, and I was lying on the basement couch with my legs hanging off the edge. My eyes were closed, and I wore my headphones which were attached to my Walkman, playing Will’s mixtape on repeat, just as I had from the second it fell into my hands back in 1986. I felt the thumps of the opening and closing of the basement door, followed by light footsteps treading down the stairs. I cracked a singular eye open, but opened them both fully when I registered that it was Will who was entering my space. I always loved when Will came to my house unannounced; there was a certain element of familiarity, of family, of domesticity.

“Mike, we’ve gotta talk,” Will said, his voice a bit edgier than usual.

“Okay, what’s up? Are you–” I sat up, pulling my headphones fully off my head and resting them around my neck. Then I saw the look on Will’s face. He looked livid.

“What the fuck are these?” Will spat. My eyes widened at what Will held in his hands. Fuck. How on earth did he find them? I thought I'd hidden them well enough. Apparently, I was sorely mistaken, because Will held my letters, all twenty-six of them, all addressed to Will, in his shaking hands. I couldn’t even begin to explain, mouth hanging wide open.

“Dear Will,” the boy with the bowlcut began with a snarl, “when I look into your eyes, I see the rest of my life. Dear Will, why does loving you feel so wrong yet so right? Dear Will, I want you to hold me in your arms forever, because it’s the only place I can truly call home.” I wanted to die. “I don’t know what to… Why the hell are these addressed to me? And why… Why are there so many?”

“Because…” I squeaked out, eyes wide with intimidation, “they were for you. You were never meant to find those, I swear to God.”

“Are you making fun of me or something?” Will snapped, and I flinched. I'd never seen Will this angry before. I stood up then, my face on fire with inferiority from when I’d been on the couch as Will towered over me. Now, I was the one looking down at Will, whose chest was heaving with unadulterated rage.

“Come on, Will! I’m your best friend, and you really thought I’d make fun of you for being gay?” I kept my tone soft, what the Party called my Will Voice™, trying to calm Will down. It worked, at least a little bit, because Will’s breathing became more regulated, and less metaphorical smoke escaped his ears. But his eyes were still a menacing shade of green, his pupils blown wide.

“Well, no,” Will’s voice was lower this time, laced with venom, “but that does not mean you get to fuck around at my expense.” Will could not have been more wrong. I was anything but fucking around. Malice was the last thing on my mind when I thought about Will. When I thought about Will, I felt safe, I felt hopeful, I felt valuable, and I felt worthy. What I felt for Will was pure love, and I'd say it out loud… if I didn’t hate myself so much.

“I poured my heart out in those letters,” I told him, taking a step forward. Will stepped back. “I didn’t write them for shits and fucking giggles, they were genuine,” I continued, following Will as he backed away, stopping only when I had Will caged in between my arms, back against the wall of the basement. Will held onto my wrist, our watches positioned side by side. I closed my eyes and took a shaky breath, collecting myself in preparation for what I was about to say next. Confession time. “I wanted to send them so badly… I just didn’t, because I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

I opened my eyes, drinking in the expression on Will’s flustered face. He blinked slowly, lashes fluttering, and fuck, I could hear Will’s heartbeat. I licked my lips. Afraid of what? I’m afraid of the world. I’m afraid of our country. I’m afraid of this town. I’m afraid of my family. I’m afraid of your dad. I’m afraid of myself. But I’m not afraid of you, Will. I’m not afraid of you.

And with that, I leaned down and kissed Will.

Those were the best five seconds of my life, by far. Will’s lips were smooth, yet firm. They were warm. I wanted to kiss Will forever. I allowed myself, for once in my life, to take what I wanted, and moved my hands down from the wall to Will’s hips, gripping them with all of my pent-up passion, holding him close. I felt Will’s hands meet my shoulders, and… he was pushing me away. Oh no.

“What are you doing, Mike? Is this a joke?” What was it with Will thinking everything was so fucking funny to me? I'd just bared my soul to the love of my life, but Will had interpreted everything as simply cruel humor. That was what Will thought of me. I wouldn’t stand for it.

“No, Will, I’m in love with you,” I said in full earnest, grabbing Will’s hand, just like I'd always done throughout the years whenever Will felt angry, alone, or scared. In turn, Will aggressively shook my hand away like it burned him.

“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that, you don’t mean it.” What the hell?

“What makes you think I don’t?”

“I just… you’re…” Will forced his words out in a state of panic, ducking out of my reach as he headed for the stairs. “I can’t do this. Not now.”

“Please don’t go. Hear me out,” I pleaded, getting desperate now. “Will, you’ve got to believe me.”

Will turned around from where he stood, halfway to the basement door, his gaze ice cold. “Well, I don’t, Mike. I don’t believe you.” I took back what I’d thought about not being afraid of Will. I was terrified. I watched Will stomp up the rest of the way, slamming the door behind him. I put a hand up to my mouth, muffling a sob.

What had I done?

I stopped my pacing for a moment to breathe. I'd gotten it all out, and by some miracle, without breaking down. I looked over at Will, who rested his chin on his palm as he sat on his bed, staring into space. “I never got the chance to explain myself. You just… shut off.” Will blinked a few times, looking up at me with that same blank expression, and I wanted to scream. But I didn’t. I didn’t have the energy.

Will breathed out hard through his nose, getting up from his spot on the bed and meeting me where I was at, and placing a hand on my arm. I didn’t move; all this talk about Will abandoning me caused some of the resentment to return. But Will took my chin and moved it so our eyes could meet again. He looked sad.

I shrugged, resigned. “I can’t.” And I meant it; I couldn’t blame Will for being thrown off, because I had gone through the complete opposite, having felt led on and let down. “But you also can’t blame me for waiting so long to say something. I literally hated myself for years for being gay.” Will’s hand that held my chin lowered down to the space between my neck and my shoulder, and he went to reply, but I spoke faster. “And when you came out, I thought maybe I could, too. But then, another part of me didn’t want to say anything, because coming clean about my true feelings for you would’ve destroyed everything we worked so hard to build back up after California.”

“Well, I didn’t make it any easier by keeping you at arm’s length after I came out,” Will said as he ran his thumb back and forth along my sweatshirt sleeve. “I tried to convince myself I was okay with being just friends in order to protect myself, you know?”

“Yeah,” my tone was rough as I crossed my arms, and Will pulled away. Nice going, Mike, you fucking asshole. “I mean…” I softened my voice, “I get your thought process. I just felt so… rejected. And after August, it felt so final. Like, I really thought you had zero feelings for me, and that I had severely misread things.”

“You didn’t. Believe me, Mike. You didn’t,” the words tumbled out of Will’s mouth, startling both of us at once.

I looked down, feeling the beginnings of tears pricking my eyes. “I’m trying to.”

Will reached out to me and pulled my hand up into his own, his fingertips gently mapping out the veins that spread out beneath my skin. “Do you still hate yourself now?” he asked, and I looked up slowly.

“I’m not gonna lie, yeah, I do,” I admitted, playing with Will’s fingers as I spoke. I was not proud of the person I'd become. I relived every single one of my mistakes on a constant loop, with each day bleeding into the next. The shame devoured me like a hungry beast. Every waking moment without Will felt like suffocation. I slowed my movements before confessing something else, something I never thought I’d ever be able to. “But I hate living my life without you even more.”

Will let out a small sniffle at that, and I was quick to comfort him, my hands flying up to cup his face and swipe his tears away. Will leaned into the touch, his voice breaking. “I hate living my life without you, too.”

“Can I…” I hesitated, uncertainty flooding my thoughts, but I swiftly pushed it away. “Can I hug you?” I asked. Will nodded, laughing wetly as he said, “Yes, of course.”

I pulled Will into a tight embrace, warmth filling my body instantly as Will’s head fell against my chest, right over my heart. I could only imagine what Will was thinking, granted the fact that my heart was thrumming at record speed. Will ran his hands up my back, pulling me down slightly by my shoulderblades. I nestled my nose in Will’s shaggy hair, breathing him in. He still washed his hair with the coconut shampoo he’d always used. In order to avoid the temptation to inhale Will’s scalp like a vacuum, I opted to place a feather light kiss there, so light that in the future, only I would remember it happening. As we stood there, our bodies flush against one another, I knew I didn’t need a watch to tell that time as an entity ceased to exist. Will and I held each other tightly as the rest of the world fell away. This was what I had been waiting for. Just this. I finally felt whole again.

I wasn’t sure how long we’d been clinging to each other, or who pulled away first, but I was sure of the fact that both of us were crying. Again. “Goddamnit,” I laughed, practically slapping my sweatshirt sleeve up to my face to absorb the tears that fell there.

“Since when have you been a Frequent Crier?” Will teased, and I remembered that Will had never been exposed to the outcome of my emotional revolution before.

“What can I say?” I continued the bit, “Their loyalty program has really good perks.”

“Can’t argue there,” Will laughed, leaning his forehead onto my chest again as my hands ran up and down Will’s sides. I memorized the feel of Will’s improved physique, trailing my hands upwards until my hands met Will’s chest.

“Also,” I said into the silence, causing Will to twitch slightly, but not enough to remove his forehead from my chest. “The Heart? Didn’t know I was still held in such high esteem.” Will’s hands, which had been resting on my hips, moved forward until they were wrapped around my lower back.

“You’ve always been my heart, Mike,” Will told me, voice steady and sure. “You never really stopped.” I felt my jaw drop, barely able to process what I was hearing. The words that left Will’s lips ricocheted around my brain, and I might have forgotten how to breathe for a minute. I needed Will to pinch me, so he could wake up from this… if it wasn’t real, it would be a nightmare. Instead of asking Will to do it for me, I pinched myself, and felt butterflies erupt in my stomach when I didn’t snap my eyes open to the sight of my bedroom back in Indianapolis. I was still here, in Will’s room, and Will was holding me rather sensually, and I felt so fucking alive.

“So… where do we go from here?” I whispered, and Will lifted his head, an unrecognizable look in his eyes. I backed away, fear slowly entering the peripherals of my mind, all possible worst-case scenarios threatening to cave in on me. I'd gone too far, been too forward, taken Will for granted, given off the impression of an ulterior motive.

“Sorry,” I said, almost a reflex at this point in my life. I always had something to be sorry for. Something to make up for. Something to–

“Me too,” Will whispered, grabbing my wrist before I could get too far. He pulled me back in sharply and grabbed me by the back of my neck, tugging me all the way down until our lips collided. I let out a little noise in absolute shock, but not wasting any time as I shoved my hands into Will’s hair, raising my head as I leaned into the heat of Will’s mouth. While my hands remained pretty central to Will’s upper body, Will’s hands roved me everywhere they possibly could. They lifted from my lower back, up my torso, past my chest, around the back of my head to brush the nape of my neck, through my long hair, then back down to grope my ass. I squeaked into Will’s mouth, and he responded with a low hum of a laugh that sent vibrations through my body and set me ablaze. I lowered my grip on Will’s shoulders to his biceps, squeezing them the way I'd wanted to since Will opened the door earlier that morning. Will broke the kiss and looked up, smirk on his lips. “You really like my arms, don’t you?”

“Yeah, how’d you notice?” I tried to be sarcastic, but ended up sounding breathless. Will pressed a chaste kiss to my lips, turning them around and backing me up until my calves hit the base of Will’s bed. I was sure I had died and gone to heaven.

“You wouldn’t stop ogling. You were being so fucking obvious, it was hilarious,” Will teased, and I whined a little in embarrassment, but Will was having none of it, so he pushed me backwards until my back hit the mattress. “Don’t worry, babe, it was cute.”

Babe. I had thought Will would only call me that in my dreams. But this wasn’t a dream. I watched as Will climbed on top of me, one leg on either side of my waist, and leaned down to kiss me, nice and slow. I ran my tongue along Will’s lower lip, and he let me in immediately. We continued like that for a few minutes until Will lifted my arms up so they were pinned above my head, and I quietly moaned as Will began to kiss down my neck. I smiled at the ceiling. I loved Will Byers, and Will Byers loved me. All was right with the world.But I would have a lot to explain over Christmas.

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